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As he was lying on his bed, staring at the blank white ceiling in the silence of after-midnight, Harry had to wonder how it had all come to this. How his shirt had come to be spotted with red, speckled with so many shades of someone else’s body. How he’d come to have blood on his hands, ingrained into his skin and stuck under his nails. How he’d come to have the taste of blood in his mouth, sliding over his tongue and staining his teeth. When his eyes were burning and that silent static was stretching his ears, he had to wonder how tearing someone apart could possibly have come to feel this good. ** Nine months earlier **From the moment he’d stepped inside the university lecture hall, Harry knew he was out of his depth. Sitting there, with the wood of the seat digging into his back, he was surrounded by pressed suits and smart shoes and sharp smiles. Mouths that bled words he didn’t understand, and casual hints of the private advantages they’d each had the privileged to receive. Sitting there, Harry was surrounded by people who were so different from himself, people who knew each other from their expensive boarding schools and country clubs, and their father’s who went to school together and still met for an annual Boxing day foxhunt. Harry knew he wasn’t like them. He didn’t have friends that he was predestined to meet based on who he was born to, nor did he have a family that could pay for his every whim – he didn’t have a family at all. He was here because he had earned it, here because he slaved away to finally be free of the people who didn’t really care about him, and never having to go back to them would be worth enduring all the expensive chatter in the world. That was what he told himself, told himself repeatedly.It wasn’t more than a few days before he heard about them. Just them. A simple slice of a suggestion in the corridor, that he heard as he was passing by, a name that hung heavy in the air despite the conversation moving on. That was the first time he heard of Tom Riddle. A mere name that seemed to hold far more weight than it should. When he’d said it aloud in his room, it sounded sweet on his tongue, pleasant and simple, though somehow so memorable. A name that burrowed into his skull and sat there festering. It crept to the surface at unexpected and often unwelcome times, when he’d be listening to the professor’s drone and the constant creaking of wood as people shifted, tapping their feet and waiting to leave. That name would come to him again. It would drift into his consciousness and haze out the world around him. The tapping and the creaking and the droning would all melt into a single hum, and he’d be at liberty to imagine the type of person that such a name belonged to. It always made the time go quicker, made everything more interesting. From that single name, he formed a friend who was like himself, and so very different from all the others.Harry wasn’t ashamed to admit he had started to listen out for that name, listen out for scraps of information that could possibly shine a light on who his imagined friend truly was. He found that that name was always accompanied by several others: Malfoy, Lestrange, Avery, Rosier and his sister Druella, in various configurations, always flowered with compliments and praise and admiration. Never anything else. Never a bad word nor condemnation nor criticism, only ever compliments. A constant stream of exultation for all those names, how they were simply perfect. The stars of their generation destined to shine far brighter than anyone else, to light up the lower-class’ world with their discoveries, they would be the ones who would carve the future in their image and make the world a better place. All without the slightest vestige of arrogance or superiority, merely unending humility and temperance and benevolence. Harry couldn’t see how anyone could be capable of such undeniable perfection without being completely insufferable, but he supposed he hadn’t met the owner of those names yet. Though he felt he had. He felt as though he knew all of them, and that he had known them for a long time now. To him, they were almost friends.People said he looked like Riddle, and they always said Riddle, never Tom. Though they always qualified it, said it was like looking at Riddle through a misted mirror, or a windowpane blurred by the rain. Harry wasn’t sure whether it was a compliment or not, to be told he looked like someone he’d never met. That didn’t stop him wondering though, didn’t stop him staring into the mirrors above the sink long after he should have been asleep, and imagining someone who did and didn’t look like him. Someone that everyone knew their name, but didn’t dare to use half of it, someone who everyone admired without ever really saying why, someone that everyone seemed to know, and yet none were friends with. Staring at himself in the glass he couldn’t help but wonder what sort of person could fashion such a faultless reputation, what sort of human being managed to be so flawless, that everyone was simply dying to lick the dirt at their feet. It was distracting. Far too distracting, and it shouldn’t have been. He didn’t know Tom, and so he really had no right to infect his life like this. To distract him from everything he was supposed to be achieving.He made himself a mantra, “I will not get distracted.” He repeated it to himself in front of the mirror, “I will not get distracted, I will not get distracted, I will not get distracted.” He repeated it every night, and yet, every night he found himself back in front of the mirror, his mind turning over the same questions again and again and again. Always wondering how he could have ever got so caught up in a name.It wasn’t long before he got to see the thing that had plagued his head ever since he’d first heard it. He first saw his doppelganger sitting on the grass outside the library, surrounded by those he could only suppose were the faces that the other names belonged to. Just six figures sitting on the grass under the October sun looking devastatingly perfect. Even from this distance, he could tell they were different, something in the air around them was so distinct. They were rich, but not in the way everyone else was, with they came a sophistication and a glamour, even when they were only sitting in the autumn sun, laughing with each other, so confident in their own existence that nothing else in the world mattered to them. It kept him staring at them long after it was appropriate, not that they seemed to care. They were too busy laughing and talking, sprawled across the grass in a way that almost offended moral decency. Almost. A tangle of arms and legs, bags and books, fingers and mouth that were so offensively beautiful Harry felt he might choke on it. He wanted to look away, pretend that he wasn’t as affected as everyone else, that he hadn’t fallen for them in the way that everyone else had. But it was as if their very presence has cast fishing hooks into his eyes and were now reeling him in as their next meal. He knew then, standing and watching them all lie in the last warm sun of the year that he wanted to be them, he wanted to lie with them, and that he would do anything in the world be granted that privilege; to be with them, to belong in their exclusive little group.He didn’t work that afternoon. Only stared at his book and saw words that seemed to describe them. The wealth that clung to every inch of them, the talents that though he’d never seen, seemed to be such common knowledge that he’d be a fool to deny it, the perfect combinations of everything in the world. They were simply God’s design. It was pathetic of him really, and he knew it was, pathetic that he should even care about these people that he knew nothing about. That he should be so distracted by the colours of their hair under the sun, and the way they raised their arms and tipped back their heads that he couldn’t even focus on the simplest thing. But he was. He was hopelessly distracted. He should be ashamed. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t quite bring himself to be, after all, he had already dedicated so much of his existence to these people, spent so many minutes standing in front of the mirror, wondering whether in another life he could have been with them now. They already felt like part of him, like the friends he’d never been allowed to have before, and that, for the first time in his life he felt as though he was meant for something, that this was his purpose to sit alongside them. To be one of them.They were still there when he eventually gave up and abandoned the library, and though Harry knew he shouldn’t, he couldn’t help but indulge himself. He sat just across from them, blurred by the shadows, and hidden behind a book. If they knew he was lurking there they didn’t seem to care. He assumed it was the Rosier twins that were closest to him, given that they looked eerily similar. They were very close, their fingertips touching and thighs converging as they lay with the setting sun sliding over their faces, apparently not having any other care in the world than for the warm glow of gold licking their throats. Next to them was at a guess either Lestrange or Avery, leaning back on his hands and passing out smiles like sweets to children. He was talking loudly to the person opposite him, whom he seemed to address as Avery, so it was probably Lestrange. He was gesturing wildly with his hands and whining about some finer point of something that Harry didn’t especially care to hear. Avery was listening though, sitting half in the shade, legs crossed, and his face drawn into a glare, waiting for Lestrange to let him get a word in edgeways; between them were Malfoy and Tom. Harry knew he was deliberately not looking at Tom, painfully examining all the others, drawing it out longer than it needed to be, teasing himself for reasons he didn’t want to examine. He didn’t stop though. Instead, he watched how Malfoy was lying on his back, his hand beneath his head nodding along to whatever Lestrange was saying, though not hesitating to occasionally interject by raising his hand and knocking Lestrange off his rhythm. He was by far the prettiest of them, with a delicacy in his smile and an almost femininity to his features. Malfoy simply looked like he was made of the porcelain that was only found behind the glass of cabinets Harry had never been allowed to touch. They were all nice to look at, more than nice, but Harry knew who it was that he had been avoiding looking at. Tom was sitting just behind Malfoy, looking vaguely interested in what they were saying, though all the time his fingers were picking at the grass, pulling up individual blades and scattering them in Malfoy’s hair. Malfoy didn’t seem to notice. Harry was slow to let his eyes drag past Tom’s hands and up his wrists, and along his neck.There was a thrill to taking it so slow, dragging it out just to torment himself. But Tom was somehow special, like a single orchid in a bed of irises, all of them were beautiful, just Tom was that much rarer, that much more eye-catching. Seeing him properly for the first time, with the sun splayed over his face, it was clear to see that they did look alike. The same hair, same deep shadows around their eyes, the same way of tilting their head back when someone was droning for too long. They were curiously similar. But not identical, everything about Tom was sharper, lines cut more definitely, more distinctly. Everything was structured and defined, and perfect; Tom stunning where Harry was only ordinary, and it was physically sickening, painful to keep his eyes on him and yet just as painful to look away.Harry could have stayed staring at Tom forever, only Tom glanced up, as if sensing someone had been looking at him too long. Their eyes met. Tom’s face bright and stained with sun, and Harry’s dark and clouded with shade. Harry took a moment too long to react and then looked down at his book faster than he meant to. He felt his face flush and a knot of embarrassment forming in his stomach, as though he were a child caught stealing sweets from a drawer. It was several awkward minutes of staring at the words, reading the same sentence over and over again, hoping for enlightenment, before Harry trusted himself to look back up again. Tom had turned away from him and returned his gaze to Avery’s trivial discussion. The damage was done though. Somehow with nothing more than a gaze, Tom had managed to rip a hole straight through him, and Harry could already feel something settling in the base of his churning stomach, like seeds being planted in a ploughed field. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted, but he knew it involved Tom.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Harry dumped his stuff on the desk and sat down in the library, as usual, he had arrived early enough that no one else had taken his seat, and they were not yet studying. It hadn’t taken long to discover all of them were night-owls, much preferring to stay in the library until they were asked to leave than to arrive early. Especially as sometimes, when they just smiled and said something no one ever heard to the warden, they were permitted to stay for as long as they wanted. Harry had seen it once, when he was standing behind a bookshelf, quietly gathering his stuff together. Just pretty smiles from Tom and the murmuring from Malfoy, and they were permitted to remain as they were, when everyone else had to go. Not that the library was particularly busy at eleven o clock, but still. There was a power in being able to twist the rules like that, to know they were the only ones who got to do it. Harry would be very much lying if he said he didn’t want that sort of power.To be honest though, it was probably good that they were all night owls, if they’d been early risers Harry doubted that he’d ever get work done, for, as much as he had promised himself in front of mirrors that he would not get distracted, they were the single biggest distraction in his life. One which wasn’t going to go away any time soon. So, he supposed it was good in some way that they tended not to arrive until the afternoon, Harry often wondered where they were in the mornings. On weekdays he supposed they were in their lectures, but on the weekends, there was never any sign of them, anywhere, and Harry had looked extensively for them. Harry liked to sit in the library and daydream, imagine what things they could be doing, whether Tom did the things that he himself did, whether they were as connected in their methods of work as in their looks.When they all finally did arrive, they’d arrive together. They always walked together when they could, an exclusive group that all moved as one, almost gliding across the floor demonstrating themselves to be the epitome of elegance, of glamour, of the utter perfection of human bodies. Tom always at the forefront, people parted almost biblically for them, and Harry was the same, stepping to the side if he saw them coming, as a group or alone down the corridor. He would step aside and watch, staring at them as they passed, just watching their mouth twitch into a smile, or the flexing of their hands or, even the scent of their cologne, always distinctive, hanging in the air, reminding people of whose presence they had been in. It felt in those moments that the world slowed, that time stretched out and Harry could see before him every tiny detail of those people who were more than merely human. He wondered whether they ever saw him in the corner, whether they saw him, whether they wondered. He hoped they did. He hoped that Tom wondered about the first-year that looked like him when he passed him by in the corridor. But he didn’t hold out much hope, no one ever seemed to notice him.Harry wasn’t really sure whether he should be pleased or suspicious of how easy it had been to find out about the six of them, because he had to find out more. Information had practically been plastered on the walls, quite literally in some cases. The Law department itself had the Lestrange library, created it said on the plaque outside, with the funds so generously donated by the Lestrange family. Harry tried not to use that library. Apparently, the physics department’s new laboratory was as a result of a similar act of generosity, this time by the Rosiers, though that was less common knowledge, and Harry only knew because he’d heard two physics students discussing it in the boys bathroom on the fifth floor, and he’d only been there because he was avoiding a seminar he didn’t want to go to.The rest of his investigations were answered by other people’s mouths. The first word that always rolled off people’s tongues when those six were mentioned, was ‘rich’ usually quickly followed by ‘attractive’ and rounded off with ‘intelligent’. That was the holy trinity of repute. Money, beauty and intellect; they were all things that Harry dreamed of having and yet he lacked those simple facts that gave them the key to door after door, and those who lacked them access to nothing at all. On the surface the most powerful of those was beauty, it was certainly the most eye-catching, and Harry was sure that was why most people initially fell in love with them. But after a while, it became clear it was their money that was what made people stay.Before he’d arrived here, Harry had assumed that people were either poor or they were wealthy, but apparently that wasn’t the case; apparently, there were multiple strata of wealth, from moderate to painful, and the Rosiers, Lestranges and Malfoys were right at the top of that hierarchy. The sort of old money that made even privileged students roll their eyes, the sort of money that needed qualifiers: filthy rich, horribly rich, disgustingly rich. People said it was sickening that they could have so much money, but that didn’t stop any of them being almost sycophantically polite whenever they passed by in the corridor because, in the end, money was what made gods in this world, and everyone wanted to be in the god’s favour. Each of the six had varying degrees of access to varying degrees of family money, on one end of the scale was Avery, provided with only a moderate allowance, at the other, was Malfoy whose funds appeared, unlimited. Well, actually, as Harry had found out in the fourth week, not all of them were from money. Tom didn’t have family funds, or funds of any kind. He was apparently a scholarship student, just like Harry. It somehow didn’t surprise him, Tom had that appearance about him, it wasn’t quite modesty, more of an arrogance born out of his innate talents as opposed to the depths of his pockets. That somehow made him better than the others, to know that Tom was here from his own hard work, and not at the recompense of some old favour on the part of the university. It made him more human, more real, more like him, and though Harry wouldn’t admit it to anyone, that made him smile. Of all the people to be like in the world, Tom was one of the better ones.The rest of them only confused Harry because he wasn’t sure why he was attracted to them, but he was. They should have been everything he despised. The people who had been born with silver spoons in their mouths, never having to work to get what they wanted were typically his least favourites. Their privilege disgusted him, but if someone like Tom was hanging around with them, maybe they weren’t so bad? Anyway, they weren’t exactly like the people that Harry so despised. Those people didn’t even try, they were just here because they could be, because it was what their fathers did, and their grandfathers and their great-grandfathers. These six people were as intelligent as they were rich. Not to mention that Tom wasn’t like them, Tom was an outsider now on the inside, and if Tom could do it, why couldn’t he? Well, Harry knew the answer to that, because Tom was handsome and talented and everyone liked him. Nobody even knew enough about Harry to have an opinion.Those were the reasons that Harry found himself coming back to this same spot to watch them day after day, at least that’s what he told himself. That and the hopeless belief that maybe one day they would notice him, and watch him too, and maybe, just maybe he could join them. Deep in his heart, Harry knew it was a hopeless fantasy, but that didn’t stop him from dreaming it anyway. He’d spent his whole life dreaming of things that he thought couldn’t be true, but some of them had been realised. Getting away from the remnants of ‘family’ he still had, going to university, they had both been dreams that came true, so maybe there was hope that one more dream could come true if he wished for it enough.At first, he had tried to avoid them, but they always seemed to be where he wanted to go. Their favourite corner in the library, the one that was hidden down endless corridors of advanced mathematics, philosophy and theology no one ever read, was also his favourite corner. It was quiet and empty, and it had them in it. He couldn’t remember when the lines started blurring together, whether it had always been his favourite spot, or whether it had become his favourite because of them.Through some innate skill, they made what could have been a dreary corner, dipped in dark shadows, pleasant. As the evening sun began to fade, and their evenings were just getting started, it was their voices that continued to light the room, and their voices could be loud when they were discussing something particularly contentious, or at least Lestrange’s could be.When Harry had mentioned his name to all the vague acquaintances he had acquired, none of them friends, but all people that he at least knew the name of, they would all roll their eyes, as by all accounts, Lestrange was a legitimate nightmare, perpetually smug and perpetually arrogant; he was a future barrister with a talent for making people tongue-tied. He was in his fourth year of reading for the infamous Politics, Philosophy and Law degree that half of academia felt was the holy grail of degrees, and the rest thought was superfluous. It was the same degree that Tom was reading for, and no matter what the opinion on it was, it seemed to be accompanied by some academic prowess that even the disciplines of medicine failed to command.It was exactly the type of subject Harry expected Tom would study, pleasantly challenging, deeply intellectual and incredibly impressive, because whilst Tom said nothing, he seemed like the type of person to crave respect, attention, and success. Harry only knew because he too felt those things, that need to be seen after having been ignored for so long. He could feel it in Tom, see it in his method of study, and in his smile, charming but ambitious in a way Harry couldn’t quite put into words but could almost feel in the pit of his stomach. The only real difference between the two of them was that Tom had realised his dreams, he was seen, Harry still wasn’t.Of course, not all of them were reading for such a complex degree, and at the opposite end of the academic spectra was the Rosier twins with their ‘adorable’, to quote Lestrange as he’d passed Harry on the stairs, study of Philosophy. Everyone that Harry spoke to scoffed at Philosophy and called it an irrational subject, pursued only by those who failed to understand the law. Regardless of such opinions, Rosier and Druella were both reading for a Philosophy degree, though most people said they rarely read anything, not that that stopped them from writing gorgeous essays. Harry desperately wanted to read one of their infamous essays, to learn what it was about them that made those two so extraordinary, so different from everyone else and whether that special quality was detectable simply in their words on a page. Though Harry had heard, when standing surreptitiously by the water fountain in the philosophy department, waiting, and rather hoping to catch a glimpse of them, and Tom when they left their only joint seminar, that many people thought the Rosiers cheated on their essays. But that no one had ever admitted to sharing or writing said essays for them; other people said they bribed the professors, but everyone who’d ever read a Rosier essay said they were up to standard. So how they seemed to do so little and yet achieve so much, still remained a departmental mystery.In the privacy of his own thoughts, Harry wouldn’t lie to himself, there were other interesting things about the Rosiers, besides their pursuit of something so deeply unpopular. He liked to watch Druella as she traced her elegant fingers over her brother’s knuckles. They never talked as much as the others, always stuck in their only little world, one that no one seemed to be able to reach no matter how hard they tried. Malfoy tried the hardest, easy smiles for Druella, each one filled with less than innocent invitations. Druella never returned those smiles, well, she did smile back and nod, but then her eyes glazed over again, and she went back to her own little world, where her only companion was her brother.The rational part of Harry’s brain thought it was a shame she showed no interest in Malfoy, they would have made a nice couple, all white skin and pale eyes and blonde hair. However, the irrational part of him was delighted in a way that he couldn’t quite explain but certainly knew was wrong. That impulsive irrationality had nearly got him in trouble at least three times now, it’d nearly got him caught, staring right at Malfoy whenever he was sitting outside the library because Malfoy was just so good to stare at. Somehow, and even from a distance, he exuded an aura Harry hadn’t thought someone could possess, it was so confident and self-assured, as though he knew exactly what everyone else was thinking, and exactly how to respond in order to get what he wanted.Malfoy was a politician in the making, smooth woods and slick statements that soothed troubled mind but never solved any problems. Naturally, he was in his third year of reading Politics, Philosophy and Economics, and excelling at all of them with that infuriating ‘natural gift’ always given to the people who already have everything. Harry had quickly learnt Malfoy was not like Tom, for Tom there was never a bad word to be spoken, he was just that exceptional student with good looks and a future as a someone. Malfoy had all those things as well, but they were interwoven with a cruelty, or rather a ruthlessness that made him admirable but unlikeable but those who wanted everyone to get along. Harry had heard plenty of stories of what Malfoy was willing to do to get what he wanted. Most of them uncorroborated, but reliable enough to get a picture of what sort of person Malfoy could be when he was sick of smiling.The only person Harry wanted to be smiling, was Tom. He wanted Tom to smile, Tom to smile at him with those easy smiles. He wanted Tom to invite him over and think that he was interesting, that he was worthy of sitting with them, and talking with them, and being one of them. But Tom wasn’t like that. He didn’t have easy smiles for people, he had politeness and pleasantness, the bare minimum he needed for people to like him. but Harry kept watching when the others looked away, he saw Tom’s smile curl into something that balanced perfectly between gorgeous and nasty. Harry saw it and wanted it, somehow, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to replicate it, or just see it, or something else entirely. Something that lurked on the edge of his consciousness, growing stronger the longer he looked at Tom. But Tom never seemed to look back. Instead, he stayed his aloof self, always slightly apart from the others, as though, somehow, despite their talents and their wealth and their beauty, they were still beneath him, and he would rather not associate with what he deemed to be beneath him. At least that was how Harry interpreted the sight from the corner of the room. The sight that was once again in front of him today. Tom was still sitting, apart from the other, at the head of the table by the window, the deepening glow of the sun heavy on his back, blurring his sharp features into shadows. He had a book in front of him, something thick and old and not in English because to read in English was another thing that Tom deemed to be beneath him. At a guess, Harry would say it was Latin, but equally, it could have been Greek or any other language from a dead time that Tom appeared to want to reawaken.As real and intriguing though as Harry supposed the book must be to those who were interested in such things, it was obvious that Tom was only half-reading it, the other half of his attention was on the conversation hovering in the room. He was attentive whilst somehow looking uninterested, keeping just enough attention to act as an apparent censor, coughing when the conversations strayed to something, he deemed to be inappropriate. Not that Harry could ever figure out why he wouldn’t want them talking about such uninteresting things as what Malfoy had been doing over the summer, or any mention of a person called Mulciber that Tom didn’t seem to like much. But apparently these were things Tom didn’t feel it was necessary to discuss, and all the others just listened to him, and let the conversation slide elsewhere without so much as batting an eyelid. Harry would have loved to have that sort of throbbing control over people, so palpable in the air that it stuck to the back of his throat and made his stomach squeeze.Harry knew that he shouldn’t be watching, no matter how interesting they all were, but they hadn’t noticed him yet and the temptation was just too much. To give himself credit, he was trying his utmost not to be seen. Hiding with the wobbling desk in the alcove. It was dark and a little colder, but the view of Tom was exceptional. It showed his profile to perfection, and Harry just like to watch him and chew on his lip, crushing it between his teeth whenever Tom shifted, whenever he swallowed, whenever he moved in any way at all, because Harry knew those movements would stick to the walls of his brain forever, making appearances in his daytime preoccupations and his dreams. He wouldn’t acknowledge that it was Tom he saw standing there in the shadows of his night-time imaginations, just standing there, smiling with his hands tapping against his thigh, but somewhere in his subconscious, Harry knew it was him. Besides, the close walls of the alcove were strangely comforting; it reminded Harry a little of home, and that was a comfort even if it was only the familiarity and routine that had ever been any comfort to him.Harry continued to watch as Tom rolled his neck, put down his book and cracked his knuckles, apparently taking pleasure in the way Lestrange winced and told him to cut it out. He didn’t, and it made Harry smile to see the perverse stare Tom gave Lestrange as he cracked each one of his fingers slowly, and individually, and the way he smiled at the single sharp syllable emitted from them. Lestrange rolled his eyes and went back to talk about something Harry didn’t care to listen to, he would have cared if Tom cared, but Tom didn’t, he just went back to his book. He shouldn’t be watching he thought to himself again, whilst knowing full well that he wasn’t going to do what he should be. He should be reading cases and writing that essay on the formation of contracts, the one that was sitting half-finished in front of him, but Tom was distracting, even when he wasn’t meaning to be.
So, Harry just laid his head against the coolness of the desk and watched. It was mesmerising to see Tom turn the pages of his book, tongue flicking to lick a finger before turning a page, and another and another. The flitting of paper seemed to cut through the conversation, reminding the others that they simply weren’t interesting enough to be awarded with Tom’s attention. Harry wished he had that sort of power over people, that sort of command that demanded respect whether people were inclined to give it or not.
As he watched, wasting his time on Tom’s profile, he saw Tom’s eyes flick up, it was only momentary but also so noticeable. Tom’s gaze hovered for a second on the sixth, and in Harry’s eyes the most forgettable, member of their little coterie. Avery.Avery was odd, he had apparently started hanging around with them at the end of the previous semester, then had spent the summer with them, and now they were all acting like he had always been there. He was in his third year of reading Politics, and Harry sometimes saw him walking with Tom, eyes all big and star-struck, when the three of them passed at the intersection between the Law and Politics departments.There was something not quite right about Avery though, and it wasn’t just Harry who thought so, everyone else was suspicious as well. Suspicious as to how someone who wasn’t that extraordinary had managed to worm their way into such an exclusive group. Most of the rumours seemed to involve Tom, but none of them was firmly established or had any grounds, and if Harry brought it up, people quickly shut their mouths and pretended to find nothing wrong with Avery at all.
Even now when Avery was just sitting with the others, he was off, present but vacant. Just sitting there, hunched in on himself, keeping quiet as the discussion rolled and swelled, moving like a rock between topical waves. Harry suspected that was why, every so often, Tom would glance over at him, as if checking to see if he was still there, before sweeping his gaze back over all the others. The ones who were clearly more deserving of his attention.Currently, Tom's eyes had left behind Avery and were rested for too long on Malfoy, which was weird because he wasn’t talking. Malfoy hadn’t said much at all today, he was too busy actually writing an essay. Pen scratching loudly, him occasionally sighing but not asking questions to any of the others like he usually did. Harry supposed though he had no idea really, that Malfoy must be writing an economics essay, and thus all the others with their extensive but humanities-based knowledge, would be completely useless. Without Malfoy’s interjections, and with Tom’s apparent apathy, Lestrange had been left to monopolise the conversation, turning it into an endless drone about the intricacies of international shipping law, and by the way Druella was examining her nails, Rosier had his head in a book and Avery was staring absently at the ceiling, it wasn’t very interesting.The quietude was broken though, and Lestrange finally interrupted when Malfoy slammed his essay down into the centre of the table.“Ha Rosier, I told you I could write the sodding thing in forty minutes,” Malfoy said, sliding the pages over to him as if to emphasise their completion.Rosier dragged his head up with a glare before checking his watch and rolling his eyes, “I bet its useless,” he said, making no effort to actually look at the pages.Malfoy scoffed, “like you’d know, you couldn’t do international trade theory if your life depended on it.”“It can hardly be difficult if you’re doing it.”“Oh really?” said Malfoy, evidently getting irritated, “care to tell me what the Heckscher–Ohlin model is then? And while you’re at it, how about you tell me its relationship to the Ricardian model, and which one more accurately explains our trading patterns,” Malfoy continued, becoming more emphatic the more he spoke. Rosier only looked bored and made some unhelpful interjections that achieved nothing.Harry watched from his corner, expecting things to heat up pretty quickly as soon as Rosier spoke because he had a look that could only be described as completely devilish spreading over his features like he’d been saving up all his energy just to complete this one disproof. But before he could say anything Tom interrupted.“Do I actually have to remind you two that this is a library? Abraxas, care to be quiet? And Rosier, we all know you failed economics, so don’t pretend you even have a chance at proving him wrong, and wipe that smile off your face, it doesn’t suit you.” With that, Tom returned to his book. The others sat in silence until Lestrange took Malfoy’s essay for proofreading, and Druella soothed circles on her brother’s knuckles, as though they were physical manifestations of his bruised ego. If any of them objected, none of them said anything.It was fascinating the control that Tom had without really trying, and Harry had to wonder what he’d done to deserve it, to so completely gain their respect. He kept watching even as Tom shut his book and leaned closer at Lestrange’s request, looking at something in Malfoy’s essay.Harry knew shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but that hadn’t stopped him yet. He couldn’t help moving his chair a couple of inches just to get a better view of Tom. The wood though had other ideas, and the legs of the chair screeched loudly over the wooden floor, and six faces turned to the corner. Before their eyes had even properly settled on him, Harry could feel himself flushing. The tightness slithering back into his stomach, like it had when Tom first noticed him. He turned his face away, only darting his eyes up enough to see Tom tilt his head to the left and narrow his own eyes like he was trying to place where he had seen him before.It was stupid and Harry cursed himself for staring back so gormlessly. Though Tom didn’t seem to care. He only continued to watch until Harry could feel a prickling on his skin and a fizzing in the air Tom’s eyes roaming across his face, examining him carefully and for considerably longer than he needed to. For every extra second that passed whatever it was in Harry’s stomach seemed to squeeze tighter, and he never wanted Tom to look away.“Care to tell us what you were doing?” asked Tom, eyes still heavy on Harry’s.Harry shook his head awkwardly, “no,” he said in the smallest stickiest voice anyone could imagine. He didn’t give them another chance to speak, gathering his stuff into his bag too quickly and getting up and out of the room before they could ask him anything else. Before Tom could recognise him, if he hadn’t already, like the one under the tree, and the one in the corridor, and by the water fountain, and in all the places he was. Because if Tom knew, if Tom realised how much Harry watched, he might accuse him of stalking, which this wasn’t. It was merely a fantasy; one he knew wouldn’t come true because life simply wasn’t kind to people who had nothing.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Harry did not go back to the library the next day, or the next or the next. He was quite tempted never to go back there again, and that could have worked. He could have studied in his room. He certainly spent enough time there already, venturing out once or twice for a lecture before retreating, back into that sunless, airless, loveless room that he had come to like. Although it was small, there was no one to invade his thoughts, no one to inquire what he was doing as he stared at them from across the room. There was no one here at all. Even the others that supposedly lived with him, albeit in their separate rooms, were usually out. They had better things to do than to hang around and study.It was quiet and pleasant and perfectly nice, but it had nothing on the library. Nothing on the high ceilings and warm mustiness that infected all the, more abandoned, corridors. This room had no wide staircases or tall windows; nor did it have the low murmuring of conversation, and pages turning, and the click of girl’s heels on the wooden floors. Most importantly though, it didn’t have them. In this room, there was no wit or wisdom save Harry’s own, and he was quickly becoming convinced that he was significantly lacking. Without going to the library, he had no surreptitious opportunity to gawk and gape and gaze at people who were so much better than himself. Instead, he had to catch any glance he could, wherever he could find it, and however pathetic it made him feel for doing so.It was almost predictable, but Harry had resorted back to the same thing he always did when he felt alone. He retreated into fantasy. He liked to pretend that the person he watched in his room’s small mirror when he daydreamed, was not himself, but Tom. He liked to imagine the conversations that they could have together, and the smile on Tom’s face when he found that Harry was far more interesting than anyone had ever given him credit for. That he was a someone, and that Tom wanted to know more about him. Harry had more fantasies like that than he’d care to admit, and they always ended the same, Tom lying beside him on the bed and telling him all the wonderful things he could be if they stuck together.It was hard to leave his room after those sorts of daydreams, they just seemed too real, too distracting, too perfect. In half an hour of staring, he managed to encapsulate every feeling he had, and it wasn’t just for Tom, at least, that’s what he told himself, he liked all the others as well. It was just harder to picture them because they didn’t share his features. When he thought of it like that, he was ever so grateful that he and Tom looked so similar. If they hadn’t, it would have been that much harder to see him across the room with that perfect smile, and perfect face and perfect everything. Harry sighed. He knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid Tom, he just had to see him again, had to give in to this unhealthy interest.Harry wasn’t sure where the line between stalking and being generally interested was anymore, and no matter how much he tried to avoid them, and he did try a little, he always ended up so close, anyway that he might as well watch them. He would use the water fountain in a side corridor, and they’d all be there, coming out of a classroom. He’d be waiting for a lecture on the fifth floor surrounded by other, more confident students, and he’d see Rosier and Lestrange leaving after a philosophy lecture. He’d been going the back way, through the mess of the politics department, to the exit that was always quiet, and he’d come across Malfoy and Avery loudly discussing the merits of democracy. Although he had not dared to look, he’d felt Malfoy’s eyes follow him as he rounded the corner. The worst one though had been seeing Tom leave a seminar with Druella. They walked too close together in his opinion, their hands occasionally touching, brief smiles flitting over their faces.Harry had, for a moment, wondered if they were dating and simply hadn’t cared to mention it. The way they looked at each other suggested it, but then again, if he thought back to the library, Tom had never sat next to Druella, nor had his gaze strayed to her unless she was speaking, neither had hers strayed to him. The only person he’d seen Druella’s eyes linger on was her brother. But whatever it was that was between them, Harry wished that Tom would look at him like that, to take that much interest in the things he said, but that couldn’t happen because he was only ordinary. He was only him.Though for all the time that Harry spent, honestly inadvertently, watching them, he was also getting the feeling of being watched himself. Sometimes when he was standing alone in the corridor, Harry would swear he could feel the warmth of someone’s stare on the back of his neck, but when he turned there’d be no one there. Sometimes he’d catch the flash of dark eyes and sharpness of someone’s jaw turning away. Someone who looked a lot like Tom, but he brushed it off as a lookalike staring at the pretty girl standing behind him, or the glint of the light on some object that had no life within it because Tom wouldn’t look at him. It was all just him projecting the things he wanted to happen into the real world, his fantasies spilling over because that was the one thing, he had always been good at, daydreaming. It was a skill acquired by being ignored and finetuned by being alone, and now used more than he had ever done before. When no one paid any attention to him, he had had no one else to entertain him but himself, so Harry would like to think he’d gotten rather good at it. Though, he knew, in his heart, he’d much prefer it if it had been someone watching him. But he suspected someone being interested in him was more than he could hope for.Once when he was feeling particularly reckless, and had nothing better to do, Harry had even arrived early to his own lecture, early enough that he could sit in on the one before. The one Lestrange and Rosier attended. He told himself it was just because the scribbles that he’d seen on the blackboard when he went in for his lecture interested him. But it wasn’t. It was because he wanted to see them because if he couldn’t see Tom then he’d have to satisfy that ache inside himself with the others. Harry couldn’t even pretend he knew anything about advanced propositional logic, or what in the world proofs for truth-functional relations were. To him, they resembled a foreign language, and he took on the role of a hapless tourist who knew nothing of local dialects, but he did know that Lestrange and Rosier certainly understood what they were talking about. They answered questions and asked questions and were practically model students, and probably would have been called such if Rosier didn’t roll his eyes so often and Lestrange would refrain from obnoxiously calling out flaws in the professor’s logic. But they were forgiven their misdemeanours because they were clever and handsome and rich and because everybody liked them. After that, Harry had sat in on that class again just to watch them, just to hear them being brilliant, and to sate that need inside him. He did with the others too, though he knew in some way that it was wrong, and definitely starting to cross that line of appropriateness. He made a point of arriving early and then lurking just around the corner to where Malfoy and Avery liked to debate as they waited for their tutorial. They never saw him, and he doubted whether they even realised there was someone there. They had no reason to because he kept ever so quiet and they were loud enough to cover any noise he did make. From what he heard, their arguments were intelligent and eloquent, and they always disagreed, especially with regards to the role of democracy. Avery seemed to represent the more moral view, strong constitutions, heavy scrutiny, the role of the people. Malfoy was a lot more casual with regards to it all, ready to throw away everything at the slightest inconvenience, stressing flexibility, he said, though it sounded more like thinly-veiled elitism. Regardless, Avery was the always the one to dissolve first, he sounded inexperienced compared to Malfoy and could never defend himself without flipping through his notes. At least that’s what Harry assumed he was doing every time he heard the shuffling of paper and faltering sentences. Just listening to them, and to Malfoy in particular, was like taking a shot of something sharp and strong, something with a sour edge, and Harry loved it. That’s why he never stopped listening, even when he knew he should.It was different though when he’d waited for Tom and Druella. He knew they always left the room together, long after everyone else, and then they’d walk together up to the fourth floor where they’d meet Lestrange and Malfoy, and then they’d all go to the library together, and Harry wouldn’t follow because he was embarrassed. That embarrassment did not stop him from waiting by the line of old lockers though, pretending for too long to be fiddling with his key. Nor did it stop him from watching them leave the classroom, and listening to Tom explain the failures of the Rule Utilitarian’s position, and see Druella nod along sorting through the logical steps in her head, before forcing him to backtrack and clarify something. She kept him on his toes, and he seemed to like her for it. He seemed to appreciate a challenge, and enjoy the repartee that ricocheted between them. It was as they climbed the stairs, and Druella had said something particularly clever, that Harry wished more than ever that he had her wit. Because Tom was looking at her like she meant the world, like she had the answer to every question he could think of ever asking. Even as they walked, Harry trying to balance being able to see and hear them, and walking too close, he could see the smile that slowly materialised at the corner of Tom’s mouth.“You're brilliant sometimes, Druella,” he said, smiling and leaning too close again.“Of course, I am. I’m frankly insulted that you’d even dare to think otherwise,” she said waiting on the landing as Tom pulled open the door and held it for her. Tom was still smiling when he turned back to the stairway to see if he should continue to hold the door. And although Harry had tried quickly to turn around and go back down the stairs, he knew Tom had seen him. Again. Harry wasn’t trying to catch Tom’s attention, though he knew he’d like it, like it more than most people because there were things that Harry had known before he’d come here. Things that he’d realised when he was still at school. Ever since he’d become a teenager, Harry had known there was something unusual inside his head, something that made him different, though he hadn’t realised what it was for far too long.It had started, he decided, when he’d overheard the older boys talking about the girls in their year. Privately, Harry had agreed with what they said, not always with their choice of words, but certainly with the sentiment. Girls were lovely and beautiful, and they made his insides melt whenever they smiled at him in that way. But, despite that, he’d always felt there was something more, or more accurately, that there was something missing from girls. There was still a space, a huge void, that hung heavy inside him, and he just didn’t know quite how to fill it. Then Cedric happened. Well, perhaps it was wrong to say happened because nothing really happened. Not externally at least, everything that changed had been inside Harry’s head.Cedric was a new student, a good all-rounder that everyone liked, including Harry, but he guessed his motivations for liking Cedric were not the same as all the other boys. They all liked him because he was good at sports and because he made intelligence look effortless. The girls liked him too because he was handsome and polite and much more mature than all the other boys. Harry liked him for all the above reasons. He liked how Cedric really looked at him when they played sports together, it made him feel important, like he meant something, like he was a someone.It was in the summer when Harry was about to turn fifteen, that it had all crystallised before him. He and Cedric had been sitting, just the two of them, on the stone steps watching the sun dip over the edge of the world. Cedric talking about something and Harry listening because listening to Cedric had been the best thing in the world. Listening and watching his jaw and his mouth, and wondering how soft his lips were, and Harry had realised quite suddenly that he wanted to kiss Cedric. That he wanted to touch Cedric’s fingers and touch his lips and just… kiss him. He hadn’t said anything though, he’d just felt awkward and nervous, and let his stomach tie itself in knots as Cedric had remained, well he hoped he had, oblivious to the things Harry wanted to do.Even now, three years later, Harry remembered every minute detail of that day. The curling shadows that covered Cedric’s face, the fluttering of his lashes, how his fingers tapped to a silent tune on the stone. And Harry could remember every single emotion that had passed through his own head. The hammering of his heart as he thought of just reaching out and touching Cedric’s fingers, how tight his throat had felt when he thought of holding Cedric’s hand, and how generally uncomfortable the atmosphere between them had become. When Cedric had said goodbye and left him alone on the step, Harry had laid back, eyes watching the stars as they started coming out, and wondering what this all meant.In his head, he’d passed over so many faces, so many times that his heart had just stopped when he’d seen someone beautiful. There were more boys than he remembered seared into his memory. More half-smiles and heads resting on arms and fingers accidentally brushing his own, than Harry cared to remember. He’d always liked watching the boys in his year, he’d thought he just wanted to be them, but maybe it wasn’t that, and maybe in some way, he’d always known. He didn’t just want to look, he wanted to touch. To feel boys’ jaws and necks, mouths and thighs. He’d wanted to kiss them, and he wanted them to kiss him back.But despite all that he also knew it was wrong. Somewhere in his periphery, he understood that to have such wants were not compatible with society. That for whatever reason, to feel like he did, was wrong, and he should be ashamed. So, he didn’t tell anyone how he felt. Or, at least, he didn’t say anything with his mouth, only with his eyes. Once, he’d thought Cedric saw, thought that maybe he understood what he was feeling, and maybe, just maybe he felt it too. But Cedric died that summer; before Harry had ever had a chance to ask him.He didn’t say anything after that. He just stayed silent and resorted to looking and hoping that someone would see something in his eyes, and they would understand what it was that he was feeling. No one had. Well, Harry sighed, he didn’t want to get his hopes up, but Tom was the first person since Cedric to make his heart turn to butterflies.
In a strange respect, Tom reminded him of Cedric, but in a darker, warmer way. Back when he was fifteen, Cedric had seemed so cold and distant like the star’s pale beauty. Something foreign and otherworldly, just outside of his reach but forever in his gaze. In contrast, Tom was like the sun, burning Harry’s world up one subtle glance at a time. He wanted to reach out to Tom, to feel his fingers burn and all the butterflies in his heart turn to ashes and flutter out across the sky-–“ –-You, third row, glasses, care to prove that you’re actually awake this morning and tell me the facts of Stilk and Merrick?” Harry snapped back into it, flushing and stuttering. He was in a lecture and everyone was looking at him and he had no idea what to say.Usually, Harry brought his own lunch, usually, but today he’d been unorganised, too busy thinking about people he shouldn’t have, to pick anything up. That was why he was in the cafeteria. He could have gone to another one, a small café down a side street and away from all these people, but that had just seemed slightly too much effort. So, he was here. They were too. He’d seen them as soon as he walked in. How could he not? They were sitting at a corner table, and a wide radius had been left around them like everyone knew not to interfere.Every so often, someone would go over. Harry assumed they took a class with one of them because they’d stand awkwardly and ask something. The whole table shushed whenever anyone approached and they’d all stare at the person who deigned to interrupt them. Then whoever was addressed would answer politely and they’d all continue to smile until the person had turned their back, and started to walk away. That was when that nice-nasty smile returned to Tom’s face, and Harry would feel his stomach curl a little.When they weren’t talking to someone, they were just eating, like normal human beings. Though even that Tom seemed to make look agonisingly perfect. It was frankly unbearable to watch Tom eat an apple right down to the core, white teeth biting just so and little teasing flashes of his tongue. He was listening intently to Malfoy, and less intently to everyone, and just continuing to bite at the flesh of that apple as if nothing else in the world mattered. Harry wasn’t sure how someone managed to make eating look so sophisticated, but he wished Tom would teach him. Teach him how to curl his wrist and tilt his head and chew in a way that was just so… provocative.Harry knew he was the exact opposite as he sat, alone, eating just a sandwich because he was not wasting any more of his money than was absolutely necessary here. There were more important things to do than buy food. He knew he looked small and tense and primitive, a sandwich in his short fingers, crumbs in his textbook. He was nothing like Tom. He was nothing like any of them. Harry dared to take another glance. Tom was leaning over and talking to Malfoy, the others were talking loudly and laughing with each other, like they had been the first time he’d seen them. In any other setting Harry would have been able to hear their conversation, and, in a small way, feel part of it, but here, surrounded by nearly a hundred people, it was clamorous and chaotic and he could hardly hear his own thoughts, let alone anyone else’s conversations. But that didn’t stop him looking. It didn’t stop him dreaming. It didn’t stop him wanting more than anything else in the world for them to notice him.Suddenly someone tripped and a plate fell to the floor, a crash followed by an eruption of noise spread around the room, people standing and shouting. But not them. They didn’t even move. The six of them looked over at the commotion, but continued to just sit calmly and quietly, waiting for all the fuss to blow over. Harry wished he could be that smooth, that polished, that poised, completely in control of the situation, even if he wasn’t really. He stopped looking at them, after all, what was the point in dreaming?He was trying to read his textbook and ignore the moving of chairs and tables and people all around him when he felt it. A prickling on his cheek as though someone was looking at him, but as he glanced around the room, no one was obviously paying him any sort of attention. The feeling didn’t go away like someone was not only watching him, but taking pride in the fact they hadn’t been spotted. It was the same feeling as all those times before, all those times that Harry had gotten just a little too hopeful that someone had taken an interest in him. He tried to ignore it, he did, tried to eat his sandwich and read his textbook, but it felt like it was burning a hole straight through his cheek. He looked up to his left and straightaway his eyes met Tom’s. For just a moment, the world seemed to melt away and it was just the two of them staring back at each other. Then Lestrange threw a pencil at Tom to get his attention, and whatever circle that had been created was broken. But even as Tom looked away, Harry could still feel his heart racing and his cheek burning.By the time he’d finished eating, the others had already left, and it was probably for the best. After all, if they weren’t here, it gave him no excuse to do anything but go back to his last lecture and then finish that essay and absolutely not think about Tom. That was honestly what he was going to do. But then as he rounded the corner, he heard them.“…and Rosier, maybe you could actually arrive before midday tomorrow?” said Tom. Rosier audibly groaned, and Druella said something that Harry didn’t hear, but Tom didn’t deign to answer anyway, instead, he just continued, “be there for ten.”Someone else groaned, and Harry moved against the wall. “Really, Riddle? You know, some of us do actually sleep, right,” said Lestrange, or rather he whined it, like a toddler.“Oh, my heart bleeds for you, Lestrange, having to get out of bed at nine-thirty, the humanity.”“There’s no need to be so sarcastic.”“Then there’s no reason for you to be so deliberately subversive, is there?”Lestrange groaned again, “seriously though?”Tom sighed, like a parent whose child was being intentionally disobedient in front of everyone. “All those with a problem of being there by ten, please, raise their hands,” he said, though his tone had changed, this was no longer a matter of joviality or even of casualness, now it was entirely serious. “Oh dear, looks like you’re in a minority Lestrange, too bad. Be there for ten.”Though he couldn’t see, Harry suspected that Lestrange was glaring and had his arm folded, like he always did when he was annoyed.“Don’t be so childish, it’s just one day.”“We could go get lunch after,” said Rosier, “then go to the library?” finished Druella. Harry listened more intently, he’d promised he wouldn’t think about them, but that was only for today, not for tomorrow.“That’s fine by me,” said Tom, “is it fine by you, Lestrange?”It must have been because then a locker was rattling, and they were all talking about something else, and there was the shuffling of bags and they were walking away. Harry stayed still against the wall for a few more minutes, until he was sure they were. He was too hot, and his heart hurt for hammering so hard, but he knew he just had to be in the library. He just had to. If he arrived earlier enough and hid in his corner and forced himself to just listen to them, rather than watch, then they’d never been the wiser, and he could get another look of them and then, then he could leave them behind forever. Just one more look he promised himself.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Harry got to the library considerably before them, considerably before anyone else at all actually. The librarian had politely smiled to him with her sleepy eyes as he walked passed at quarter past eight in the morning. Early enough that he’d watched the sun slink up until it was in line with the buildings. Early enough that the crispness of the day had not yet turned to cold, and the pretty pink strips of the sun were still turning the white stone buildings into towers of pink bubblegum that the classic’s students were always chewing.It was nice to cross the river when there was no one else around, somehow it felt safer not to have to deal with other people because Harry had never been good with people. They never seemed to do what he expected them to, and when they did do as expected, it was usually something bad. That was why he travelled through the streets when the sun had barely risen, and only the earliest shops were opening their doors.To walk alone also gave him a chance to breathe, a chance to think, and, today, to plan. He was going to spend the morning reading cases and completing that essay due next week. Then maybe he’d do some reading as he waited for them to arrive. Then, when they did, he’d watch. He’d indulge himself one last time, and then he’d go back to the mundane world that he was used to. It was the perfect plan.As usual, he went to their favourite room in the library. The one at the end of the twisting corridors, the one with the high west-facing window, the one with three small alcoves that he could hide in. Harry hoped that by lurking in the shadows they wouldn’t see him, and that, maybe if he kept quiet enough and didn’t do anything stupid, like he had done last time, then they wouldn’t notice at all, and he would be free to watch; free to get his next fix of them without being interrupted.But after two hours he regretted getting there quite so early. No one else at all was in this part of the library and the silence was overwhelming. So overwhelming that he found his eyes drawn to a mouse across the room, just scuttling along the skirting to a small hole in the floor and he wondered if there had always been mice here, and he had just never noticed. He could hear it even when it had disappeared, just a scratching beneath the floorboards, the sort of quiet sound that people dismissed when they weren’t alone. Were any of them scared of mice? Harry smiled to himself as he imagined Malfoy up on the table, and Tom rolling his eyes and Lestrange sweeping at the little creature with a broom. It would make quite a sight to know they were all afraid of something so small and innocent, and so much like himself and Harry couldn’t help but make the comparisons, they were just so obvious. A mouse was quiet and small and easily forgotten, and so was he. No one remembered the brown mouse unless it caused a problem and then all hell broke loose, as they tried to trap it and catch it and kill it. So perhaps Harry identified a little too much with the mouse, but he couldn’t help it really, nature had just made him this way and now there was nothing he could do about it.None of them were like mice, they were all far too sophisticated, far too interesting to be mere mice. The six of them, perhaps with the exception of Avery, were more like the cats that were allowed to wander through the library. Harry had seen them, five in total, they were supposed to be professional mousers according to the signs on the door, but, really, he’d never seen them do anything other than sleep. Lying on the floors and the desks, always in a patch of sunlight, or, if there was no sun, beside a radiator or under one of the desk lamps that had been left on. They just lay there, looking ever so pretty and infinitely aware of their own charms. The five of them were definitely like cats. Pretty and preening, intelligent and cunning, perfectly happy to spend their days lying around being appreciated by other people, but at the same time predatory.Tom had the same look in his eyes when he gave that cruel-kind smile, as the cats did when they were in a hunting mood and could see a mouse on the other side of the room. Maybe, having compared himself to the mouse in that situation, Harry should have been scared, but how could he be when that smile was just so intoxicating? Even though Harry didn’t much like the cats, for he had seen enough of their claws, and the shredded curtains that had to be replaced before shorter ones had apparently been brought in, to know that they could be destructive, and whilst he’d never seen any evidence of it, Tom and his friends gave off the same impression. As though, when they smiled, they knew they were blinding, knew that people would come and gladly be dazzled by their money and glittery conversations. Like they were just playing a game, where they were cats and all the other people in the world were mice. Such a revelation would have made ordinary people turn their backs, walk away from such people, but it only made Harry want to stay for longer. Perhaps it was because he so readily accepted his place as a mouse, or maybe it was because he simply didn’t care as long as he got to be by their sides. Whatever it was, Harry didn’t bother to dwell on it.They were later arriving than Harry expected, and he had been in the library for eight hours by the time he heard the sound of several shoes coming at once on the wooden floors. He turned off the lamp that lit his alcove, which did nothing to dampen his feelings that what he was about to do probably did cross the line into inappropriate behaviour, not that that had stopped him yet.They were laughing as they came into the room, dumping their bags down on their usual table, like vultures claiming ownership of a carcass. Harry even heard the tell-tale sound of books being placed on the table top as well, but he suspected they were just for show, to pretend that they were doing work, not that anyone would try and move them off if they weren’t. As they came in, fingers gliding over the bookshelves and the table’s surface, Harry thought he saw Tom’s eyes dart over to his alcove, as if Tom was looking for someone in the darkness. But when rationality kicked in, he supposed that what he’d actually seen was just a trick of the light, the flash of the sun on Druella’s diamond ring, perhaps.Whether it was by habit or deliberate design, they returned to what was their usual configuration:, Tom at the end of the table closest to Harry and the window, then clockwise, Lestrange, Druella, Rosier and Avery, then on Tom’s right, Malfoy, sitting much closer to Tom than the others. Harry had already moved his chair back before they came in, so all he needed to do was sit back, keep close to the bookshelves and admire them. Admire Tom in particular. Though today he was sitting more straight on to the others and Harry couldn’t see his face. Not that he minded, he still got to the see the rest of him. He still got to see how he rested one arm, pseudo-casually, over the back of the chair, the other spread towards Malfoy. His nails drawing absent little circles on the wood, as the others got settled into their conversations. Tom was perfect. So casual, but without the usual carelessness that came with it. Harry just wanted to pass hours watching him, running the pads of his fingers along Tom’s forearm, just to feel if he was really human.Harry half-listened as they talked about nothing for a while, hushed voices that he couldn’t quite hear properly. He watched as Tom shifted, a little closer to Malfoy than usual, and continued to survey the conversation. Harry had to notice though, that there seemed to be one voice missing from the discussion, Avery’s. Although he was definitely in the room as Rosier had called him by name when they first walked it. No matter where the conversation strayed, Avery seemed to be hovering on the fringe of it, never quite invited into the fabric of the group, and it was at times like this when it was obvious that he was new, and still didn’t quite fit in.When there was a lull, after what seemed like a particularly dramatic statement concerning the hypocrisy of someone called Wittgenstein that Lestrange seemed to loath, Tom was the one to fill it. “Avery,” he said, and though Harry couldn’t see Avery, he imagined his head snapped up like one of those little dogs when their masters call. “I heard you’ve been sitting in on first years Ethics lectures, find anything interesting?”If Harry was not mistaken, and he honestly didn’t think he was, it did not sound like a subject that Tom was remotely interested in, more that he’d felt a need to reengage Avery, stop him drifting away. Perhaps stop the others ignoring him.“I like Kant,” came the quiet reply a few seconds later, one that it sounded to Harry that Avery had put a lot of effort into forcing his tongue to say.Druella huffed, “really?” she said, leaning forward, elbows on the table, “you like that man? Why?”Avery audibly swallowed, “you know, he seems to have good ideas.”“Which bit? The categorical imperative? His ideas on the good will? Oh, Avery aren’t you just adorable?”“What’s wrong with it? And it’s not like you’re any better, you’re a goddamn hedonist,” he said, a new edge curling into his voice, something scrappy and irritable, like a small dog, with more bark than bite.“Oh, don’t use that sort of language, Avery,” continued Druella, calm and cool as ever, “and you say Hedonist like I’m supposed to be offended.”“You are. It’s disgusting.”Harry could almost hear someone rolling their eyes, probably more than one person, but Druella spoke again, now with a sharper edge to her own tone, one that sounded mildly condescending. “I think you mistake the meaning of pleasure as something inherently sinful, Avery, as defined, perhaps, by a religious code.”“He associates it with carnality and indulgence,” said Rosier, suddenly contributing after an unusual amount of silence, “it’s a rather crude and literal interpretation of pleasure.” Rosier shifted, the chair skidding over the floor, “but pleasure doesn’t have to be like that.”“How?”“Well,” said Druella, “if being a virtuous person is what will bring me the most pleasure, a higher sort of pleasure if you will, then I am none of the ‘disgusting’ things that you implied me to be.”“What?” said Avery, continuing to sound several steps behind. Though Harry himself really had no right to judge.“Some pleasures are more valuable than others,” Druella said, and Harry could just see as she sat back in her chair looking pleased with herself.“To put it in words that perhaps you’ll understand,” said Rosier, “some pleasures are temporary, short-lived little things that really mean nothing in the long term; these are hollow pleasures or lower pleasures. Others are far more valuable as they will increase the overall pleasure that we feel in society, really this was covered in the first hour,” he continued, also leaning back with the confidence of someone who knows they’re right.“You know, you’re being awfully cruel, Rosier,” said Tom, apparently interrupting before it became an argument, always playing the peacekeeper. Though on this occasion, Tom’s tone did not suggest that he was admonishing Rosier at all, rather that he found such teasing amusing.“Am I?”“Yes, you’re picking on someone who’s only trying to better themselves, if you want a real debate on the merits of your ideology, surely you should speak to one of us who actually studies it?”“Ah yes, how wonderful,” said Rosier, leaning forward again, the tips of his fingers coming into view. “Another Hedonist, a Relativist, an Egoist and a Utilitarian, what is there to discuss Riddle, other than you’re all wrong?”Harry was sure Tom smiled. “Well for starters there’s why we’re wrong, or rather, why you’re wrong given that Hedonism is terribly outdated these days.”“Hardly, it’ll be the apocalypse before you can no longer divide people into being a Hedonist or an Ascetic.”“Really?” said Lestrange having managed to stay quiet for a good five minutes, which to Harry seemed like a record.“Yes, watch.”Harry could just about see the tips of Rosier’s fingers as he pointed to Druella, “hedonist,” he said, the fingers moved to point at Lestrange, “hedonist,” he said again. He pointed at Malfoy, “hedonist, see easy.”“I can’t help but notice that you skipped Riddle,” said Malfoy, his own fingers still tapping closer to Tom’s than usual.“Yes,” said Tom, “if everyone can be divided, what am I?”Rosier was probably smirking given his tone. “It’s my theory, so the rest of you have to work it out yourselves,” he said smugly.“Hey, that’s not how it works,” interrupted Lestrange, “you have to at least tell us-–”“No, no, Lestrange. This could be fun,” said Malfoy, looking right at Tom and lightly chewing his lip in a way that made Harry’s tongue stick in his mouth and that tightness in his chest to return. It was outrageously pretty in a way that was entirely wrong, and yet just looked so good.“What would you say I am, then Malfoy?” said Tom, no longer paying the others even the most superficial attention. Harry had a perfect view of the way they looked at each other, like none of the others was even there.“Well, I think it’s quite obvious.”“And yet you’re unwilling to tell me?”Malfoy smiled, and leaned even closer to Tom, from this angle, and this angle alone, Harry could see how Malfoy’s fingers pressed into Tom’s thigh, and just how close his tongue was to Tom’s neck. “It’s not that I’m unwilling,” he practically purred, “I just don’t want to take away the opportunity from someone who’s just dying to talk to you.”Harry suddenly felt cold, like someone had poured ice down the back of his shirt. He looked down, picking up his pen and staring at the paper, knowing full well he was the only other person in the room. But maybe he was wrong? Maybe he’d missed someone? Or perhaps Malfoy meant Avery? Maybe? Hopefully? They weren’t talking about anyone else. That was painfully obvious when a silence fell over the entire room and Harry felt the heaviness of six pairs of eyes digging into his head, and just like before he could feel that embarrassing blush spilling all over his face like spilt ink. He should make a run for it, leave like last time and pretend that nothing had happened. That was what he should do, but he was just stuck to the spot like a fear-frozen mouse as the cat slowly approached.“Potter, isn’t it? Harry Potter?” said Tom, his voice cool and crisp across the room.He nodded, still not daring to look up.“Care to come over here? Or are you going to run away from us again?”If there was ever something that Harry cared not to do, this was it. Just one of them was bad enough, but having to face all six of them, and with the obvious stain of shame all over his face was far more than he was prepared to handle.“We don’t bite, you know,” said Tom, in a way that definitely suggested that Tom was ready to eat him alive. Harry silently cursed himself for getting caught even as he felt his legs moving, then his torso and finally his head. Walking over to them but making no effort at all to look, because if he did that, well, he might never look away. “Would you mind if I asked you a question, Harry? If I can call you Harry?”Harry nodded, he wasn’t sure what to, probably everything.“Thank you. Were you listening in to our conversations again, Harry?”“No,” he said, though he would be honestly surprised if anyone heard him. His brain was turning quickly to wool and what words did manage to escape were cottony and quiet. He knew he sounded slightly pathetic, that much was obvious.“Well I’m glad to hear that you have some boundaries,” Tom said, with what Harry suspected was a smile, “but that, of course, means you won’t know what we were talking about, correct?” Tom asked, like he was trying to catch him out.Harry shook his head, so sure that Tom could see right through him, could see that his lie was as transparent as a pane of glass. Looking through the straggled ends of his fringe, Harry could see the razor-sharp edges of Tom’s smile.“That’s really a shame,” Tom said, that mouth curling around the words, “because we were talking about me, and I think you’re quite interested in me, aren’t you Harry?”Harry shrugged.“This is going to be a terribly dull conversation if you’re only going to pay attention to the floor.” Although Tom didn’t say anything, the command, and somehow also the threat was very clear. Harry was going to have to look up. He counted it down in his head, three, two, one. He looked up. Tom was smiling. “Thank you, though I’d hope you knew that it is common courtesy for people to look at each other when they’re talking.”Harry found himself nodding again, really too overwhelmed with feelings for Tom’s eyes to do anything else. A small part of him hated himself because he had always scoffed at those romance novels that his aunt read, where the love interest’s eyes were given so many impractical and frankly unrealistic metaphorical comparisons, and yet, as he stared at Tom he had to wonder whether every Romance author had taken inspiration from his face. There was just something indescribably gorgeous about it, an almost painful sort of beauty that was only evident this close up, the sort that people would probably die for, maybe even kill for.He was pulled from his musing by another of Tom’s question. “You’re on straight law aren’t you, Harry?”He nodded, wishing that he could get a word out but still failing to.“Do you know anything about philosophy?”Harry nodded again, knowing that he’d definitely done it too many times now, they were probably thinking he was usually a mute.“Can he actually talk?” said Lestrange suddenly and conveniently.“Of course, he can talk, you idiot,” Tom said briefly breaking eye contact to glare at Lestrange. “Quite eloquently I imagine, when you want to, isn’t that right Harry?”“Yes,” he choked out.“Will you talk to me if Lestrange promises to keep his mouth shut?”“Yes,” Harry said again, the words finally starting to flow properly, as though the temporary blockage had been dislodged.“You heard that Lestrange, don’t interrupt.”“So, tell me, Harry, as you know about philosophy, do you know what an Ascetic and a Hedonist are?”“I think so,” he said, if just for more diversity than repeating ‘yes.’ And it was partially true, Harry had heard the word before, and he was pretty sure he could fake his way out of any basic question Tom was about to ask, and, well, by this point he was prepared to lie if it meant he could keep talking to Tom, keep being close enough to figuratively drown in his eyes.“Are you sure?”Harry repeated his answer, and he was sure Tom recognised that he really didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.“Well congratulations, but would you mind if I clarify, for the sake, at least, of Avery over there, who is not so well versed in philosophical ideas?”“Sure.”To give him credit, Tom kept up the pretence that it was all for Avery very well, he talked directly to him, and Avery seemed the glow in the attention. “Hedonism is, of course, the infamous philosophical doctrine that prioritises the pursuit of pleasure, and not only the pursuit. An act can only be considered morally good for us, if that act is pleasurable, likewise an act may only be considered bad for us when it results in pain. Understand?”Avery nodded, wide eyes never leaving Tom’s.“Good. Asceticism is perhaps the flip-side of that coin, though I’m sure at least one Rosier, if not both, would criticise that statement,” he said, his gaze already passing over to them. Rosier certainly looked ready to criticise it, but he seemed to realise that this was not the time; though such a realisation was probably better attributed to Druella digging her elbow into his ribs before he could interrupt. Tom smiled at her and continued, “Asceticism is where one lives abstaining from sensual pleasures. It requires considerable self-discipline and is typically practised for spiritual reasons, and can be linked to the ancient philosophical doctrine of Stoicism, which I will not get into now, though if you are interested, I’m sure we could talk about it later.”Harry didn’t care that the statement wasn’t addressed to him, nor that he was not remotely interested in Stoicism, if he got to hear Tom talk about it, listen to that gorgeously slow and measured way that he spoke, then he would be interested in anything and everything that Tom wanted to talk about.Tom somehow managed to drag his eyes off of the others and turned back to Harry. “So, Harry, returning to our conversation, that perhaps, as you are so fond of listening in, you would like to join.” He didn’t give Harry a chance to interject before continuing. “Care to answer this Harry, am I more of an Ascetic or more of a Hedonist?”Harry swallowed, trying to be as calm as Tom was. “Well, you’re not an ascetic,” he said, a little too proud that he got through the first sentence without stuttering. “You indulge yourself in other people too much.”He honestly wasn’t sure where that accusation was coming from, and apparently, neither was Tom, based on the curiosity that briefly fluttered across his features. Fortunately, a thought came to Harry, before he started to mumble about nothing. That simple lovely image of Tom and Druella on the stairs, Druella with her clever words, and Tom looking like he wanted to eat them. But Tom interrupted his thoughts before he could share them.“I indulge myself, do I? What a lovely way of putting it, care to elaborate?” he said with a combination of interest and boredom that only he was able to pull off so exquisitely. Leaning back in his chair, head to the side, looking both disinterested in the answer, but engaged in the method of reaching it.“Well, you feed off other people’s minds,” Harry continued, slightly more confident now. “You consume them, intellectually; strip them of their knowledge right down to the bone. ”“You make me sound cannibalistic, Harry.”The way Tom said such an abominable thing was hypnotic, chewing on the word, spreading it all over his tongue before he let it roll out his mouth. So much so that it became accusatory in words only. The tone Tom paired it with was far more satisfied, bordering almost on seductive, as though it entertained him to know that was what someone thought of him.“Is that your only reasoning?” he said, his tongue catching on the final word and making prickle run down Harry’s spine.“No,” he said, knowing perfectly well it was. His brain felt sluggish and useless as he stood there for just a tad too long, getting hotter and more uncomfortable as the twelve unceasing eyes continued to watch him.“Umm--You’re not religious, are you?” he said eventually, knowing it was grasping at straws. Fortunately, though Tom shook his head.“Well, you need devotion to be ascetic, and you have to have religion to have devotion, and… you’re not religious, so you have no devotion, and so no reason to be ascetic,” said Harry the words just falling out his mouth in a long, and hoped, coherent stream.“Interesting,” Tom said, turning his attention away from Harry and instead to his own fingers as they slid over the table before settling, only inch or two from Malfoy’s hand. “Assuming your argument is valid, why then, am I not a hedonist?”Harry swallowed again, all of them, apart from Tom, were still watching him, and he hot and awkward and it made his palms damp. He rubbed them inelegantly on his trousers. Wishing that they’d all look away and that only Tom would look at him. “Because pleasure means nothing to you either,” he said eventually.Tom turned to face him; a look Harry would like to interpret as genuine intrigue nestled between his usual coolness. “Go on.”“You-–you,” Harry stumbled, Tom was watching him now, really watching him. It was the same way that he had been looking at him in the cafeteria, dark and hungry to intellectually take him apart piece by piece, and just prove Harry right. “You don’t desire pleasure, nor do you seek to obtain it. It’s just something you…” Harry wasn’t entirely sure where he was going. But like before the memory, brief and fleeting of something Harry had seen as he’d walked to his tutorial on the seventh floor. The sight of someone he’d thought was Tom, standing on the stairway, smiling and offering quiet pleasantries in return for a polite favour. “Pleasure is just something you use to get what you want,” Harry found himself saying.Tom was silent for just long enough to make Harry nervous. Just long enough that he was starting to shuffle from foot to foot and wondering whether he could make it to the door and then never ever come back here again. Whether he would be able to avoid them like the plague, perhaps transfer to some distant university in Scotland and never have to look at their perfect faces ever again. Never having to face Tom again. He could, he definitely could, all it would take was--“I must say,” Tom began, interrupting his migration plans, “I am curious to know how you know all that about me. In fact, I would be tempted to say that you’re a stalker Harry, one with an – unhealthy level of interest in me.”“I’m not,” he said, perhaps a little too quickly.“Well that aside then, your reasoning was frankly amateurish, and much of it not remotely philosophical, rather I would say psychological; not to mention that I disagree with a lot of it.”Harry swallowed; his throat too tight, everything too tight, like he strung up ready to endure public humiliation.“But I like your ideas, I like what you see.” Tom licked his lip in a way that Harry thought was entirely inappropriate, “I like how intimately you dissect me,” said Tom smiling, “and I am somewhat intrigued to know what you’d think of me, if you really knew who I was.” There was a sinister edge to Tom’s voice that made him a little uncomfortable, but it was overridden by the intensity of his eyes, the slow steady pace of his words. His simply overwhelming perfection.“Could you answer me one more question, Harry?”Harry nodded, not trusting his voice to stay steady.“Why are you reading law? When you sound as though you’d be a lot more at home in psychology, perhaps?”“I want to make a difference,” he said, his eyes returning to the swirling patterns on the wooden floor.“Surely you could do that in any other degree, rather than subject yourself to such demands as the law requires,” said Tom, in a statement that Harry found vaguely offensive, but he wasn’t sure why.“Are you saying I’m stupid?”“Of course not,” said Tom in a way that faintly suggested he had been. Tom must have seen that he wasn’t convinced, “how about then, that you prove to me that you’re not.”“What?” said Harry, finding himself in rather the same position Avery had been, and suddenly having a lot more sympathy for him.“I’d like it if you’d sit with us tomorrow, would you like that?”Harry nodded with probably too much enthusiasm.“Excellent, we’ll see you tomorrow then, Harry,” said Tom in a way that seemed to dismiss him, like a schoolmaster dismissing an unruly pupil.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The window in the kitchen was banging loudly in the wind. Harry could hear it even from his room, a repetitive knocking like the slam of the door. Someone hadn’t put it on the latch when they’d last been in. He could deal with it, and he probably should, but that would mean getting up and starting the day, and that would mean having to meet them. Harry shut his eyes and listened to the banging of the window, though now, it had become more annoying and less sleep-inducing. He’d been half-awake for hours now, just lying and waiting, knowing he’d have to move soon, no matter how much he was regretting everything.He’d never been invited to meet anyone before, he was not the type to be invited to places, particularly not by beautiful, intelligent, wealthy people who were obviously so much better than he was. Where he had awkwardness, they had sophistication, he’d seen it, he’d spent far too long seeing it, so this was probably his comeuppance really. His punishment for looking at the things that weren’t his to look at. Harry knew as he was staring up at the blank ceiling, that he should have just stopped looking when the going was good, he’d seen plenty already, but he had to go ahead and ruin it by getting one more look, and now he was in this mess.He spent too long in the kitchen, opening cupboards much too slow, pouring his cereal even slower, standing with the fridge door open for much too long as he stared at the last bottle of milk he had left, before just shutting the door and sitting at the table with dry cereal, and the window still banging.It was cold in the kitchen, cold and unpleasant, but at least it wasn’t with them, at least here he could sit by himself. Here, he didn’t have to worry about what they were all thinking, what they would say to each other as soon as he was gone. He didn’t have to think of Tom, of the way he smiled, of the way he talked, the way he was so perfect in everything he did, but still had something hidden under his skin. Harry was sure he’d seen flickers of it in Tom’s smiles, in the way that he turned his head and the way that all the others, supported but never contradicted the things he said. Tom was simply special, and Harry wanted to be close enough that, maybe, some of that specialness would transfer to him. Maybe, if he was with them, he’d feel less – less of every negative thing he felt.But at the same time, he couldn’t shake the feeling of inadequacy that had embedded itself so deep in his bones. He was the mouse to their cats, the amateur to their prodigy, he was simply nothing to their everything, and why would they really want to have him around? He thought about it as he went to wash up his bowl, but as he reached the sink, the cheap porcelain slipped from his hand and into the sink, clattering and breaking into at least ten pieces too many to glue back together. It was the perfect ending to a terrible morning.As Harry walked towards the library, because he couldn’t sit in his silent room any longer, he knew he was dragging his heels. Taking much too much time to do anything, including spending far too long staring at the hazing view across the bridge; the sun invisible behind a wall of cloud. All he could see was the outline of a golden circle faintly glimmering. There was no one out on the bridge today, perhaps they could sense the rain coming, that or they all had conspired against him to increase his apocalyptic sense of unease. Either way, it was not a comfort.Harry shamefully took the longest route he needed, he turned the wrong way deliberately, down side-streets that led nowhere in the hope that maybe he would get permanently lost in London’s maze, and then he’d have a lovely excuse for never turning up at all. He felt like one of those intelligent mice used in the experiments the biology students talked about over lunch. The ones where the mouse was released through a maze, and if it found the way, it was rewarded, and if it did not, then punishment awaited it. He wondered whether meeting Tom again constituted as a reward or a punishment.He did briefly consider not turning up at all. But then again, he thought, stopping on a corner beneath a flower basket where all the flowers were dead; if he never turned up, he’d never get to see Tom’s face, nor would he get to hear their witty conversations that gave him the only joy in his life. Their lives had slowly become the reason for his own, and to deny himself them, was to deny himself of everything he knew he craved. Their perfection was stupefying, painfully so, and everyone said that they rarely spoke to anyone else, at least nothing more than the appropriate small talk to people of their own social strata. So this really was his only opportunity.He’d spent too long in his head. Harry knew that because as he looked around, he didn’t recognise anything. The buildings were not the usual ones he passed, they were not places of business, but rather, places of residence. Somehow, he’d stumbled into the residential quarter, the upper-class one at that. Large white houses, with tall windows and black rail fences. The sort that had twisted columns standing proud at their entrances, the sort that had flowers and grass and an overwhelming freshness that could only be achieved with money.In a strange way, they reminded Harry of them; of their tall pristine appearances, always elegant, always polished. Compared to them, he was just the paperboy’s shabby bicycle that rested against the fence at the far end. He couldn’t see the paperboy, and it was just him standing and staring and subconsciously dreaming of the tall white houses.
They all had numbers, brass numbers right in the centre of black doors. He was standing in front of number one, and though the street was long and punctuated by trees with dying leaves he supposed there must be about twelve or so houses on each side.He could have stayed there too long just watching the houses, waiting to see the sorts of people that lived in them, but that was a step too far even for his level of procrastination, so he turned around and walked back the way he came, trying to forget those houses that should have meant nothing, but seemed to symbolise so much. Harry shivered, he couldn’t help but be nervous, this was the most nerve-wracking thing he’d ever done. There was something so finite, so deliberate about this offer. It held unspoken conditions such as, if he failed to be as interesting as Tom thought he was, then he would lose this opportunity and everything that went with it. He had been standing outside the library for nearly an hour now, always deliberating, telling himself he’d go in when the clock struck the quarter of the hour, but every time it did, he thought of something else he needed to do, and then he’d sit a little longer on the cold stone bench, his feet tapping against the cobbles in nervous agitation.Since the previous day, the weather had altered, and now it was much too cold. There was also a thick spread of clouds all over the sky, dark charcoal clouds that threatened to spill everywhere at the slightest provocation. Harry kept glancing up at them, hoping for rain, hoping to get absolutely soaked and therefore having an excuse for turning up so horrendously late, or perhaps not turning up at all.But for all his deliberation, he didn’t leave. Instead, he sat in limbo, his heart beating twice-pace and a tremor that was nothing to do with the cold affecting his hand. Although it might just have been a brewing storm, there was a buzz in the air, a mild static like something was going to happen. Perhaps he read too much, had too many impossible dreams, but there almost felt like there was magic in the clouds and that it would infuse into him if he sat out here long enough.He was too romantic. The buzz was just the clouds, he knew because it started to rain. Just a faint smattering began to fall from the sky at first. Small droplets that became larger as the minutes passed until they were immense heavy things that splashed when they hit the ground. Harry stared up at the sky, feeling the cold water run down his face, perhaps taming his hair made wild by the wind, or perhaps merely sealing its fate as an unruly mess. He could hope for magic all he liked, but all he’d ever get was reality. When his face was half frozen and he could no longer feel his fingers, he went inside, no matter how much he didn’t want to.The library’s heating had evidently been on since the early morning, as stepping inside resembled wandering into a freshly stoked kitchen fire. The cloying heat close enough that it was practically suffocating like he had been pushed headfirst into a steaming pan of syrup and was now swallowing it in hope of oxygen. None could be found.Everyone he passed, through the cavernous rooms that constituted the underbelly of this library, stared at him, and then glanced at the window, apparently only just realising that there existed a world outside of their little bubble. At least the heat, however soul-sucking, allowed him to dry quicker, or at least, superficially dry. Underneath he was still soaked, walking in damp clothes and even damper skin, not that it was anyone’s fault but his own.Harry deliberated again, when he finally reached the door they always kept shut, trying to stop other people interrupting them, and lowering their perfect average. Though he couldn’t hear anything that anyone was saying, there was the noise of muffled conversation through the door. He could still leave. He didn’t. In a moment of bravery that he would probably never be able to replicate, he opened the door.Inside, all of them were seated, all apart from Lestrange who appeared to be absent. They were all in their usual places too, except for Avery who’d moved closer to Malfoy. All of them were doing something to entertain themselves: Rosier and Druella were sharing a book, Avery was leaning back with his eyes closed, tipping his chair back dangerously far, and Tom and Malfoy were talking quietly. Harry briefly wondered who he heard talking, but he could think on it for long because they all looked over, and most of them smiled. Actually, it was only Avery who didn’t.“Harry,” said Tom, sitting back from Malfoy, “we didn’t think you were going to make an appearance.”“Sorry,” he said awkwardly, still holding the door handle, “it was – err – the rain,” he said trying to justify himself despite knowing they all knew his lateness had nothing to do with the weather.“He means we thought you’d chickened out,” said Druella, her chin perfectly balanced on the back of her hand.He flushed. “As--as I said--umm--the rain.”“Yes, horrendous, isn’t it?” Druella continued, indulging his lie for a while longer, and out of politeness, they all turned to the open window at the other end of the room. Without conversation, the rain was loud as it bounced on the roof and smacked hard against the glass. There was a patch of wooden floor that looked decidedly damp stretching at least three feet from the window. But it did cool the room, removing the stickiness of the heat and replacing it with a far fresher feeling that actually allowed Harry to breathe.It was then that he realised he was the only one still staring at the window. The others had all turned back to face him and were now watching with a mixture of intrigue, politeness and disdain, though the latter sentiment was mostly coming from Avery.“Do take a seat,” said Tom never taking his eyes off him.“Where?” he said self-consciously, there were a couple of spare seats: one beside Malfoy, the one where Lestrange usually sat, and the one next to Rosier that Avery usually sat in.“Next to me,” said Rosier, pulling it out. He smiled as Harry approached in a way that was far more genuine than any of the others. “I’m the nice one,” he said continuing to smile. The others all rolled their eyes and let out a collective sigh.“You’re a crawler, Rosier, and you know it,” said Malfoy.“Gets me what I want though, doesn’t it?” he replied, Malfoy sighed again, but didn’t pursue the point.“Take whichever one you want, Harry, no one will be offended, will they?” Everyone shook their head innocently. Though, for ease, Harry took the one beside Rosier. “So,” said Tom, leaning forward just a little and paying him more attention than he usually received in an entire week, “what is the law to you?” That was not a question he was expecting, and Harry stumbled, apparently Tom was not one for small talk.“Riddle, you shouldn’t jump straight in like that,” said Rosier, “it’s a bit brutal.”“He can take it, can’t you, Harry?”

Harry found himself nodding, despite knowing already that he was entirely out of his depth. Tom continued to look at him, evidently, still waiting for an answer. “Umm – well – I suppose the law is – umm – the rules?”Tom smiled, not quite unkindly, but with the same mocking amusement as the day before. “No,” he said, lounging back in such a way that harry found it indecent to keep watching, and instead studied the wood of the table again.“Rather,” he continued, those nice fingers tapping against the wood of the table, “rather, I want to know what the law means to you. Is it freedom or control? Passion or reason? Deception or truth?”Harry found himself chewing on his lip like a schoolboy before he could stop himself, trying to think of an answer. He wasn’t good at spontaneous questioning, it was why he was so bad in lectures, tutorials and meetings and everything else. “Umm – Well I suppose it’s freedom and… reason and… truth?”“Was that a statement or a question?” Tom said, turning his head to the side and reminding Harry, intentionally or not, of the particularly insistent lecturers. The ones that demanded opinions, and hooked them from your mouth if they had to before smiling and dissecting it with immense pleasure in front of everyone. Tom looked like that, except with a little more warmth around the corners of his mouth.“Umm – A statement.”“Care to justify it?”Harry was tempted to refuse, but Tom’s gaze was intent and he didn’t want to refuse it, he just didn’t want to be told he was entirely wrong, like last time. “Umm-– ”“And would it be possible not to start every sentence with umm?”Harry flushed, “oh, um– sorry.”He stopped and took a breath, trying to focus on the blurred words that sat inside dormant inside his head, if he’d realised thinking would be involved, then he would have spent a little longer sitting in the kitchen listening to the banging of the window. “I – Well, the – the law is based on freedom, and built on reason, and enacted in truth,” he said, his fingers twisting awkwardly at the hem of his shirt. They were too hot, even in the cool, and were just sticky and uncomfortable. Harry knew he looked the complete opposite of the rest of them.“That’s hardly a justification, but still, do you really believe that those qualities are true?” said Tom, fingers no longer tapping, in fact, he was no longer moving at all, just leaning back, perfectly still, the height of sophistication.“Do tell me, Harry,” he said, making no attempt to move, “how are we free when we have laws that dictate what we may do? They restrict us, constrain us and assume that we are incapable of knowing right from wrong intuitively. They feel the need to educate us, whilst giving us no education. The law is simply the greatest form of control that we will ever know.”Harry sat still, blinking at him like a dumb thing. There was surely some truth in Tom’s statement, or he would not have said it, but at the same time, there felt something truly wrong in the words; something rare and improperly explored in how he flouted the very basis of society. It should not have been as intriguing as it was, and Tom seemed to see his interest because he continued.“How too is the law built on reason when, the very nature of law is so vague and indistinct, that there is an entire class of people dedicated to deciphering its intent? It is a passionate thing that people will fight to the death to create for themselves, and each and every one of us, dreams of being an omniscient lawmaker, do we not? And if our passions control us, then we as lawmakers must infuse the law with such passion.”The words slid from Tom’s mouth and surrounded Harry, practically visible before his eyes, heavy and important and deeply meaningful, even if he couldn’t understand why. Tom continued to smile, and it felt like the others were melting away, and it was just him and Tom sitting across the table staring and talking, like they were friends, even though they weren’t.“And Harry,” Tom said, so much quieter and more intimate than before, “how is law truthful when the very fabric of our existence is stitched together with lies? I do not know how truthful you are, nor you, me; we build ourselves on deception, usually for our own gain; we lie, and we cheat, and we manipulate. And if the system is built by us, and we are dishonest, then how can the law ever be the truth? It is merely formalised perspective, and one that is limited to a narrow, ungainly, view of life.”Harry swallowed, unsure what he was supposed to say in return, how he could compete with such articulacy. It sounded like Tom had been waited forever to have this conversation, and he would be disappointed when one half of it was missing. Fortunately, Tom took it upon himself to answer for him, “would you agree with that assessment?"“No,” Harry said instinctively, before pausing and reconsidering. For just a second that flicker that he had glimpsed yesterday was once again curling across Tom’s face, a strange mixture of intrigue and conspiracy, as though he was deliberately leading Harry astray, in hope of making him arrive at a conclusion that matched his own. “I think you’re wrong,” Harry said slowly, his heart beating like a wild bird against a cage. Just like yesterday, he had no real idea where he was going, and he sort of hoped that his brain was willing to engage, or it would all just be a mess, and an embarrassing one at that.“The law respects the rights of individuals, doesn’t it? It gives us considerable liberty to do as we wish, and what it prohibits us from doing is what morals would disincline us from anyway. You might be passionate in your life, and so might I, but the law is, universally, reason free from passion. There are not lawyers or judges or scholars that warp the law with passion, they are merely passionate for the law. And, the – the law is not deception. Perhaps, Tom…” He stopped, trying to decide if he’d imagined the way Tom flinched at his name. Tom only continued to watch him unmoving but intrigued all the same.“As I was saying, perhaps you are a deceptive person, perhaps you thrive on lying and – and cheating and manipulating, but that doesn’t alter the fact that our laws are above us. They are greater than what we are. And as such our own imperfections cannot be spread to them… you know?” The words all came out in a rush, without a pause for thought or breath. They were dreadful sentences, but Tom smiled at him anyway, a genuine smile, like he had been waiting for this exact moment for a while now.“That was awfully zealous, you would almost think I hit a nerve, did I, Harry?” he said with almost childlike glee.Harry stayed silent, and that only made Tom’s smile stretch further. “I think I did,” he said slowly and carefully, like a dangerous plant slowly unfurling the petals that would act as bait to draw in unlikely prey. “And I think I understand now, why you insist on reading the law.”Harry suddenly looked down again, staring at the wood of the table, he didn’t want to hear it, but at the same time he was curious as to what Tom thought he knew about him, “and why’s that?” he murmured.“Life has unkind to you, hasn’t it, Harry? And the law could not be wielded; it lay unenforced by corruption or carelessness. You do not want other people to be in your position, that’s how you want to help them, isn’t it? By being there when no one was there for you.”Silence did not look like it would satisfy the situation, however appropriate, it might have been, and so he nodded. “Perhaps,” he said, raising his eyes to Tom’s and hoping that it looked more determined than the fuzziness of self that he felt inside, cold and exposed like curtains covering an open window. He hoped that Tom could not see that he was right because then he might find Harry boring.“How coy,” said Tom, holding his eyes for at least five seconds too many before turning to the others, “though it is a shame that Lestrange is not with us to witness your eloquence, as he was the one to doubt it. But nonetheless, for all your linguist elegance, Harry, you are wrong, and perhaps you will come to see that if you stay with us for a while.” Tom turned back to him. “What the law what intended to be, and what it has become, are quite different things, somewhere along its tributary is has been poisoned, and now, what we consume so readily is not what we should be.”“You’re–-” Before Harry could finish, the door opened and Lestrange stalked into the room slamming the door hard behind him and making the books on the shelves nearby shake.He didn’t look at any of them before speaking. “If I have to so much as look at Alphard one more time this week, I swear I’ll fucking kill him,” snapped Lestrange, without so much as a hello first. They all looked at him, but no one said anything, perhaps Lestrange recognised the silence because he made a face that Harry didn’t know him well enough to interpret.“And good afternoon to you too,” said Tom, the sound of his voice seemed louder when it was interrupting the intense silence. “It’s a pleasure that you could finally bless us with your company,” he continued, though his tone suggested it was anything but a pleasure, and Lestrange should know that. “Now the pleasantries are out the way, do you care to, at least, give the semblance of civility, given that we have a guest?”Lestrange rolled his eyes and sighed and made a half-hearted sneer in Harry’s direction, “so fucking sorry for interrupting you,” he spat, reaching his usual chair beside Tom and slumping down into it.When Harry turned his eyes back towards Tom, he swallowed. What warmth had been left in Tom’s gaze had drained away, and now his eyes were now cold and empty and deeply unsettling. The others seemed to realise, all of them averting their eyes to stare at the books and the ceiling and the floor and anywhere other than Tom and Lestrange. Even Malfoy managed to divert his stare from Tom’s face to the spine of a book in the centre of the table, his eyes flicking back across the title repeatedly. Only Harry looked.“Must we have another conversation about etiquette, Lestrange?” said Tom, dangerously quietly, his fingers tapping against the table again, loud in the silence. Harry swallowed again, there was something different in Tom’s face now, something much darker than before, much more unnerving. Harry glanced between the two of them, Tom somehow maintaining a superficial detachment that certainly wasn’t as indifferent as he wanted to appear, and Lestrange openly seething, his jaw clenching, teeth practically grinding audibly together. For a moment Harry thought that an argument might erupt, like the first time he’s watched them, but once again, after a minute or so, Lestrange dropped his gaze.

“No. I apologise; it was an--inappropriate apology,” he said, still looking at the table. Tom smiled, “and what do you say to our guest?”Lestrange flicked his eyes momentarily at Tom, and when he got no reaction, he turned them towards Harry. “I apologise for the interruption, Potter,” he said with an expression that just teetered on a glare but never quite spilled over. Then his gaze was back on the wood, tracing the grooves with his eyes, and hoping that the others wouldn’t look. They didn’t. Whatever it was that they had just witnessed, they had all seen it before.All the way through the exchange, Malfoy had been leaning back in his chair, smirking a little too much, now he leaned forward. “What did Black do anyway?” he said, apparently trying to restart the conversation. His fingers also returned to Tom’s arm, still trailing lightly back and forth. Tom didn’t tell him to stop. And although Malfoy seemed to be playing the mediator between the two of them, he definitely looked like he was enjoying the disagreement far too much.Before Lestrange could answer, Rosier leaned over to Harry. “I suppose you don’t know Alphard, do you?” he said quietly. Harry shook his head, deciding it was probably better than lying.“Well, all you need to know is that he’s reading Politics and Economics, and Lestrange absolutely loathes him.” Harry nodded, though he probably could have guessed. The Blacks were another of those families that he’d heard of because everyone had heard of them, they were, according to the dotted conversations Harry had ‘accidentally’ overheard, rich, but not special; not like these six. They didn’t possess any particular beauty, nor any superior intelligence. Their entire merits came from their name and their money, neither of which apparently impressed anyone in the group.“He--” Lestrange paused looking for a word that described it correctly, “let's just say, it was insulting,” he said eventually, eyes still focussed too hard on the table.Tom laughed, “oh, poor you, will your ego survive, Lestrange?” he said, his tone crossing the delicate line into mocking. It should have been awful to hear, but Harry couldn’t help but swallow and lean a little closer, fingers edging over the wood in a way that caught Malfoy’s eye. But he didn’t care, Harry just wanted to hear every word, wanted, shamelessly, to be able to play it back over and over again in his head.He needed to lie on the edge of sleep and hear those words, that sardonic tone. He needed to see this side of Tom, like the mask he was wearing was coming undone at the sides, and for the briefest of moments, he was getting a glimpse of all the cruel things that lurked underneath. Was that that Tom meant when he said if you really knew who I was? That tone was not nice, and it should have been painful for Harry to hear, it should have made him want to turn away from these people forever. But, then again, these were the first people he’d truly met, and they were such lovely people, such glittery people and he couldn’t throw that all away, no matter what tone Tom chose to address his friends in. It was probably an inside joke that he didn’t understand. Harry chose to believe that, even when none of the others was laughing.Harry turned back towards Lestrange, who was looking up now, his features deepening into a glare, “he insulted you too, you know,” he said with no small amount of spite, the words flicking off his tongue like they were poisonous. Tom didn’t react, he only leaned his head to the side and smiled with an unnerving nonchalance, “did he now?”“Yes actually. He said--” Tom raised his hand and Lestrange stopped speaking. “I don’t care to know what he said just now, as you can see, Harry's here. We’ll talk about it later.”Lestrange chewed on his lip but said nothing, though the scowl did not leave his face.“So, Harry,” said Tom, turning back to him with a smile, “resuming our conversation--”“Oh, come on Riddle,” Druella interrupted, “if all you wanted to do was to pick his brains, and coax him into bed with your opinions, then you should have made a private appointment and not forced the rest of us to endure it.”Harry felt a flush spill like a waterfall from his cheeks down his neck, as though Druella had read and publicly shared his most private fleeting thoughts. He honestly thought that Tom might make another sharp comment a hair’s breadth from cruelty, something glimmering and gorgeous no matter how malicious it was, but he didn’t seem to care, he only smiled at Druella. “And why is that?” he said, all smooth and sleek.“Because,” she said, leaning forward, her elbows pressed uncomfortably into the wood, “I for one, do not care to know.”“You should always care for other people’s opinions,” he said, still smiling.“Not when they are on topics that do not concern me,” she replied, also smiling. The moment reminded Harry of the time of the stairs, those smiles and those looks, were the same as these. Clever repartee merging into teasing and balancing on the needlepoint of flirtatious; it made his stomach curl and twist, though he didn’t know why.“Surely the law concerns you? It concerns all of us,” said Tom.“Money makes men above the law, Riddle, you should remember that.”“And you aren't a man, Druella, you should remember that.”Suddenly, Rosier shut whatever book he had been reading with a slap and rolled his eyes at them, “let’s stop this now.”“Why?” said Tom, he’d obviously been enjoying the conversation, perhaps even at Rosier’s expense.“Because I wouldn’t have come here if I had known that you two were going to--get at each other's throats,” he said, glaring just enough to get his point across.“Aww, do you feel left out?” said Druella, her fingers scraping back along her brother’s arm in a way that would tickle for most people. Rosier just shook her away.“No, of course not. I just think there are better ways to spend our time.”“Such as?” said Tom, that gloating little smile back at the corners of his mouth.“Oh, I don’t know, Riddle, ask Avery, he’s barely said anything today.”Avery visibly swallowed, his empty head searching for something interesting to say. Although it was almost painful to watch, Harry had to feel a little sympathy for him. After all, he’d probably been worse earlier. “Are you observing All Saints’ Day this year?” he said eventually, just addressing the entire room.“Of course, we are,” said Druella, evidently slightly irritated she was no longer the centre of attention. Harry watched silently as she rolled up a piece of paper that had been in front of her before sliding it over to Malfoy, “hit him with that for me, would you?” she said, “I mean it’s an insensitive question, Avery, you know we’re not heathens; no offence Riddle.”“None taken,” he said, with a quick glance over to him that Harry didn’t miss.“So sorry,” Avery said, rubbing his arm melodramatically from where Malfoy had defiantly taken pleasure in hitting him with the paper. “What are you doing on All Hallows’ Eve then?”“Oh, don’t be so pretentious, Avery, just fucking call it, Halloween, like everyone else,” said Lestrange, though he recoiled a little when Tom glared at him, and mouthed something that looked like an apology. Avery also glared at him.“Well,” said Malfoy stringing out the single syllable, and once again stepping into that mediating role he filled so well, “we talked about meeting up at the Rosier’s.” Heads turned back towards Rosier and Druella. She had returned her fingers to her brother’s arm, almost mimicking Malfoy’s actions earlier.“We’re still fine with that, and even better our grandmother won’t be around; she thinks it brings horrible bad luck to travel on Allhallowtide, and she’s stuck in Aquitaine at the moment, visiting her sick sister or something, wasn’t it?”Rosier shrugged.“That settles it then, doesn’t it?” said Malfoy, looking around the room, “doesn’t it?” he repeated until there were visible nods of people agreeing. It honestly felt weird, but hardly unexpected, to watch people make a plan in front of him that didn’t include him. But he’d got his taste, and that was all he had wanted, at least, he tried to convince himself of that, despite knowing he’d live the rest of his life dreaming of what it could have been if he was more interesting.He was raised from his gloom by Tom, watching him. “You’ll come too, won’t you, Harry?” he said, with that signature smile, “I would be... disappointed if you couldn’t make it.” Harry nodded a little dumbly, his insides curling and twisting, and a slightly pathetic swell of hope rising, the thought of all those things he’d given up on, were perhaps coming into reach again, including Tom.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Harry seemed to be back in the same predicament that he was always in. He was standing in front of the mirror, staring at his clothes and wishing he was someone else. Or, rather, he was wishing that he was more like them; that he possessed their natural elegance, their sophistication, that he was sure had to be learnt, but still appeared to be so effortless, and he wanted, however selfish it was, their looks. For no matter how many times he brushed his hair, and pulled and tugged at his suit, it still didn’t look right on him.It looked like he had stolen someone else’s skin and now was trying to wear it as his own, and surely, they would see through such disguises. They would see that he did not belong as one of them, and never really would. No matter how good friends they became, there would still be that divide between them. The wealth, the looks, the family connections. He had none of them, and as far as he knew, he never would, and he wasn’t like Tom; he didn’t possess that charm or that charisma that would have salvaged him. He was simply ordinary, and no amount of staring in the mirror was ever going to change that.That didn’t stop him from repeatedly straightening his collar and tugging at his cuffs though. If anything, it made it worse, just knowing that everything about him screamed of mediocracy, even if he knew, somewhere in his brain, that he could not be merely mediocre because they did not hang around with things, they thought were beneath them.Harry sighed. Rosier had been the one to give him this frankly, too formal, dress code along with their address, which he said any good taxi should know, with such a casual smile that Harry hadn’t bothered mentioning that he couldn’t afford a taxi, as in his experience, that was just met with exasperation, sometimes even horror at the thought of poverty, and all its distasteful associations.The Rosiers always insisted, apparently, on formal evening wear, the sort that Harry had forgotten people still wore on a semi-regular basis. To him, it rather seemed like one of those things that had been lost to antiquity, left behind at the turn of the century, but it had only been abandoned by those who couldn’t afford it. Those who could, still revelled in the fanciful nature of it all: the glitz and the glamour of changing clothes several times a day just because they could.
Fortunately, he did have some reasonably acceptable clothes, merely because it had seemed like the sort of thing that he would be required to get at some point after studying law, after all, everyone said it was such a glamorous career. And though, he hadn’t yet been offered a glimpse of this prestige, Harry supposed it was somewhere under the drab surface of studying.For a minute he managed to stop fiddling and just stared. In his own eyes, he didn’t look too bad, though there was a certain cheapness about the clothes, the blacks not quite black, and the crinkles evident despite ironing, but it would have to do. Perhaps what was worse, was that his mind was constantly calling back faint visions that he’s had ever since they’d all arranged this. Shadowy figures on the corners of his vision that for some reason his brain felt the need to compare him to, even though the figures were simply incomparable. Harry knew without having to consider, that those figures were them, that much was obvious. They all looked so nice. The very thing that he so craved was so naturally woven into their skin, and more than that, for what they had, was not superficial. It went to the very core of who they were. Their skin was infused with class, the more revolutionary would perhaps have said elitism, and it went right down to their bones, filled to the brim with an organic refinement that had been growing inside them ever since they were born.But still, there was something under the surface that they had not yet shown him. Something off, like milk that had been left out and was just an hour from spoiling. He could practically taste it in the air around them, but if he had been asked to name what it was that he felt, he wouldn’t have been able to. It was just a feeling in his gut, that there was more to them than they let everybody see.He left too early, just so he could drag his heels on the ground, and be overly nervous for an event that he’d been so happy to be included in. But now that it was actually approaching, he couldn’t help but wonder whether it was all an elaborate joke for their own amusement. For all he knew, right now, they could be sitting on their fancy chairs, talking in their clipped accents, and laughing at his naivety, at him in general. At all the fanciful things that they must know had crossed his mind since they had deigned to include him in their lives. And the single, simple thought of Tom laughing at him was enough to almost make Harry turn back now, without so much as ever meeting them.But he didn’t do that, not because there was feeling deep in his stomach that his own mind was wrong and there was no way that they were laughing at him, but rather, because he did not allow himself to stop walking. Not on the corner to consider directions, nor on the bridge to observe the melding of the colours in the sky. Not for a moment did he allow himself to stop, because if he did, he knew that he would never start walking in the same direction again. Harry knew, or at least heavily suspected, that there was a very cowardly part of him that currently reigned over his emotions as a tyrant, and if he were to stop, he would be giving in to that part of him which would continue to hold him back forever. At least, that was what Harry would like to think was spurring him on as the sun began to set and stain the sky with a gold fire. Perhaps though, the more pressing reason was that he, once again, wanted to see Tom, wanted to see him, drink his image in, as though he were a drug, as sweet and addictive as Victorian cough syrup. It wasn’t just Tom either, though he was the most important, Harry would be lying if he said he didn’t find the others just as charming and lovely to listen and talk to, as real friends did.
So, he didn’t dare stop, even when he feared that he was about to make a wrong turn, he just continued and hoped that he would manage to find them eventually, even if he had to walk past midnight for that to become a reality.Although that felt unlikely, as the address that Rosier had given him sounded distinctly familiar, though Harry couldn’t quite remember why; he certainly doubted that he’d ever been anywhere close to it before, given he could hardly afford his own hovel, even with a scholarship. He was not in the habit of entering beautiful, expensive houses that they certainly lived in.But when he got to the street, he realised why the address had struck such a chord when it shouldn’t have. It was the same road as he had been stuck on before. The one with the parallel lines of white houses rising up like Ancient Greek columns, as gorgeous and powerful as their connotations. These were, as he had suspected, one of the homes of the wealthy beyond words. The ones to whom wealth had become an expectation and not a privilege, those who could find more and more frivolous ways to spend their money.
The old streetlamps were lit and cast a ghostly light in a circle around their base. Just a small, cold, patch of light that lovers could stand under as they parted from each other’s company with a kiss. But, despite the romance that Harry immediately thought of, as he stood under that light, he did not feel romantic, he only felt cold and rather empty. The light somehow shining on the missing space within him but being unable to fill it up. It made him painfully aware of the loneliness that had been eating into him, chewing on his heart until there was scarcely the core left.He stood there under the light in the darkened sky for a while, standing there and biting his lip and waiting. For what, he didn’t know, it just felt like a divine intervention was about to happen in some way, shape, or form. The sky that had failed to give him magic the other day, was now bristling again and filling the void inside him with anticipation once more. There was no telling how long he would have stood out there, just staring at the elegant façade of the house, the symmetry and the straight lines fixing everything in perfect order, if the door hadn’t opened, and a man that Harry didn’t recognise invited him in.The man did not take the liberty to introduce himself, but Harry suspected he might be part of the domestic service. He didn’t smile. All he did was, lead the way, encouraging Harry when he lingered too long. It was almost a surreal experience, walking in silence through such a pretty house. Every single light that they passed was blaring bright, casting gold out into the corridors and dark, dark shadows across the corners where no lights could fit. The result was almost blinding on the eyes, hurting like someone was pushing their thumb through his cornea, and it was made worse by the décor of the walls, pale cream and lined with mirrors that had gold frames. They were set in a repeating pattern that ached of a Romanesque simplicity that was only interrupted on occasion by pale doors, all of them shut. To Harry, there was something glorious in the high ceilings and perfect, smooth walls, and something delightful in the careful click that his shoes made on the pale wooden floor. He couldn’t help but think of the sort of high society that must walk along here, the sort that was defined in his mind by the sound of a woman’s heels tapping on the floor; for a moment he wondered if the novelty ever wore off, or whether Druella still smiled like a little girl as she walked every day down this masterpiece of a corridor, for that’s all it was, only a corridor.The doorman, or perhaps he was the butler, showed him to one of these doors, but before he could ask anything, the man had disappeared back down the corridor, apparently unwilling to interrupt whatever was going on inside the room. Harry wasn’t exactly surprised, they were intimidating at the best of times, and now they were operating on their own territory it was doubly daunting.Unlike the others, this door was open a crack, and Harry peeked through, unwilling to just march straight in. From what little he could see, the room was similar to the corridor, that was to say overly ornate in a simple sort of way. The walls were gold, though whether that was just because of the light, he couldn’t really tell, for, once again, there were more than enough lights turned on. Blocking most of his view though, was a sofa, he suspected it wasn’t the only one, and the two people on it. Between the shadows and the brightness, Harry could make out the profile of Tom, and Druella. They were sitting close. Too close perhaps; talking. If Harry held his breath, he could hear snatches of their conversation.“…Oh, come on Riddle, admit it, you like him,” said Druella, her hand coming into view as it stretched along the back of the sofa.“I am fascinated, that’s all,” was Tom’s reply.“You were fascinated by Mulciber too.”Tom seemed to smile and lean much closer. “I didn’t think we were mentioning him anymore, hmm?”“Well, I can’t help but make comparisons,” said Druella, not drawing away from him, but rather raising her chin and letting her eyes meet his.Tom leaned in again, raising his hand this time and smoothing back a strand of hair that had fallen out of place. “Maybe you shouldn’t,” he said, his voice dipping back into the same icy pool as it had when he’d addressed Lestrange’s manners.Harry pushed the door open. He wasn’t honestly why that moment had lent him courage, but it had, and there was no going back because the door creaked something horrible, and both Tom and Druella looked over at him. “Harry,” said Tom, dragging out every letter until Harry wished he was the only person who would ever say his name.“You found the address alright, then?” said Druella, sliding away from Tom, before standing up and stretching her arms out in front of her.“I guess so…” said Harry, feeling the words dying on his tongue as he stared at Druella. She looked gorgeous, well she always looked did, but now there was an extra sparkle about her. It was the dress; how it clung to her figure, showing off her shoulder blades and the delicate bones that made up her shoulders. Harry tried to blink to stop staring, but that didn’t work.Druella, herself only smiled and walked around the sofa, her dress swishing as she moved so that she almost appeared to be gliding as an angel would on earth. Just a being made of light and gold fashioned into a point. As she walked over, Druella raised her hand in the guise of tucking her hair behind her ear, and Harry found himself following her hand with his eyes. Watching as the fingers touched her scalp and how her nails clinked against her earrings, before dropping to the straps that came up behind her neck. She ran the very tips of her fingers over those strips of gold, just showing how the neckline dipped below her collarbone and formed a pretty triangle of pale skin.“My grandmother never lets me wear this, but my grandmother isn’t here, and you won’t tell her, will you, Potter?" Harry shook his head. Mesmerised by how the gold fabric glinted off her skin, almost like magic, drawing his eye subconsciously to the delicacy of her neck and the fragility of her every bone. “…No, I mean no, of course not,” he said, realising that both Tom and Druella were watching him with smiles he would have guessed were condescending. Though before she could make any sort of reply there was the loud sound of multiple approaching footsteps on the floors outside.“Oh, look at that Druella, you’ve got him flustered already,” said Malfoy, arriving through the same door as Harry had come through. He was smiling, and his arms were outstretched, in that friendly sort of way that came so naturally to extroverts, and thus so unnaturally to Harry.“She’s stunning, isn’t she?” Malfoy murmured, his mouth suddenly much too close to Harry’s ear, and his hand ghosting across his shoulder. When Harry didn’t reply, he laughed to himself, before sweeping past him with the confidence of the host instead of the guest he was supposed to be; the same hand skimming over Druella’s waist. “You look exquisite. Your grandmother just has no taste.”Druella's mouth curved into a smile again, and she raised her eyes to look directly at Malfoy. “Well she is seventy-four, what can you expect?”Malfoy looked like he was about to say something else, but a cough from Rosier distracted him. “I’m not touching, only complimenting,” said Malfoy, raising both his hands up for Rosier to see. “Such a protective brother you have.”“Faithful, I think is the word you’re looking for.”Malfoy raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest, instead, he just ambled away towards Tom, and Harry watched as that same, wandering hand, went straight to Tom’s shoulder, and, perhaps, more surprisingly, it was allowed to stay as Tom talked to him in a quiet voice that Harry couldn’t hear. He only realised he was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, not helping anyone and probably getting in the way when Druella gently touched his elbow. “You can sit down, Potter, anywhere you like. I should have offered you something as soon as you arrived but…” she drifted off as her gaze turned to the floor, “…but I guess I was distracted.”“What she means is that we didn’t mean to neglect you,” said Rosier briefly leaving Malfoy and Tom to join them, “please don’t think us rude hosts because, I promise you, we’re not; you just happened to come in at a bad time.” As if on cue Lestrange and Avery came through the door, each carrying bottles that Harry assumed were of wine or some similar alcohol that he had never heard the name of.When Rosier saw him watching, he smiled. “We didn’t intend to be gone so long, but Lestrange is very particular about his alcohol. Likes to think himself a connoisseur, and so we’re always required to agree with him,” he said, “though we’ll all support you if you choose to deprecate his choices.” Then he was gone, leaving Harry to nod dumbly as he bustled in on Lestrange and Avery and starting to bicker with them over whether to open champagne or red wine or white or all three. Harry swallowed and nervously took a seat as far from the commotion as he could, and although, he tried not to, he couldn’t help his eyes turning towards Tom, who was just watching the scene unfolding before him, apparently with amusement. He had returned to sitting on the sofa across from him, his arm resting lightly on the arm of the chair and the rest of his body still. Malfoy was no longer talking to him, but he was still nearby, his hand resting surreptitiously on Tom’s wrist while he loudly supported Lestrange’s bid for opening the Rosé. Tom did not offer his own suggestion. Rather as though, he was above all that petty disagreement, and the others must have understood for they didn’t bother referring to him.As all the others continued in their distraction, Tom’s own eyes wandered over and he smiled. Harry felt himself blushing, though there was no reason to, which just made it more embarrassing, but, fortunately, all the others were too busy to notice the flush spilling under his collar, or the way he dipped his head to avoid the intensity of Tom’s eyes. To avoid being swallowed up by feelings he was only just coming to understand but were doing their best to pick him up in their all-consuming storm. He liked the way Tom looked at him, as though he meant the world, he liked that Tom seemed to find him interesting and amusing and worth having around, it made a warmth swell in his stomach and the same fuzziness as the day before curl up through his lungs. When he looked back up, Tom’s eyes flicked away too fast, and he returned to watching the rest of his friends continue their bickering.Somehow the decision was made to open all three different bottles, and Rosier began pouring glasses without asking anyone what they wanted. Though none of them was protesting what they got, so Harry supposed they must always drink the same. That pink wine, the colour of new-spring blossom for Malfoy and Lestrange, champagne that fizzed for Rosier and Druella, a white, that had no distinguishing feature for Avery, and a dark, almost bloodlike red for Tom.Harry had never tried any wine before, and they all looked sort of pretty. Delicate, tasteful things that sophisticated people drank as they conversed, speaking of higher things than most mere mortals could ever comprehend. He was pulled from his fantasies by Rosier calling his name out.“Harry, what do you want to drink?”For a moment he sat there dumbly, wondering whether it would be appropriate for him to ask the difference and if he did, whether he’d even understand what the differences actually were. They all seemed to have their benefits; he liked the way the champagne fizzed, but the rosé, as everyone kept calling it, was such a pretty candyfloss pink, but the white was nice too, the colour of those pearl earrings the girl in his tutorial always wore, but then again, the red was gorgeous and vivid and looked so dark. He realised he had once again been silent for too long when everyone was watching him.“Umm – I’ll have…”“He’ll have the red,” said Tom from across the room as if it was the most natural thing in the world.Harry nodded dumbly, half-glad that someone else had made the decision for him, and the red did look so rich and velvety. Not to mention the way it refracted through the glass and accentuated Tom’s skin, somehow making pale seem alluring. Tom only smiled at him, once again making the whole world melt away until it was just the two of them bathed in the silky world of carmine that seemed to stain everything from Tom’s mouth to his eyes. It lasted just a moment, when Tom raised his glass, the liquid caught the light and glittered back, flooding Tom’s eyes with such a warm crimson that Harry’s thoughts just stopped, and his entire mind too was flooded with that gorgeous red.Tom looked away when Druella started talking; though Harry would have gladly ignored her forever if it meant he got to keep staring at those lovely eyes, he turned towards her out of politeness. “I do hope you’ll forgive us for not using our dear butler, Harry, we do love him to pieces, but sometimes you do want a little privacy, and humans, unfortunately, are curious creatures,” she said like she wasn’t one herself.“That’s – fine,” Harry mumbled in reply, all too unsure how he was supposed to be commenting on domestic staff that they would hardly consider to be people, but he himself was so close to. There was no denying that tonight they were all so much more relaxed then all their other meetings; tonight, was less of a performance, instead, it was merely a gathering of friends. Old friends, who chatted and laughed and sniped at one another, old friends, who had witticisms and anecdotes and jests that only they understood. Though Harry did not feel excluded per se, he did not understand many of their jokes or their criticisms that they seemed to have for one another, they had readily made a space for him at their table, and he was willingly sitting in it.With the relaxation had come an idleness, a languor that pervaded the air and hung in every corner of the room. It slid into all of them, infecting them with its particularly beautiful disease. They were all looser, lazy in a way that was utterly enviable.The tension that Lestrange usually held in his shoulders, had melted away and he was sitting carelessly on the piano stall, his arms stretched out across the lid, like he was an ancient creature with wings hidden under his skin on display in some museum. He was listening minimally to the conversation, only interrupting for the most important points, and for the rest of the time simple nodding and running his finger up and down the stem of his wine glass, taking long sips of that pale pink wine he was sharing with Malfoy.Harry let his eyes drift further. Rosier and Druella had lost the stiffness in their backs, the rigidity with which they apparently held themselves into those perfect moulds, were gone and they were free to share a seat too small for two people. Their arms touched, and their knees, and their thighs all tangled together until Harry could hardly tell one from the other. They were both swallowing their champagne as though it were water, and Rosier was talking about something Harry wasn’t really following,
For whatever reason, the coldness that had surrounded them in their first meeting had also dissipated, and in its place had bloomed a certain friendliness, even Avery smiled at him. His mouth being pulled by invisible strings, forcing him to pretend to be happy, even when he clearly wasn’t.Avery was curled up on his own at the other end of the sofa to Harry. He was closest to Lestrange but Lestrange wasn’t in a conversing mood apparently, and so he was doing as Harry was, watching the others with an ill-disguised interest. Unlike Harry though, he was readily swallowing down his glass of white wine that no one else appeared to want to touch. That only left Malfoy and Tom. They were sharing a sofa, Tom in the corner and Malfoy stretched out across the entire thing, his head in Tom’s lap. Tom appeared to be ignoring him for the most part, though every so often his hand would touch Malfoy’s hair, and Malfoy was stretch out that little bit further, rather like a cat having its chin stroked. “So, Potter,” said Malfoy interrupting the discussion on where the best location for a third home, Harry would have agreed with Rosier that Paris seemed quite nice, but then again, Druella seemed to make a compelling argument for India. Not that that stopped Malfoy, who’d put his glass down on the floor and was now looking over at him.
“What do think of the Great British Empir– ?”“Riddle,” said Druella and Rosier together, “stop interrogating him.”Tom had the audacity to look offended at them. “I think you’ll find Malfoy was the one asking the question,” he said, his hands still carding through Malfoy’s hair as though it wasn’t attached to the very person he was talking about. “I had nothing to do with it.”“Perhaps you didn’t ask it, but you put Malfoy up to it, didn’t you?” said Rosier, his eyebrow raised and look on his face that Harry would genuinely think was rather fraternal. That was nice, in a way, he’d never had anyone say anything for him before, even if, in this particular case he would have been quite happy to talk about anything at all if it meant he got to watch Tom uninhibited and have his voice solely directed at him.“I wouldn’t dream of it, Rosier,” said Tom, snapping Harry from his pleasant little fantasy.If it was possible Rosier raised his eyebrow higher, “oh, I think you would,” he said in that goading sort of way that Harry was starting to learn was Rosier’s speciality.
Tom, though, continued, unfazed by whatever tone Rosier chose to use to form his words.“Does that mean, you think that Malfoy couldn’t come up with that question on his own? Because that’s what it sounds like.”“He wouldn’t ask it at a party because he has common courtesy,” said Druella, wading somewhat unnecessarily into the argument, mostly, Harry suspected, because it was an argument, and she was drawn like a magnet to all arguments.“Then you insult him, Druella.”“And you flatter him.”“You do realise that I am right here,” said Malfoy, sitting up and glaring at both twins, though Harry noticed his head was angled just slightly more towards Rosier than Druella, but he supposed that was probably because Rosier was lower in the pecking order, and thus easier to insult without serious consequences.Tom continued to be apathetic on the sidelines, not glaring at anyone, if anything, he rather looked like he had enjoyed stirring the proverbial pot, causing a disagreement simply because it gave them something to do for fifteen minutes of their lives.“I am quite aware that you’re here,” said Tom, running his fingers down Malfoy’s neck, until he turned towards him, “that’s why I defended you; I wouldn’t have bothered if you hadn’t been present to hear them.”Rosier visibly rolled his eyes, and Harry found himself swallowing. There was something in Tom’s tone that was different, something much more intimate in the way he smiled at Malfoy like they had a secret and flaunted the fact constantly, winding the others up like toys, but never confirming their suspicions.“Oh, don’t make that face, Rosier,” Tom said, still not taking his eyes off Malfoy, “there’s nothing wrong with a little flattery now and then; is there, Harry?”Harry was caught off guard by the statement and found himself shaking his head, though he wasn’t sure if he was agreeing or disagreeing. Not that Tom seemed to particularly care which way his answer fell, simply that he had answered.“See? Not everyone is so averse to praising their friends.”Rosier made the sensible decision not to argue and sunk silently back into the chair, further entangling himself with his sister, and with him, the entire conversation dulled as lightbulb does when the filament is breaking. The boredom that took hold of them all, almost instantly, was quite palpable in the air, heavy like the wine on his tongue, Harry could almost taste its syrup balm as it coated his throat.“Well, this is dull,” said Avery in that condescending way, as though he had always suspected that this evening was going to be the most boring thing in the world, and that, like a petulant child, he was only here on the whims of other people.“What would you prefer to talk about, then?” said Lestrange suddenly, “Politics? Current Affairs? Gossip? If you’d actually suggest something instead of just whining about how dull this all is, then maybe something would happen,” he finished, as he leaned forward to top up his glass.When he leaned back again, he did not continue, but rather, just closed his eyes. Lestrange looked, in that moment, entirely exhausted; dark circles that he could see from across the room under his eyes, and a slowness in his movements that could not be solely attributed to relaxation. The probable cause was the first formative assignments were coming out for the third and fourth years. Harry had overhead others talking about them, about how long they were, and how unnecessary such a length truly was for what needed to be said about the problem. He had no idea if that problem in question was the same one that Lestrange had been battling with, but it might have explained his apparent apathy towards the entire evening and the willingness with which he drank his wine.“Anything,” said Avery, though Harry had practically forgotten that anyone else was here, given he was so caught up in Lestrange, and it was so easy to just get caught up in their faces, and their actions, and their everything.“Fine then, Avery, what was that book were you reading the other day?” said Druella with a loud sigh.Avery looked up at her, almost in surprise that any of them had actually decided that the silence was more irritating than talking to him. “What book?” he said ever so innocently.“The one I saw you with, in the library on Thursday. Do tell me about it.”“Why?”“Because I’m bored, and I want to know the disgusting things you read when you think no one’s looking.”Avery half smiled, half sneered, but didn’t deny her an answer. “It was ‘God’s little acre’; it’s good, but not your sort of thing.”“God’s little acre,” she repeated to herself, “that hardly sounds like your sort of thing either, being about God at all.”“It’s not about God.”“Oh, of course, it isn’t.”“Isn’t it that one that they consider to be obscene,” said Lestrange, from across the room. He had opened his eyes for the briefest moment to ask, and now was closing them again.Harry couldn’t help but watch him, leaning back so elegantly against the piano, some would have said draped, but that implied such elegance was intentional, which the action wasn’t, it was merely innate. The sort of thing that good breeding encouraged, and if Harry so glanced the other way, and looked at Tom, he could see the slightest differences in their beings. For whilst Tom might have possessed that same grace, his whole façade was just slightly tauter, stretched and ironed out to perfection. He had watched and imitated what he saw, and if he could do it, then Harry surely could as well.Harry could have stayed staring for longer, but the flutter of conversation drew him as it does a moth to a bare lightbulb. Druella was talking, and whenever Druella was talking, something interesting must be being said. “…Simply, all the best books in the world are obscene,” she was saying to no one in particular.“Even the Bible?” countered Avery, in a way that just so wanted to catch her without her wit.“Especially the Bible,” she replied with a smile that showed too much of her tongue, “it’s really rather filthy, as you’d know if you bothered to read it.” Harry swallowed for there was a bite to her words that made him uncomfortable, made him feel that there was bad blood between the two of them that somehow had stumbled back into the open again.“Is that what you do in your spare time, then, read biblical erotica? Because that’s not something I wanted to know about you, Druella,” said Avery with a disdain that was, quite frankly, unmistakable, and even made Lestrange open his eyes again.“It’s only sex, Avery, just because you’re not getting any, it doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be prudes.”Avery scoffed. “Oh, but you are such a good prude, Druella. You like to speak of obscenity whilst you practice that virginal innocence that your family so adores.”Harry had never seen someone’s expression turn to murderous as quickly as Druella’s did, but it fell as fast as a stone into a glare that could’ve rivalled Tom’s. “I respect my family name, and, my faith, Avery, but respect isn’t something that you understand, is it? And if we are speaking of our dualities, then perhaps we should consider your own; for the things you promised us, have certainly not materialised. Of course, a lot can be learnt from just talking about the obscene, and a certain appreciation for oneself is definitely developed.”Avery continued to smirk and leaned forward a little. “I just think that a woman, such as yourself, shouldn’t talk of what she doesn’t know, that’s all.”Druella did not lean forward, or make any movement at all, she just stayed perfectly still, her eyes set upon Avery’s. “Well, Avery, a woman, such as myself, learns that men cannot guarantee satisfaction, and as I said, I enjoy my own company, and you’ll find my fingers are far more satisfying than any man could be.”The room was silent for several, painful, seconds where no one moved, not even to take a drink. Harry knew he swallowed too loudly and that his eyes were darting between them as though this were a game of tennis, where the objective was one of insulting repartee.Avery opened his mouth again, but he didn’t get to say anything because Tom interrupted before the first word could leave. “I wouldn’t feel the need to speak again, if I were you, Avery.”“Well, thankfully, this isn’t your conversation, Riddle.”Tom didn’t smile, nor did he glare. The only discernible emotion that Harry could possibly find on his face was one of profound disappointment. “Care to step outside?”“I didn’t mean it,” said Avery suddenly, the same poignant awareness of the sudden gravity of the situation as Lestrange had had in the library. It was moments like this that just suggested there was something more hanging between them, just too high up for Harry to see.“Didn’t you, Avery?” said Tom, pushing Malfoy gently until he moved, “Because it seemed like you meant something, but if you’d just step outside, I’m sure we can form a better understanding of what that was, hmm?” Avery visibly swallowed, and for a second Harry thought that he might challenge Tom, but then whatever fearlessness had grown, died with just as much vigour, and Avery dutifully got up. Tom followed him out the door.For a moment the rest of them sat in silence, just watching each other. “Avery never does know when to shut his mouth,” said Lestrange casually.

“Well, he’d better learn,” said Druella, as she got up to pour herself another glass of champagne, before swallowing it down in one gulp, and repeating the action.

“Oh, I think he will, you know what Riddle’s like.”

Harry couldn’t help but notice how Malfoy’s eyes flicked over to him, just for a second, before he lay back again, apparently finding intense interest in the ceiling. Lestrange also took the opportunity to move off of the piano stall that must have been quite uncomfortable by now, slipping onto the sofa between Harry and where Avery was sitting. He smiled lazily when Harry looked over at him and spread himself further into Avery’s side, but he didn’t bother saying anything, after all, what was there to be said when such an elephant continued to loom in the room.

As the silence rolled on, Harry took another small sip of his wine. It wasn’t bad as such, just intensely different from anything he’d ever had before; fuller and richer in a way he couldn’t quite explain. The edge of bitterness on his tongue that should have been disgusting but somehow improved the overall experience. It certainly wasn’t awful, and if it made him look even half as sophisticated as he felt then surely it must be worth the very slight woolliness that was creeping into his vision, rather like someone had just covered everything inside his head with a thin layer of cotton wool and it made it harder for his thoughts to move around. But none of the others seemed to notice so Harry supposed the feeling must have all been in his head. It was a good fifteen minutes of silence and sipping before Tom followed by a significantly more subdued looking Avery came back into the room. He didn’t say anything only wandered back to his seat, glaring at Lestrange for taking his cushion and sat down.“Anything to say, Avery?”Avery obviously swallowed down a glare that could have killed Tom if it were allowed to gain full strength. “I would like to apologise, Druella.”“What for?”They could all but hear Avery grinding his teeth together, and Harry followed how he glanced again at Tom, who continued to sit still, Malfoy faithfully back in his lap, and running his fingertips over Tom’s hands. He was watching Avery, and if Harry wasn’t mistaken, there was a threat of sorts in his eyes. A dark, almost violent, thing that made silent and deeply unpleasant promises if Avery didn’t go through with this. “For everything that I’ve said to you this evening. It was immature of me to have insulted you in such a way in your own home.”“Doesn’t that imply you’d gladly insult me anywhere else?” shot back Druella, not even bothering to disguise the venom in her voice.“Actually, I would very happily-–” Avery stopped mid-sentence when Tom coughed, “what I mean is that it was wrong to insult you, and I am ashamed that I did so, and I apologise for it.”“What about my sex?”“Excuse me?”“I’d like an apology for all the women that you chose to insult with your rather crude statement,” Druella said, crossing her legs and arms in synchrony, her own hard stare akin to Tom’s settled on her features.If it were possible Avery’s glare deepened further, but he managed to force a smile. “I wholeheartedly apologise for everything that I said which insulted yourself, and every other woman to have preceded or succeeded you.”Druella nodded, “thank you, Avery. Just try to keep your mouth shut in the first place, next time.”The conversations continued to drift on a barely chartered path, though now it was limited to just Lestrange, Rosier and Druella. Avery was listening but paying more attention to his glass and not making an attempt to contribute, and Tom and Malfoy seemed to be involved in their own personal conversation. Harry watched them, as subtly as he could, which probably wasn’t as subtle as he’d like to think it was. From this angle, he was finally able to appreciate just how much Malfoy touched Tom. He’d always noticed before how close their hands were, or how they lingered together for far longer than necessary, but he’d never ben able to fully appreciate just what it looked like, and just how little the others seemed to care.Tom had his fingers buried in Malfoy’s hair and was stroking it lightly, watching as Malfoy arched his neck a little more and leaned into his touch. Every so often, Tom’s fingers would trace a single strand of his hair all the way down to his ribs, and then trail back up again with what must have been an excruciating slowness. In those moments, Malfoy never took his eyes off of Tom. Instead, he lay, perfectly motionless as Tom’s hands wandered, and all the others talked about whatever new performance was on at the Royal Ballet this month.Tom’s hands were quite fascinating really; both so deliberate as they scraped the edge of Malfoy’s neck, and at the same time, almost absent-minded, how someone might stroke a pet if it laid down beside them. Harry shouldn’t have wanted to be in his place, he shouldn’t have wanted to be the one lying beside Tom with his hands in his hair, but he did. He did very much want that, and maybe a little more.That empty space that had been so illuminated by the lights outside, was nigh on aching with want for human touch, and for more than that, for the touch of one specific person. He had never wanted someone else more than now, as he watched how Malfoy encouraged Tom’s fingers to curl into the space where his neck met his shoulder, and how he practically purred when those fingers slid into the gully of his collarbone, stroking back and forth ever so slowly.Harry watched in silent disbelief as the fingertips disappeared and reappeared from view as Tom peeled back Malfoy’s shirt and continued to trace his bones. Never before had Harry seen two people so brazen with their affection in front of others before, for whenever he accidentally stumbled in on the couples in classrooms, said classrooms and lecture theatres and hallways were always silent and empty, those people didn’t want to be seen and much less caught. Here and now though, was a very different matter. Here and now, they didn’t seem to care if the others noticed how intimate Tom’s hands were getting. One still pressed into Malfoy’s hair, the other running light fingers over the very top of his thigh, only stopping when Malfoy closed his eyes and started to chew on his lip, rather like Harry was doing now.That thought opened up a whole different alley, and suddenly the only thought in Harry’s mind was of him lying there feeling Tom’s fingers against his skin. He’d never had someone else touch him before, let alone like that. The closest he’d ever got before was his own hand, numb from being trapped under his pillow, pressed into his thigh, but that didn’t look like it felt the same; it wasn’t as careful as Tom’s, or as gentle, or as personal.The others continued that apathy to Tom’s actions even as Tom leaned down so that his hair fell forward and his lips could quite have easily touched Malfoy’s cheek, and murmured something; his mouth entirely too close to Malfoy’s skin. Harry could see how Malfoy’s throat rose and fell as he swallowed, but he didn’t make any move to push Tom away, if anything, it looked like he leaned in even closer, mumbling something back to him that Tom seemed to like. A few minutes later Malfoy got up, and mumbling something about a glass of water, he left the room, though not before he’d grabbed the bottle of red wine on his way out. The only two to even notice his leaving were Rosier, who just rolled his eyes and continued debating with Lestrange the intricacies of wine pairings, and Avery, who also rolled his eyes in an entirely different way and muttered something that only Tom seemed to catch.Whatever it was made Tom glare at Avery, and a little while later when Tom left the room, he caught Avery’s arm on his way out and made him spill his drink onto the floor. Tom didn’t apologise for that, and Avery didn’t ask him to, they just glanced at each other for a moment before Avery was grabbing a napkin from the table and dropped it to soak up the pale liquid before it seeped into the carpet, whilst Tom just smirking from the doorway. And still, no one questioned the interaction or Tom’s leaving, nor did they bother to ask where he was going. Harry was starting to think that they simply didn’t care enough to ask.Harry could have done, and perhaps he should have done, but somehow it didn’t feel like his place to do so. It didn’t feel like it was his place to question the actions or the motivations of any of them, so he just stayed in his corner of the sofa, taking small sips of his wine, and feeling the world start to go a little fuzzy at the edges.
In that half-daze that came between the door closing and Harry turning back to the other’s conversation, Harry would have sworn he saw Tom’s smile in the crack and he blushed at what was probably just his imagination, but just might have been something more.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Malfoy and Tom had been gone for a long time now. Far longer than it was surely necessary to get a glass of water, no matter where they were getting it from, and still none of the others seemed to care. They continued to lie there and talk, their conversations sliding over one another, melting like candlewax into each other until Harry’s head hurt. The clock seemed to have sped up too, and it chimed again too soon, that long low sound resonating across the room, and still none of the others seemed to care. Only Avery glanced at the mantlepiece as he reached for his glass again, tipping his head back to drain it, throat moving softly as he swallowed.Conversations resumed; a murmuring of voices that were barely there, just shadows dancing on the walls, folding in on themselves and starting anew over and over again. “Where’s Tom?” Harry heard himself saying, though the words themselves were sticky and distant as if someone else were speaking them.“With Malfoy, obviously,” said Lestrange, leaning his head back on the edge of the sofa, and stretching out like a cat.“Yeah, I bet they’re having a lot of…” Druella paused and smiled, in a lazy and knowing way, “…fun,” she finished, somehow entangling herself further into her brother, until it was almost impossible to divide the two of them, as though they were conjoined at the heart. “But who can blame him,” she continued, “Malfoy’s awfully entertaining when he’s out of it.”“Still remember what he did to Mulciber?” Lestrange said, “that was a work of art.” He continued to smile and Rosier and Druella sniggered with him in some private joke. Avery still didn’t say anything, he just poured himself another drink and stared at the ceiling.“Who’s Mulciber?” said Harry, looking between them. He knew he’d been too quiet this evening, sure, he’d discussed the benefits of a university education, and those policies to help the less fortunate access such an education that Rosier said were frankly overrated. But he hadn’t really said much, and Harry wasn’t aware of any Mulcibers that they all associated with, or even at the university. There certainly weren’t any wings, or libraries, or other important buildings, named after them. But none of the others were reacting, they were just staring at the walls and at each other like they were sharing memories simply through sight. Lestrange, for his part, just continued to smile.“He’s a nobody,” he said lazily, dragging out the syllables until they were ringing through Harry’s head. A nobody. That was what he was one step away from, and if they so choose, he could once again be relegated down to 'nobody' status, and then he really would have nothing.Harry was only interrupted from his thoughts, and the others from their conversation by a slight noise at the door. “Oh, would someone go and open that,” said Rosier, clearly unwilling to move, himself. Harry was going to get up, but Lestrange beat him to it. He clambered unsteadily to his feet but walked to the door with the ease of someone who knows the furniture’s positioning well.He only opened the door a crack, and Harry strained to see what possibly could warrant it. Perhaps the strange butler-servant, or Tom and Malfoy, or… something hazy that his mind couldn’t quite focus on. His questions, though, were quickly answered with a small meow, as an impossibly fluffy cat trotted around the sofa and towards Druella and Rosier; the latter of whom cooed instinctively. Avery merely rolled his eyes, but still stroked its fur as it went past. It was a pretty cat, though Harry would hardly have expected anything less. A pedigree, most certainly, but what type he was at loss to answer, and unwilling to ask; all he could appreciate was that it was very fluffy. Long white hair that darkened around its face and paws, and big blue eyes that were more intelligent than a mere cat deserved to be.It wandered, slowly, and not particularly purposefully towards Rosier, before jumping up onto his lap, somehow managing to land between the limbs as gracefully as any bird. Rosier immediately started stroking and fussing over it, clicking with his tongue whilst his sister looked on in apathy. Eventually, Rosier turned his eyes upward and smiled across to Harry. “Potter, meet Aloysius; Aloysius meet Potter,” he said, holding it up in a way that didn’t look entirely comfortable, but nor seemed to annoy the cat. It just hung there, good-naturedly, the only sign of annoyance being a mild flicking of its tail.He wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do, whether Rosier was looking for a wave, or a formal introduction, or a smile, and no one seemed to give any indication, so he just sort of nodded. But that was enough to satisfy Rosier as he let the cat fall to the ground; it landed heavily on the wood. Aloysius shook himself and continued his meandering to the other sofa that had stayed painfully empty without Tom or Malfoy to fill it. Lestrange, meanwhile, had sat back down on the piano stall, instead of walking in the way of the cat, and now Avery had done his best to imply he wasn’t welcome back onto the sofa, by stretching his legs out until they almost touched Harry. Someone, though Harry couldn’t really remember who, or when, had opened the lid of the piano and now the keys were all exposed. And Lestrange looked entirely ready to tinker with them, run his fingers all the way down, and then, back up again, but before he could, Druella eyed him and spoke.“I don’t like someone so not-musically inclined that close to the piano,” she said, as her fingers mimicked how one might play the keys, but against her brother’s thigh.“Fuck off,” said Lestrange, though, despite the fact it was technically a protest, he didn’t bother trying to defend himself, so there was probably some truth in the statement.Rosier leaned towards Harry but didn’t bother getting up. “You know, despite lessons for all his life, he can’t play for love nor money, nor even for his life I imagine, and frankly, it’s awful to hear him try.”“Godawful,” offered Avery, though it was shot down with a glare from Druella. “I was only agreeing with your brother,” Avery snapped, “and so with you; we all know that even I play better, and I’ve only just started learning,” he continued, apparently undeterred in his bitterness, now that Tom was out of the room.“Do you play, Harry?” said Rosier, a little too obviously trying to steer the conversation away from an argument.“A little,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie, at school it had been mandatory, and then he’d always watched when someone had played the piano at home, in silence, of course, but still he’d watched, and could probably still play the barest nursery rhyme.“You’ll have to play for me one day; I get everyone to,” said Druella, her fingers still tapping out a rhythm. “I prefer people who have musical talent, it makes them more interesting.”“Well thanks,” came Lestrange’s sarcastic reply from the piano stall, though he had got up and now went to join Aloysius on the empty sofa.“You know, whilst I might not have wanted you to play, that doesn't mean I wanted silence,” said Druella again, now turning her head to the side, her neck curved slightly, and addressing as the room at large. It was as though she said it at the perfect time to have been labelled as perverse, and they all probably would have done if they didn’t like her so much. Or rather, Harry suspected, if Tom didn’t like her so much.“Well, what else do you propose?” Avery said with a sigh that suggested he really didn’t care for the answer anymore, only that it came without him having to interact with Druella.“Oh, just put on the Requiem or something, I don’t want to think tonight; I do that every day.”“Which one?” said Lestrange, already getting up again.“Mozart, you cretin. Honestly, it’s embarrassing how little you know about good music.” Harry found himself smiling at the exchange, at the sheer domesticity of it all; how these people that were so revered and respected by their peers for their maturity and dignity, and yet here they all were smiling squabbling over something as simple as background music.As the music played, almost echoing around the room, and the murmur of conversation fell and swelled with the notes, the images of the world began to slide together. Rosier blurred into his sister, one creature made with four arms and four legs, hands seeming to rest where hands didn’t belong and a smile that just seemed too wide to be real. Avery was melting too, vanishing into the background, dissolving like seafoam into the sofa. His hair merging with the fabric and lacing itself into the edges, until Harry couldn’t see the difference without shaking his head and blinking several times.He turned his head to the side and watched Lestrange, but even he was starting to blur at the edge, his image distorting before Harry’s eyes. The shadows all too dark and the highlights too bright and everything covered with a fine haze that just smudged reality. Watching Lestrange with his head back against the sofa, was like watching Tom when he smiled in that special way. Like this, they did look rather alike, with the same shade of hair and skin. But if Harry were to move closer, he would be reminded of the distinctions between them. What they shared, was merely a superficial resemblance, like the one between himself and Tom. Perhaps it was the mere presence of dark hair and pale skin that got him thinking of Tom, because the more he stared at Lestrange, the less he looked at all like Tom. His cheekbones weren’t so defined, and his eyes were more colourful than Tom’s, and his face had a dusting of freckles across the nose. He was plainer, simpler, perhaps even cruder; a version that was by no means ugly, but also not quite perfection. He didn’t really look like Tom at all.It was past eleven when everything truly started to blur into everything else; the colours and the shapes of the room sloshing and sliding around like they were caught on a boat in a storm. And then there was the heat. Harry could practically see it from the fire across the room, rising up and flooding the air with a great noxious warmth, it was cleaving and coalescing with the heat from the radiators until the whole room was so steeped in a cloying syrup that he felt sick.None of the others did. They just talked, their words all sliding together into an undecipherable mess; half-formed sentences colliding with half-formed ideas, all hazed at the edges, all too thick and meaningless to see through. Just the rich words of rich people who had no real ideas of their own. And it was too hot.Too hot to think, too hot to talk, too hot to do anything but sit here and sip his drink that someone had refilled without him asking, or even noticing. But Harry didn’t want to drink anymore, he wanted a glass of water, more than a glass, he wanted to just lie in a bath filled with cold water and ice. He’d almost be willing to drown if the water that killed him was cool and clear. Perhaps Malfoy had had the right idea about getting a glass of water, even if it took him way too long to go and get it.And still none of the others seemed to worry, nor even notice that he was burning up, melting like a taper from the inside out, his insides dissolving and his skin practically dripping off his bones. Without having to check, Harry knew his hair must be damp, as so were his palms and his neck, and his lungs had to work so much harder just to push the oxygen around his blood, and yet his head continued to ache from the lack of air.Without saying anything Harry stood up and stumbled out of the room. None of the others said anything, none of them tried to stop him or even help him. They just watched in their silent apathy.Though as soon as he was in the corridor, gulping at the cool oxygen that was so different from their sticky air, he thought he heard Druella’s voice.“Why did you mention, Mulciber?” she said, the clip in her voice sounding… clipped, perhaps even a little nervous.Lestrange sighed, “just a slip of the tongue; it’s been less than six months, I can’t just–-”“Yes, you can,” she cut in, “what's done is done, now we just live with it…” She said more, so did the others, but Harry didn’t hear them, he was too busy stumbling down the corridor, feeling the floor slide beneath his feet, and the walls swaying, undulating as though they were made of jelly.How he managed to find a bathroom was a miracle. He’d just tried every door until he’d fallen against black and white tiles and been tempted to stay lying there forever. The floor was so cold, so hard and so, so real; compared to the softness he’d just come from, the feeling of permanently floating up in the sky, hot under the sun, the tangibility of it all was refreshing. Here was something he could touch, hold, wrap his fingers around and understand.Slowly though, he got to his feet because, no matter how pleasant it was, lying on someone else’s bathroom floor wasn’t particularly good manners, and if they found him, he couldn’t imagine they’d invite him back, and even if they did, he doubted the mortification of it would actually allow him to return. Instead, he gripped the sink and watched his reflection sway; his hair was merging with his eyes and his mouth slipping to the left. He felt nauseous. Both crammed full and desperately hollow and he didn’t know why. There was just a feeling he couldn’t quite identify pulling all the wires in his stomach, plucking on him like he was an instrument, just plucking and plucking until he feared that his strings would snap.He splashed his face with cold water. It was like dipping himself into nirvana, an oasis in the desert he hardly knew he was wandering through. He did it again. And again. And again. Not caring if the tips of his hair got wet, not caring if the water ran down his sleeves and tickled the length of his arm. All that mattered was that he was cool. Before his eyes, the fog began to lift and the haze started to clarify again, whatever had been blocking his lungs became dislodged and he could breathe, breathe in the cool air and swallow down cold water.Despite the newfound sobriety of the moment, it was still a good few minutes before Harry straightened up. There was still an ache in his head, and a heaviness to his limbs, but at least the world wasn’t spinning anymore; at least he could think. The bathroom was entirely too big, too empty, the space between the sink and the bath felt like it was miles long, his entire life could fit into this bathroom and he’d still have room to spare. It was impressive but also unnerving, how could people even be this rich? Just thinking about it was sickening and gorgeous, and as much as Harry wanted to deny it, he wanted the things they had, who wouldn’t? He was going to go back to the others, but he went the wrong way. Or at least, he assumed it must have been the wrong because there was nothing he recognised; just more pristine doors and high ceilings and mirrors that seemed to give more and more distorted reflections. To make it all worse, the entire house was submerged in a murkiness. All the lights that had practically blinded him when he had first arrived had now been turned off and Harry found himself hopelessly feeling along each wall, probably leaving fingerprints across their perfect mirrors, just so he could try every door.He was about to give up entirely when he noticed a sharp strip of light much further along, it didn’t feel quite the right colour as the gold of the room he’d come from. This was dimmer, darker. But it didn’t matter if it wasn’t them, it just had to be someone, even if it was just their silent butler, he’d be able to tell him how he was supposed to get back to them.Harry went to the door, it was ajar slightly, enough that he could look in. It appeared to be yet another unnecessary sitting room, filled with such high ceilings and such dazzling lights; the only difference was that here the furniture was darker. It was filled with hard, almost black woods and red fabric, and far more mirrors than were humanly necessary, practically one on every wall. It was rather more intimidating than inviting.The room was empty aside for Tom and Malfoy, who were sitting on the sofa with their backs to him, feet up on a low table, drinks precariously close to the edge. Tom’s jacket was folded on the arm of the chair, Malfoy's was flung carelessly across the seat. Harry could see them reflected back at him in the mirror on the opposite wall, and a mirror couldn’t lie.They were sitting unusually close, looking too comfortable together. Their shoulders touching, their fingers too; they were talking quietly, faces ever so near each other.“…She’s right you know, you do have a--thing for people like you,” Malfoy was saying, just loud for him to hear, as he leaned further back into the chair. His shirt was undone a few too many buttons, and his hair was no longer tied back, and now fell about his face; elegantly bedraggled.“Excuse me?” said Tom, his tone all soft, and as sweet as dessert wine.“You have a thing for people like you,” Malfoy repeated. “Mulciber, Avery, Potter, even Warren by Lestrange’s account. All little lost lambs that need you.”Tom smiled. “What does that make you then?” he said, with a tone, Harry would almost think was smug.Malfoy frowned and shifted once more, turning to the side. “I’m… the exception. All the others--they fit your…” Malfoy paused, searching his mouth for the right words, “…taxonomy,” he said eventually. “They’re isolated, directionless--they want something.”“They want me,” interrupted Tom.“Yes… but–-”“Is it a problem?” said Tom, and Harry couldn’t help but notice the way that his fingers just touched Malfoy thigh as he said the words, lingering for a second too long, and then another second, and another.“No. I was merely making a comment.”“Well, it sounded more like you were passing judgement,” Tom murmured, his fingers starting to wander a little higher, “that you were practically criticising me.”“Would I dare?” said Malfoy, leaning obscenely close, his own fingers resting on a cushion right by Tom’s arm. He looked, for a moment, like he was going to kiss Tom, but before he could, Tom shifted away.“Absolutely,” Tom said, stretching his legs out and bumping them against Malfoy’s. Malfoy smiled and knocked Tom’s legs back, his hand moving over and actually resting on Tom’s thigh. Harry swallowed and blinked a couple of times, but every time he opened his eyes again Malfoy’s hand was still there, his fingers rubbing small circles that would have made most people absolutely squirm. “You do know,” Malfoy murmured, “I’ve known you for a long time now.”“Three years is hardly long.”“It feels a long time to me,” Malfoy said airily, as though there were memories playing like a film inside his head, even though his hand continued sliding up Tom’s thigh in a way that just couldn’t be absent-minded.Tom just laughed. It was a light airy thing that made Harry’s stomach twirl. “You’re adorably sentimental,” he said.Malfoy lifted his hand and hit Tom playfully in the stomach. “You’ll be too--when you find someone,” he said, and Harry would have had to be truly unobservant not to notice the downturn in Malfoy's expression when he said that.

Tom only sighed. “Perhaps; perhaps not.”

“It could be him. I see the way you watch him. I see how much you want to get to know him.”

“You have too many opinions,” said Tom dropping his head onto the back of the sofa, before turning it to face Malfoy.“You like my opinions,” Malfoy mumbled, leaning over and pressing his mouth to Tom’s. A heat curled down Harry’s spine and hooked itself inside his stomach as he slowly realised what he was seeing, but still not quite believing it. He’d never seen two boys kiss before. He’d imagined it, oh he had imagined what it would look like a thousand times, but this had never come to mind. Something so soft and sweet and natural. The gorgeously gentle way that Tom’s hand came up to hold Malfoy’s cheek and pull him just that little bit closer.Harry had to wonder briefly if they realised what they were doing: if they were fully conscious of who each other were, or rather what each other were. Malfoy’s face was certainly a little flushed, the pink stain so obvious against his pale skin, and even from this distance, it was clear his eyes were dim, and every action was just a little sloppier than usual. Harry would believe Malfoy if he said he didn’t know what he was doing, but he wouldn’t believe Tom. He still looked as composed as always, still precise and serene, perhaps a little more relaxed than usual, but still calm and collected and completely in control. He knew exactly whose mouth he was kissing, and he didn’t seem to care.“I suppose, he’s pleasant enough,” continued Tom, making no attempt to divorce himself from Malfoy’s mouth.Malfoy shifted again, his whole body turning now. “Just pleasant?” he mumbled, the words blurring into Tom’s lips, “how – underwhelming. By the way you were staring… I thought he’d made – more of an impression on you?”Malfoy’s thighs were spread across Tom’s lap now and they were still kissing. Tom still making no effort to stop him. “I never said he hadn’t made an impression,” said Tom between the lazy kisses that Harry realised were making his heart beat a little too loudly, so much that it was banging in his head, louder than even than the clock on the mantlepiece. A constant throbbing that made his head sway and his hands damp and everything felt like it was blurring together in a great mess of actions and noises and emotions, and all because they were talking about him. Well, they might not have been, but God, did he hope they were. Standing there, hidden away in the shadows he was willing to pray to any god whose name he knew, just in case one of them could grant his wish to be the one Tom found pleasant. When Harry refocused his attention, they were still talking and still kissing and still unaware that their privacy was more than a little compromised. Not that he would tell, and even if they thought he would, they weren’t going to murder him or anything.“…Just not a very big impression – apparently,” Malfoy said, as he touched Tom’s face so gently, like a child exploring something new for the first time, but by the looks of it, this was not a new experience for either of them. It was all too perfect, too planned; they each had a role to play and they knew exactly how to play it. They had done this before. Snuck off when they thought none of the others would notice, and then spent the evening tasting each other’s mouths.“I’d have thought you’d be very anxious to keep him from making any impressions,” said Tom, and Harry could see the tips of his fingers tracing down Malfoy’s shoulders before disappearing out of view, obscured by Malfoy’s own body.“And why – why would that be?”“Because,” he said, watching as Malfoy swallowed thickly, “then I’d stop doing this to you.”Whatever Tom did with his hands was evidently good, because the air caught in Malfoy’s throat, cutting him off midway through a breath, and now he was struggling to keep his eyes on Tom’s own. Tom didn’t stop though. He didn’t stop until Malfoy tilted his head back, his neck creasing and his brow furrowed and his teeth threatening to go straight through his lip.“You’re--you’re not--playing fair,” Malfoy practically groaned.“Aren’t I?” said Tom with a smile, as he raised one of his hands to Malfoy’s chin and gripping it tight enough to leave imprints on the skin. “Aren’t I?” he repeated, forcing Malfoy to drop his head and look at him. “I don’t think fairness comes into it. You see, I rather think this is all about your own insatiability. Because…” Tom took the opportunity to dip his hands again and seemed to smirk when Malfoy’s hips stuttered involuntarily forward in response. “…Even after everything I’ve already done for you, you still want more, don’t you?” Tom murmured, his mouth on the very edge of Malfoy’s jaw.Malfoy himself just stared like a lost puppy, lips parted and that faint flush darkening to a shameful shade. He could have easily seen Harry watching if he’d just looked over, but Malfoy was much too focussed on drowning in Tom’s eyes to even care if someone else was watching. “You--you love it,” Malfoy mumbled, the words all sticking in his throat; they should have been sweet say, but now they were almost sickly, sticking to him like candyfloss sticks in the grass.Tom just smiled again. Harry could see it, reflected back at him in all its diamond glory. “Oh, I most certainly do, and you know what else I love about you?”Malfoy shook his head. “I love your willingness to indulge me.”If Malfoy could, he would have rolled his eyes, instead, he merely shut them, squeezed them tightly shut like he was doing his utmost to concentrate on something that wasn’t Tom. “What--what do you--want?” he said, taking so many gasps of air so quick that Harry would have thought his world must be starting to pulse and spin.“Just the usual.”Before Harry could wonder what the ‘usual’ consisted of, Malfoy was answering the question he hadn’t yet asked. “How much?” he said, still not opening his eyes.“As much as you can give me.”Malfoy sucked a breath between his teeth. “Give me a number.”“Forty--no, fifty,” Tom said, leaning forward to mouth softly at Malfoy’s neck.“Christ, Riddle.” Another gulp of air into his lungs. “I--I mean--” He groaned, “it’s in my--wallet.”Tom smiled, and leaned across the sofa, grabbing Malfoy’s jacket from the arm. With both hands poignantly not touching Malfoy he began to search through the pockets. It was the third one before he found the rather large brown wallet. Still not touching him, Tom opened it, taking his time to slide his fingers over the leather, to dip them into the pockets and swirling his thumb over the zip in way that made Harry’s throat feel too tight for reasons he didn’t want to think about, much less explain.Tom must have been satisfied with the notes he found though because he put the jacket down and smiled again. “I hope you realise how much I value your contribution, because I do; I do ever so much.”Harry continued to watch in pained silence, his shoulder digging into the corner of the doorframe, as Tom hooked his hand around the back of Malfoy’s neck, pulling him forward and murmuring something he couldn’t hear. Malfoy clearly could though, and that flush trickled further down his neck, but he still smiled. He still kissed Tom’s mouth when it was offered and still mumbled words that all blurred together into Tom’s ear.Tom just pulled away, that warmth that held all the power in the world painted across his face. “Well, if you want to show your gratitude, I won’t stop you,” he said, his hand staying firmly on the back of Malfoy’s neck.Malfoy’s next action made Harry’s stomach turned over itself. It was a strange feeling of anticipation and anxiety that seeped through every vein as Malfoy slid down onto his knees, his eyes, along with Harry’s, never leaving Tom.Without quite knowing why Harry was sure of what was about to happen before him. It was the natural conclusion of things. He’d always known it, somewhere inside his stomach; this is what they did together. This was what all those stares across the room, and all those moments of speaking low, and all those fingers touching, and all those moments when everything was touching, meant. What made it so much worse was that he had wanted this to be the conclusion. He had wanted so much for it to be real, for Tom to just possibly like him in that way, but a bit of him hadn’t wanted to believe it; he hadn’t wanted to see the things that Tom let Malfoy do to him, but now he was watching; every part of him too hot and too tight, just a knot being pulled tauter and tauter until there was no hope in ever getting it undone.Despite the fact Harry would never proclaim to be an expert on love, after all, he didn’t know much about relationships, what they were supposed to look like, or feel like, that was all alien to him, there was still something off about the way Malfoy looked so demure, so utterly passive. The way that he ran his fingers along Tom’s leg as though he were made of marble and to touch anymore would damage him irreparably. It was wrong, though Harry couldn’t say why. Perhaps, it was the grip of Tom’s hand on the back of his neck. Harry could see it in the mirror, the knuckles white, and Malfoy’s skin going even paler around the outline. Or perhaps it was his smile, pretty and spread so wide, but also so cold, almost hollow. Harry didn’t think love was supposed to be so empty.Not that thinking that stopped his mouth turning to a desert, and his palms practically becoming springs they were so damp, and all, because he shouldn’t, be watching, but he couldn’t help but stare. It was so mesmeric watching Malfoy kiss the tips of Tom’s fingers, so compulsive in seeing the flickers of his tongue lapping away the last threads of tension from Tom’s shoulders, so completely hypnotic in watching. Even when Malfoy’s body completely obscured what was happening from the mirror’s gaze, there was still an urge left behind, an impossible magnetism that stuck his eyes to Tom’s reflection and made him keep watching even when he really shouldn’t have.The longer he watched the more artificial the scene started to be. The glamour of it all was fading, the shining newness was starting to dim and the reality that it was just two people doing something that was illegal started to ooze into the room like an uninvited guest does into a conversation. Behind the thrill and the opulence, it was all so crafted, staged and directed so perfectly; the intimacy was real, but the feelings behind it all felt forced, as though Tom had decided to put on a play, dressed the set to the nines, and then hired only amateurs to act. As he watched from his place in the corner, Harry couldn’t help but think that Tom had wanted him to see, that he had engineered this entire scenario just to show him something.Though what that something was, Harry couldn’t guess. He did not need to witness such an obvious display to see what Tom was. The control, the sheer force of his personality did not need a stage and script and lights to be seen, it was there everywhere, all the time. His entire life was a performance so meticulously choreographed that it hardly seemed to be real. Compared that, this was so clumsy, perhaps even crude. Obvious to the nth degree. But there was hardly time to judge, not when Tom was dipping his fingers into Malfoy’s hair, twirling a strand around his finger, and letting it run off again rather like how water runs off duck feathers. Not when he started to coil his hair tighter and stopped letting go. Though he couldn’t ever see properly, the mirror made sure of that.But Harry didn’t need to see to know what they were doing. He’d heard enough conversations he wasn’t supposed to, to know the mechanics of human bodies. He’d seen the girl with the red jumper and her not-boyfriend in the bathroom at the far end of the classics department, the one that no one ever used. He knew what the tightness in Malfoy’s back and the shifts of his neck meant. The only thing he didn’t know was what it felt like, but even that he could imagine.
In the mirror he could see Tom’s every reaction; from the faint flush spiralling down his neck, to the press of his heel on the base of Malfoy’s spine, and he could almost feel it. The firmness of Tom’s shoe and the heat of his fingers on his scalp.However inappropriate it was, Harry couldn’t deny the sharpness in his stomach, like someone pressing bits of glass in between his ribs. They hurt, but not as much as the throb in his groin. If he’d been hidden away, really hidden, Harry wouldn’t have thought twice about pressing himself against the doorframe. Feeling the solidness of it. Knowing it was a constant, durable, tangible thing that he could hold, squeeze, crush between his fingers as he bit into his thumb and pretend that that would sate this hunger inside of him, even when he knew it wouldn’t.He was so busy thinking of things that he would do if he was alone that Harry did not catch the exact moment that Tom looked up. All he knew was that, suddenly, Tom’s reflection was staring at the dark corner of the doorway, staring at the just the right height to see his features highlighted. Immediately, Harry retreated, dipped himself back into the black shadows that now seemed like a refuge.Tom’s reflection just smiled. And there was such a gorgeous laziness to that smile, others might have mistaken it for carelessness, but it wasn’t. This was something much more authoritative; confidence taking to its absolute edge, so close to arrogance, that if Tom’s smile had spread that little bit wider, he would reach it. But it didn’t, and so he did not seem conceited with his own achievements.I see you standing there. That was what that smile seemed to say.I see you, Harry. He should have stopped watching then and there. He should have stopped and walked away and hoped that Tom wouldn’t mind, but he didn’t. He stayed, so completely still; just watching Tom watch him, and wishing more than ever that he was in Malfoy’s place.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Harry stumbled back, trying each and every door, ignoring the way that his breath caught heavy in his throat and how everything was either too dry or too damp; until he found the one with all the others. They were still all there, exactly how he had left them, though the music had changed, something old and French now crooned through the room; a sultry voice that sounded like a hand too low on his back threaded itself between the walls, interrupted only the slow bubbles of conversation. None of them acted like they’d cared that he’d been gone for so long, and Harry wasn’t sure whether that was a blessing or a curse.Avery looked like he was asleep, draped across almost the entire sofa, his fingers brushing the floor. Druella and Rosier were still too close together, an unmoving, grotesque, eldritch being that was incomprehensible to the human eye. The only reason he didn’t think they were statutes, strange replacements for his friends, was the smudge of Druella’s lipstick, the large mark in the middle of her lips where it had been spread thin, like she had smacked her lips together too many times or someone had kissed her right in the centre of her mouth.He passed his eyes further to where Lestrange and Aloysius were still together, the latter had now spread himself over Lestrange’s lap, and seemed to be contented as Lestrange’s fingers absently stroked the fur on his belly. Just spreading the fur out and pressing lightly into the skin in tiny little circles that made Aloysius stretch out even further. As he watched, Harry couldn’t help but think of the way that Tom’s hands touched Malfoy’s cheek, of how his fingers traced an invisible line down Malfoy’s shoulder, how they caught on every button of his shirt and just how Malfoy had rolled his neck, let every part of him become unstrung, and--“Harry?”He looked up.Rosier was watching him, “are you alright?”There was a concern in his eyes, but it was clouded and hazed, enough that Harry could tell this was merely Rosier being a good host and not any sort of attempt at intervention in his feelings. If he had seen what was happening, he wasn’t planning on persuading or dissuading him from either path. He nodded.“Yeah, I’m – I’m fine,” he said, the words sticking in his mouth and clogging up his throat. It didn’t sound convincing, even to Harry’s own ears, but it appeared to satisfy Rosier, who sat back, his head tipped up to stare at the ceiling, and his sister’s fingers stroking the nape of his neck.If, in the next quarter of an hour, any of them asked him a question, or more than one, Harry didn’t hear them. All he could hear was his heartbeat. The pounding of his pulse under his skin, it seemed to beat so hard that if he peeled back his shirt then he would see the skin rise and fall. And then there was the sound. It resonated through his head and out the other side; apparently coming out of every orifice in the room. Harry could hear it echoing around the chimney and down the line of ornamental china across the room, he could hear it spilling from each of their mouths and sliding through the keyhole. And it wrapped itself around him, burrowing down into every crease of his brain, spreading like a disease, until, it was the only thing he could think about. It was embarrassing. Mortifying even, to know that the sleekness of Tom’s smile was all it took for him to come apart at the seams like some poorly made toy. He didn’t even know him, for god’s sake. They’d barely talked, but Harry wanted nothing more than to lie with Tom. To speak and listen with him, to touch and kiss him. To feel Tom’s hands in his hair, and to run his own through Tom’s.Unlike everything and everyone in this city, Tom did not make him want to cower; Tom’s presence did not make him recoil to that small, empty box that he had made himself for such purposes. Tom did not make him want to be safe. Rather, when Tom had smiled at him in the mirror, as sharp as a shard of glass, Harry had felt the slightest stirring of defiance. A need to keep standing, to keep watching, even when he knew he shouldn’t. What was perhaps stranger though, was how much he liked that slow twisting in the base of his stomach; that pressing inside him, like a corkscrew pushing into a cork and screwing down ever so deep.It was not a thought that should have appealed to anyone, but least of all him. He was ordinary. He did not have strange perversions, except now he did, and they were decorated with Tom’s name. And it was horrible, in that gorgeous sort of way. A spike in his blood that ran all the way through his body, the sort of feeling Harry imagined you felt when someone impaled you; the sharpness of the pike pressing right through the stomach, up along the full lengths of the spine, and straight through the back of the neck. Gorgeous, in a horrible sort of way.Harry felt that jolt every single time he thought of Tom with his head lazily leaned against the ridge of the sofa, his eyes never leaving that black space where Harry stood, even as his heel pressed harder into Malfoy’s spine, and his chest was rising and falling faster than it had done before. Harry tried to close his eyes, to take a moment. Breathe, though Harry could hardly remember how to do that. Everything was too stuttered, from his hands continually fidgeting in his lap to the tapping of his feet on the floor, even the oxygen seemed to stammer through his lungs, making black spots blink prettily before his eyes. And everywhere there wasn’t blackness, there was Tom. Tom’s mouth kissing Malfoy’s, Tom’s lips, the curve of his smile, the clench of his hands, and the faint bob of his throat as he swallowed. If Harry could have denied that he wanted to kiss Tom before, he certainly couldn’t now. Not when the thought was clouding out everything else in the world, rising like a behemoth from the depths to scrape the stars and block out the sun.That ache was ever-present, a dull throb at the back of his lungs, so much so that it almost hurt to breathe. Before now, the thought of touching Tom’s hands to his lips had seemed like the most salacious thing in the entire world, but now, that innocent little thought was dwarfed by the endlessness of the void that had taken its place. That huge emptiness which sucked all it came across inside him until he was so full with feelings that he swore it must be spilling out across the floor, staining into the carpet, and revealing what he longed for, to anyone who cared to look. He was still thinking of that aching hole inside him, like a cigarette stubbed out on fabric, that Tom’s smile had put there, when Malfoy reappeared, alone. His appearance was immaculate; buttons all done up; hair tied back, quite simply, not a hair out of place. He was clutching a glass of water. And it seemed almost ridiculous. After all, they all must all know that what he performed so meticulously was nothing more than a hollow fallacy. It was ingrained in the way Avery sighed and pressed himself further into the back of the sofa, ingrained in the smile Lestrange flashed him, and ingrained in the words that Druella mouthed but Harry couldn’t understand.All of them knew, but they pretended that they didn’t. They kept their gazes low and their opinions to themselves. Whatever Tom did with his spare time was not theirs to gossip about, and so they didn’t, like well-trained dogs they did not touch the meat in front of them without permission. Even Malfoy himself just sat down next to Lestrange and began to pet Aloysius like nothing had happened; like he hadn’t just spent the last hour alone with Tom; like they hadn’t been… Harry didn’t dare to think of it, for fear the spikes in his stomach might return from their momentary hiatus.Fortunately, Harry didn’t have to say anything, for Lestrange did just that; they spoke as though they were merely resuming a conversation after a minute-long break, as though Malfoy had gone out for a cigarette and nothing more.He continued to watch them, but not listen. For once, he didn’t want to hear what they had to say. Harry didn’t need to hear their pretty ideas anymore to know they were pretty, so he just watched their tongues and their fingers and the edges of their teeth, and he wondered what it would be like to touch them. To feel other people’s fingers against his own, to know what the bite of their teeth felt like on his lips, and what the very tip of their tongue would taste like inside his mouth.Even as the memories were flowing between the music and muffles of conversations he didn’t care to hear, Harry couldn’t remember any time that he had felt like this before. Not like this. Although he couldn’t deny he liked to watch the girl in his Criminal Law lectures, the one with the red hair, he didn’t want her to devour him the way he wanted these people to. He wanted to walk with her in the park on Sundays like any good boy should want to do with a good girl. But he didn’t want to do that with Tom. No, with Tom he wanted to be selfish, he wanted to be cruel, he wanted to take whatever he wanted and consume it. Harry swallowed and blinked a couple of times, taking in the room again, as though it were new. But the only thing that had changed was Aloysius, who Malfoy had, somehow, managed to coax from Lestrange’s lap into his own, and he was purring so loudly that even Harry could hear from the other side of the room. Lestrange wasn’t happy about it, and he looked as though he might go as far as to argue the matter, but the door’s creaking interrupted his plans.Tom did not have a glass of water when he came back, nor did he have any other pretences to disguise what he had been doing with his time, but nor were there any obvious signs. As much as Harry raked his eyes over him, he could see nothing out of the ordinary, nothing out of place. Tom looked as though he had just arrived, still fresh from the cool air of the night, and not wearied as all the others were by hotness and music and alcohol and affluence. Instead, he stood there, the single thriving flower in a wilting vase.None of the others paid any particular attention to him, not deliberately avoiding his eye, merely not acknowledging them, through a mixture of lethargy and indifference. It was late. They were all probably tired, Harry knew he should be too, but as he caught Tom glancing at him, he didn’t have time to be tired, and this feeling of wakefulness only intensified when Tom began to walk toward him.He stood in front of Harry’s sofa, though he was only occupying the smallest corner, for almost a minute before Avery got the hint. He rolled off, neither elegantly, nor quietly and glared at Tom. Harry could feel the tension in the room they stood watching each other, Avery’s chin tilted up, his ego still apparently suffering from being brought to its knees earlier in the evening. Tom just side-stepped him and sat down, his own chin raised, until Avery got the message to go and sit on the floor.That would have been the end of it, had Tom not sat entirely too close to Harry for it to be accidental. To make matters worse, Tom draped one arm over the back of the chair, and he sat with his right ankle balanced on his left knee. It was a position that was entirely too comfortable, too indulgent; and he knew just how good it made him look. How completely in control he was, commanding the room as though he were its conductor, or its artist, with absolute jurisdiction over every, single, brushstroke.Although Harry had been grasping at straws with his descriptions of Tom, clasping at the little snippets he saw of the man behind that mask of utter immaculation, Harry now saw that he had been right. Maybe that should have scared him, maybe, he should have pulled back, dragged himself away from the burning light that could only be a sign of danger; maybe that was what he should have done, but tonight, Harry could not resist the flames. So, when Tom turned to him with the dazzling smile that held secrets between its teeth, Harry turned his head as well. For a moment they looked at each other, sharing the same glance that they had done all evening, the one that made Tom into an octopus with tentacles that curled and squeezed around Harry’s heart until its beating slowed and his breath ran out.“You know, Harry,” Tom said, his head to the side, “we haven’t spoken much tonight.”Although it was a casual remark, Harry couldn’t help but read it as a rebuke, not to him, but the world, for not giving them the opportunity to have collided. Somehow, that statement was at odds with the tone in which he delivered it. For whilst the words were meaningless, the quality of their delivery was most certainly not. The tenor of those words was quiet, intimate, and far more alluring than they had any right to be; rather like they were spies sharing secrets in dark corners of a café, and not just sitting on a sofa, late at night, surrounded by friends who did not look at them.“I supposed not,” Harry replied, turning his head back across the room, and trying not to focus on how the words jumbled themselves together before they even hit his tongue.Tom continued to smile; Harry’s own uneasiness was apparently entertaining him for there was a flicker in his eye. The same one he’d had when watching him hide in the darkest of corners. “There’s no need to be so nervous, Harry, I already told you, I don’t bite.”Though he said it whilst looking like he very much wanted to take a bite, and Harry had to think of Malfoy’s words, murmured, only hour or so before.I see how much you want. Tom was certainly wanting, but for exactly what, Harry couldn’t say. If he was pressed, he’d have said Tom wanted to eat him, roll him on his tongue like he did his name; lick him off his fingers and swallow him. But it was all probably the dimness of the light and the intensity of the heat that was starting to creep back into his bones. Harry would put up with all that forever though, if, he was simply allowed to be a star, and Tom was the constant sky, swallowing him up in the ever endless black. Then, he’d let him lick at his fingers, kiss them and consume them. Right now, he might let Tom consume his very heart, if he asked. He didn’t ask.The only thing that Tom did do, was lean forward, only a fraction, but enough that he could smooth an unruly curl of hair back behind his ear. Harry’s lungs turned to stone, and he felt himself inhale too sharply, to make up for it. Tom smiled at him and let his fingers continue their course down behind his ear, detaching themselves just before they touched Harry’s neck. Then he did it again. Two fingers pressed into his hair, nails skimming over his scalp, and as those fingers grew bolder, Harry couldn’t even bring himself to look directly at Tom. He just stared across the room, watching Malfoy’s hands as he petted Aloysius.It was several minutes of complete silence, punctuated only by the sounds of his hair being smoothed down so close to his ear before Harry brought himself to turn and face Tom. He didn’t regret it. Tom was just… watching him; his tongue wetting his lip, and the flicker of his teeth not far behind. If Harry wasn’t mistaken, he would have said Tom was peeling back his layers with his eyes alone, digging right down between the folds made of his past and his present, his emotions and his fears, every little thing that he loved or loathed, Tom saw in such intimate detail; and still his fingers continued their caresses. Though, to credit him, Tom seemed to pick up on the tension that had strung itself through Harry’s shoulders, like a plant that suddenly required a cane to grow straight.“Do you not like being touched, Harry?” he murmured, his fingers stopping and retracting just enough that they no longer touched a single part of him.Harry didn’t say anything, he didn’t know what he was supposed to say, after all, being touched felt uncomfortable, embarrassing and awkward, but… but it also felt nice. Safe.“Or perhaps, you’ve just never been touched like this, to know if you like it?” Tom said it as a question, even if it sounded like a statement, and Harry found himself nodding, and Tom’s fingers began to curl back into his hair, apparently not caring at all that more than one person was watching. Harry could feel Druella’s gaze, not accusatory, only intrigued, heavy on him. He didn’t want to look up at her. He didn’t want to see what she thought of him.“I’d like to talk to you more,” said Tom conversationally, as though he wasn’t stroking his hair, as though he wasn’t leaning close enough that Harry could feel the warmth of his body, as though this was a completely normal thing to do with your friends, late into the night. Perhaps it was. Harry had never had enough friends to know. “Next Sunday, at eleven, perhaps?” continued Tom, undeterred by anyone watching him.That got Druella’s full attention.“Sunday?” she said, her eyebrow raised and her tone, questioning.“There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”“It’s a Sunday, Riddle.”“Just because you’re busy wasting your time at the same hour every week, doesn’t mean I have to, as you well know.” His tone was cold, a single strip of ice through glowing embers, and Druella didn’t bother to argue with him, she just threw her hands up in surrender, and Tom continued to touch his hair.“So, do you want to talk next Sunday?”“Yes,” Harry heard himself reply in an impossibly tiny voice that only made Tom’s smile wider. Harry was only half awake. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but no one does, do they? And even now that he was awake, he did not feel it. Before his eyes, the world was glazed, glassy and distant like he was watching it all through dimmed down panes of coloured glass. His glasses did not make a difference, it was the world itself that was glossed over.Though, his tainted vision could not disguise the simple alterations that had taken place in the fabric of the room, the most obvious being that Rosier and Druella had disappeared. Their place sat decidedly empty across the room. No one else had attempted to fill it, and Harry wondered whether they were coming back.
When they did instantly, he passed his gaze across the room: Lestrange was taking up most of the opposite sofa, with Malfoy curled up on the corner, apparently asleep. Aloysius was beside him, also asleep, though every so often his tail flicked wildly, and his whole body twitched. It was probably a dream. This whole world felt like a dream. A lovely hazy dream that would be snatched away by the morning. Harry wished it wasn’t a dream, that this was reality from now on. Lying with these people, talking and laughing with them, just being one of them.He blinked again, his eyes following the light trails to the fireplace. Avery was on the floor by the fire, prodding it with a poker, beside him sat Tom. For once, they did not appear to be arguing, and Harry could see again that genuineness that he had seen in the library. That thing, he would have then called concern, but now would have called interest that Tom placed upon Avery.They were talking, murmuring really, all hushed voices and pretend secrets. The two of them looked strangely domestic sitting there together, more like siblings than lovers though, simply two people, smiling at one another in the glow of the flames. Smiling and touching, Tom’s friendly hand on Avery’s shoulder in a display that Harry would have labelled with reassurance and understanding, like what older siblings are supposed to provide to their youngers, and how friends that grew up alone have learnt to provide support.But whatever motivation lay behind Tom’s actions, Avery appeared to appreciate it. For, although their conversation was inaudible, no one could mistake the way that Avery smiled, how he basked in the attention that Tom had given him, placing him centre stage; apparently forgiving all their animosity tonight. Though, if Harry was not mistaken, and he might have been, Tom’s nods were nothing more than mechanical. The smiles and the words were as empty as the glasses on the table and completely substanceless. What was before him, was an empty stage, the set hanging high, but the actor absent. Avery had no more than Tom’s superficial attention, not that he seemed to notice at all, he was much too involved in smiling to notice that Tom didn’t appear to care. Harry’s eyes open again later, the fire had died down to an ember, and most of the lights were off. Lestrange had shifted and Avery was now lying between him and Malfoy. Harry turned slowly, everything was fuzzy before his eyes, dark shapes seemed to move, seemed to dance in the corners and encroach on the light. There were a thousand monsters creeping into the light, flickering and trembling, scared to take what they wanted but ever so persistent. Those monsters were beautiful, in a way. Hidden to the world, only coming out when they deigned it to be appropriate, when they felt they were safe to climb between the shafts of light without being seen, just so beautiful. Harry felt his eyelids closing again, the sweet seduction of sleep too tempting to resist. But a strange warmth beside him stopped him from sleeping.Perhaps the unknown nature of it all should have scared him, but Harry could not find it in him to be scared, even in this dark; so dark that it shrouded everything in black, even the warmth of what must have been a body beside him was caressed by the monsters of the dark, to the extent that he could not even see their face. Harry still tried though, turning his head a little, squinting into the dark and seeing nothing but black shadow after black shadow.“Don’t be scared,” came a murmur from the warm shape that he was resting his head on. The voice was soothing, reassuring, even when it shouldn’t have been, just cosy and soft and safe. “It’s only me,” said the voice again, closer this time, and though Harry’s head was filled with fog, he remembered the tone, the sound. It was Tom speaking in the dark. Speaking to him, for all the others were asleep across the room. Though Harry looked, though he peered and glanced through the dark, he couldn’t make out Tom’s features; he was far too blurred with the darkness, and now the two were inseparable. All that he could feel was the faintness of Tom’s breathing and what he assumed was the gentlest brush of his fingers down Harry’s own back.“Are you awake, Harry?” Tom said quietly.Harry knew then that he truly must have been lying against Tom. Asleep on his shoulder or maybe his chest, at least, close enough for Tom to have been smoothing his fingers through his hair for quite a while. Just the very tips, so careful, soothing; from the top of his head, down through his hair, over the ridge of his neck, and finally, tracing his shoulder blades. There was silence for a moment when Harry did not move, and Tom did not say anything. A lovely, simple, stillness, before Tom’s fingers began to climb again. They dipped into Harry’s hair, stroking it ever so slowly.“I know you’re awake,” Tom murmured, still drawing those sweet little circles that should have been sending Harry to sleep, but rather, felt like pinpricks digging into his skin, waking him more with each and every touch. “There was something we couldn’t talk about earlier,” he paused long enough for Harry to hear his heart pound like a beacon through the room. “I know you were watching,” Tom said slowly, his mouth suddenly so close that Harry could feel the heat of his tongue, “all I want to know, Harry, is, did you like what you saw?”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Tom said nothing about what he did. Not for the rest of that night, nor the following morning when Druella woke Harry early and showed him to the door. In fact, Druella was the only one he properly saw that morning. She dressed up nice, softer and sweeter than the night before; if last night she had been a starling with glittering feather that suggested something brutal inside her heart, now, she was a blue tit, as delicate as the dawn light on the closed curtains, as though if they were opened she would fade away. But, however, she looked, she still smiled the same. The glimmer of that excitement slithering beneath her tongue.“I am sorry we can’t take you home, but it’s All Saint’s Day, and we all have our commitments, unfortunately,” she explained as they walked through that maze of a house, though it was hardly a maze at all to her. She turned every corner with confidence, the flow of her white dress making her seem like a ghost haunting the walls. Harry had nodded as she spoke, he didn’t really feel up to doing much more than that. There was a throbbing in the back of his head, like last night’s but so much worse. If he had had to put a description to it, he would have said someone was screwing nails into the back of his head. And it wasn’t pleasant. Quite the opposite and he just wanted to lie in bed, or, if the option had been available, continue to lie on the sofa in the dark with Tom’s hands in his hair and words he couldn’t even hear whispered into his ear.Druella showed him all the way to the door and even outside of it into the coldness that could only be November. The sudden chill that infected every inch of the air, turning it from the substanceless nothing, into something so liquidy, it was like the sea had switched places with the sky. Harry had honestly expected to just be abandoned on the doorstep, smiled at, waved at, and then left to do as he wished. But Druella’s hand stayed firm on the small of his back, and she guided him right up the path and through the black rail gate. On the other side was a car; a sleek, white, thing of the type that Harry saw but had never been that close to before. They belonged to a different world.“He’ll take you wherever you want to go,” Druella said, “until next time, Potter.”He nodded again and watched as she turned and walked back to the house, closing the door behind her. In the back of his head, Harry knew he should go, that his welcome was over, and now it was time to return to reality. Forever waiting on the edge of his seat for the moment he was invited back into their world. Into Tom’s world. He sighed and looked one last time at the house, its tall, white façade looking back at him. Almost mocking the fact that he was unlikely to return any time soon. Harry was just about to turn back to the car and leave when something caught his eye. Something or rather, someone, sitting on the window seat on first-floor, left-hand window.They were dipped in the shadows enough that he wouldn’t have seen them unless he had been looking carefully at the house. And despite not knowing for sure who it was, Harry still felt he knew. It had to be Tom. Tom sitting there with one leg bent at the knee, the other Harry couldn’t see, but suppose it must be stretched out, running the length of the window. His head back against the wall but there was no denying he was looking out, and not just across the way, but down, specifically, at the street.The details of him were all blurred out by the gloom, but Harry could still see the blocks of colour: the white of his shirt, still undone at the top, the darkness of his hair smudging with the shadows and the edge of his smile cutting through everything like a diamond through a glass pane. Harry swallowed and stared, trying to remember how exactly his lungs managed to get air into them for they were straining. He could feel them pulsing, practically another heartbeat under his ribs, threatening to break right through his skin and make a heart-shaped hole in his chest, that burned at the edges. Even out here in the cold, he felt too hot like he was standing on embers that charred his feet.Through the dim of the pane, Harry could only just see the sliver of white that was Tom’s raising up in the motion of a wave, and with it, a great lump rose in Harry’s throat as though he had swallowed a searing stone. And, before he could stop himself, he too was raising his hand, and wishing, more than anything to feel Tom’s palm against his own, to remove this unspeakable distance between them and just have Tom touch him when no one was watching.But instead, Harry went home. There was nowhere else he wanted to be because there was no way he could be with them. Anyway, he had work to do, how else was he supposed to maintain his scholarship if he spent every waking moment thinking about what they were doing, or, more specifically, what Tom was doing. It wasn’t, Harry thought as he sat in the car and watched the city cruise past, that he didn’t care about the others; they were warm and friendly and intelligent and brilliant. They were everything he had ever wanted to be and nothing that he was, and just the fact that they were willing to spend a few minutes of their day with him would have made his decade. But them willing to be with him for an entire evening, and a promise from Tom of another hook-up on Sunday was overwhelming. Though, perhaps he shouldn’t call it a hook-up, because it wasn’t anything… indecent. Except it was, wasn’t it? said a voice so insidiously inside his head; it was outrageously indecent.It didn’t really matter, all that did, was this feeling of excitement, electricity even, like sticking his fingers in an electric socket over and over again just to feel the thrill threading its way through every muscle. Being with them, being with Tom was an escape from this drab little world that he’d always lived in, and the fact that they wanted him there, well, it all just felt so magical, like fate had a new dress and was swishing it for all to see.In the car, it was cool, everything was cool, and Harry could see the colours of morning diffusing out across the sky. Right now, though they were far too bright on his eyes, worming their way into his head just to pound. And even when Harry leant back into the leather, feeling its chill under his fingers, there was still the heat from last night on the back of his neck. Tom’s hand resting firmly, leaving a warmth behind that burned his fingerprints into Harry’s body. They were everywhere, a beautiful infection that he knew he’d never be able to get out, and one that he never wanted to.Harry have never thought he’d be one of those people. The silly boys and girls that fell in love in the blink of an eye, and could never bear to be apart from their beloved. Those sorts of people were sweet from a distance and irritating close up, but he wasn’t one of them, he’d never been one of them. But, then again, he’d never been one of anything before. Arriving back at his own room, Harry could help but see how small and dingy it really was. Even though the curtains in their great rooms had been drawn across, and any daylight that could have got in was prohibited, the spaces still felt airy, beautiful, practically angelic. The freshness had been something that Harry could taste on the very tip of his tongue, a sort of tingle that spoke of wealth and privilege and general entitlement.The only taste he had on his tongue now was the damp. Probably mould, though he didn’t know where it came from; it was more of an aura, a permanent presence that clouded over him as cumulonimbus might a small town. It bit at his tongue like poverty, as harsh and discernible as the smell of burning sugar, impossible to get away from now that he had experienced a time where it wasn’t there.He wasn’t jealous per se, as he sat down on the bed and stared at the blank walls; more envious, there was no way Harry could deny that he didn’t want what they had; that grace and that sophistication and that friendship and that money. Especially the money. Maybe, it was just because that would be the ticket, the key, that would open up all the doors to their opulent world, or, maybe, it was because that would get Tom’s attention. Properly.Money would get Tom’s mouth on his; Tom’s fingers back in his hair and his pretty, pretty words whispered in his ear. All because Tom wasn’t rich, not by birth at least, or, not to the extent that Malfoy was, that any of them were really. But Tom didn’t need to be born wealthy, not when he had that sleek smile and a charm that wrapped around anyone’s neck like a snake. He could get whatever he wanted just by asking, and Harry would give him anything, anything he had if Tom wanted it. People would say that it wouldn’t mean anything like that, but Harry didn’t need it to mean anything, he’d like it to, but if the best he was ever going to get was Tom’s hands on his waist because he spared him as much money as he wanted, then it didn’t matter, Harry would take it.Despite the ache right in the back of his head, like someone was pressing on it with a scalpel, Harry tried to work on those essays for the rest of the day: the consideration of contracts, criminalisation of mere offences, the Rule of law, but it wasn’t working. He couldn’t help it, there was just such a distraction hovering over him. Just sitting here, alongside him and his books, was an agitation that got the better of him when he was reading and reading and reading. It only grew bigger as he watched the world come into focus with every paragraph; that distinct clarity that could only be achieved with knowledge was spreading out, filling in the blanks of the map, but the angle was off. And the whole experience, well, it all felt flat.This understanding was so hollow, so fake. He might now know how the world worked but that just meant there was a little more of it to disappoint him, and whenever the law abandoned him, Harry was flailing in the dark. Gripping randomly to the only other thing he could remember: Tom’s words pressing harder on the forefront of his mind. It hurt, not Tom’s words, but the law’s emptiness because the law had always been that constant, the never-changing steadiness in his life. It had parameters, boundaries, edges; there was less confusion inside that little box, or, at least, there used to be. Now though, Harry was having second thoughts. Third thoughts. Fourth thoughts. And the more thoughts he had; the more Tom seemed to blend into all of them. He bled out between the lines of the page, between even the letters of the words, staining them with his smile and his opinions. Those awfully attractive opinions. Of course, they were wrong, very wrong; attractive in an intellectual sense only, but then again…Harry sighed and put down his pen. The more he looked at these books and these essays, the more he could see what Tom was talking about. In contracts and constitutions and criminal justice, there was always this undercurrent of passion and control and deception. Everything he’d so staunchly denied was present within their legal system, seemed to lurk just beneath the surface like those sharp rocks that cut your feet at the beach; they waited below the rolling waves invisible to everyone but those who plunged right in. And every academic in the field appeared to have a code of conduct, an agreement not to reveal all the nasty things about the law that no one knew. No one saw that there were things inside the law that were rotten. That this thing people put all their faith in was a festering infection in a wound that they thought was healed but really wasn’t. For contracts were not designed to be friendly, they were not made to be fair or nice, inside them was this putrid heart, forcing you to sign away your life for little or no choice at all. Having to watch your value, as a person, as a worker, as an anything, be reduced to mere words, mere expressions of what this entity thought you were worth.When it came to criminal justice, there was no more obvious injustice than the men and women who were still hung for crimes they did or did not commit; that was surely control in its most glittering form? And if the law was poisoned with control, then who was to say it was free of all the other evils that Harry had always entertained as impossible.Harry did not get long to think about it alone, as the next day he was back in lectures. Back to the mundane routines of waking and walking and listening and learning. All without the added comfort of seeing any of them, because, now that they were friends in the very loosest sense of the word, he couldn’t stalk them. What made their absence worse though, was how people’s eyes were heavy on him in every classroom that he walked into. Suddenly, people were noticing him, they still weren’t acknowledging him, but they were seeing. They were paying attention to him for the first time since they’d all arrived.Multiple times Harry had to look down and check that there weren’t great stains on his shirt or rips in his trousers. There weren’t but people still watched. Each stare was uncomfortable, too hot on Harry’s skin, too tight like being constantly pinged with elastic, and he didn’t really know why. Sure, he’d spent some time with the ones that everyone wanted a piece of, but that didn’t mean anything. He was still on the edge of being a nobody and a nothing, hardly secured in his newfound riches, no matter that everyone seemed to think that he had something they didn’t.He was musing on the fact in his contract law class, listening but not particularly paying attention to the drifting sounds of the professor’s voice as it curled around the syllables, taking far too long at each and every one word until half the class were asleep. The ones who weren’t were watching Harry; he could feel their eyes on his fingers and the back of his head, trying to dig holes right into his brain. He ignored them. Harry ignored everything and continued to watch out the window at the small blue tit that flitted between the windowpanes, occasionally landing on the sill just outside the window he was next to, a perfect demonstration of just how motionless and monotonous it was behind that glass.Even when the door clicked, he didn’t bother looking up, there were plenty of people missing, those with better things to do than actually turn up to classes; it was probably just another one of them who’d decided it was worth it to arrive. Well, probably not, after all, this particular class flung itself right over lunch, and to most students here such a thing as to attend would be unthinkable if it meant inconveniencing themselves. He only looked up when the person who’d arrived started to speak.“I’m so sorry to bother you, professor,” a smooth voice all but drawled across the room. Harry swallowed, it was Lestrange, and just behind him was Malfoy. “But could we,” he continued, “borrow Mr Potter?” he said as he leaned against the doorframe in a way that most people would label as provocative, though they wouldn’t quite know why. Maybe it was the press of his fingers into the frame just as Harry had done when watching things, he shouldn’t have seen. Or perhaps, it was simply how leaned right into the wood, pushing his hip against it.“Any particular reason, Aleister?”The informality almost caught Harry off guard, it was just so jarring to hear Lestrange’s name, the one Harry realised he hadn’t even known, be tossed around by someone twice his age. Someone who looked like he wouldn’t the slightest thing in common with a vibrant student with his best years still ahead of him. Lestrange only smiled again, tongue on the edge of his teeth, “you know,” he said casually, “we just really need him right now.” The way he said it made Harry’s spine shiver, that sleek way his tongue ran over every word before spitting it out in front of him was just delectable. Enough that he started to get up without the professor even nodding his acquiesces.Lestrange dropped the niceties as soon as they were all through the door, and that usual streak of something that Harry would almost call cruelty was back running rivulets all over him, as though he was standing under the spray of a waterfall.“What did you want me for?” Harry asked once they’d taken ten paces and were decidedly heading towards the exit of the building, as opposed to its inner sanctums, those deep bowels of the university, invisible and untouchable to all but those who had learnt the way by heart.Lestrange just rolled his eyes. “So that we could have lunch before the next fucking century begins,” he said with an intonation of such casualness that anyone would mistake it for arrogance.“You pulled me out of a tutorial… to have lunch?”“Obviously,” said Malfoy coming to walk beside him on his left, trapping him between the two of them, “it’s not like you needed to be there, and anyway, I made a reservation for one, and I’m not going to miss it--”“No, you didn’t,” cut in Lestrange, talking right over Harry’s head, “you never make a fucking reservation anywhere." The tone was definitely accusatory, but in a way that just about treading the right side of the wire in terms of friendliness. It was the sort of tone that he was allowed to use, but someone like Harry wasn’t.“Well, I nearly did,” replied Malfoy, the edge of a pout just starting to form itself on his mouth. Harry would have been lying if he said that it wasn’t a pretty expression, classy in a way that certainly wasn’t fair, and, from a certain angle, docile. Harry was certain he’d seen that expression painted on someone’s face before. The realisation jolted him hard as he understood where it was that he’d seen that look like a live spark pressed into the back of his neck. He remembered it stitched onto Malfoy’s mouth before, when he was down on his knees, looking up at Tom with the same sort of gaze, not entirely submissive, but rather, according to this exchange at least, more teasing. Neither of the other two noticed any change in Harry’s expression, if indeed it did change at all, though Harry rather suspected it had.They just continued on with their conversation that was now starting to border on a disagreement. “It’s a completely different sentence,” Lestrange was insisting.“They mean the same,” Malfoy was retorting just as childishly.“Which is why,” Lestrange said with a slight snipe between the constants, “you’ll always be a fucking politician and never a lawyer, because you are useless at semantics.”“Oh, and you’re fantastic, are you?” came the decidedly sarcastic reply.Lestrange actually stopped walking, and just stood there in the middle of the corridor, waiting for Malfoy to stop as well. The few people that were milling around at the edges, hurriedly moved themselves along, like they knew something Harry didn’t. “You know I am,” said Lestrange, “but I’d be very willing to give you the tutorial I just gave some first years on the differences and uses for logical and lexical semantics, but I doubt you’d understand past the introductory sentence, so perhaps you just want to take my word as my word for once, alright?”Malfoy just sighed dramatically. “That doesn’t even make sense; your word as your word, what else would I take it as?”“Knowing you, you’d take it for anything you fancied.”There was a sourness to that, something that made Malfoy’s expression twist uncomfortably, but whatever exactly it was, Harry doubted he’d ever understand. It was just too a nuanced reference, an allusion to some private part of their lives that existed before he was around. There would be a lot of that; a lot of knowing that things had happened before he was with them, but, if Harry played his cards right, he might just make sure there wouldn’t be a time after him.They were still debating, still, choice words being used, but Harry had missed a section, or maybe two or three. “…Oh, don’t hot-headed about it,” Malfoy was saying.“Well, don’t be so fucking cool-headed then,” Lestrange said back, but a smile had blossomed back on his face and there was a raise to his brow that suggested he was joking, at least a little.As they all walked together, Harry couldn’t help but notice how they seemed calmer than when he had last seen them, happier in a way, like a weight had been lifted from their shoulders. But the only difference that Harry could see between now and then was that Tom wasn’t here. That wasn’t to say the atmosphere was strained around Tom, merely that it was more… executive. Everyone knew the part they were supposed to play, and they played it to perfection. When Tom was around, they polished themselves, cleaned the crystal of their hearts until they were fully on display, their veneers as sharp and shiny as their wit. Now though, now, they were relaxed, not slackened with alcohol and music and the promise of highbrow conversations, but simply comfortable in themselves and their intrinsic value. For once, they didn’t feel the need to keep up a pretence and to be things that they were not.The restaurant they took him to was large, and mostly full, though all Malfoy had to do was smile at the man at the door and he was led inside.
High ceilings and roman style columns, which made Harry wonder whether they only went to places with historical styled architecture; for as far as he could tell to be modern to them was to be outdated. But, fortunately, they all suited this old marvellous world that had passed on. Ground to dust beneath the feet of progress, the sort of thing kept alive only by fanatics and lost wanderers of time.Despite the grey outside, inside was lit with what had to be red in every shade available. It reflected off the walls and lit every surface on fire so that tablecloths that should have been white were dripping with pink that colour of candyfloss and everyone’s face was rubicund. Their clothes and their hands and their food all sitting somewhere between crimson and scarlet and burgundy. It was beautiful, in a bloodshot sort of way.As they walked between the redwood chairs and those candyfloss tables and the so many elegant pink-stained people, Harry watched as Malfoy smiled and preened, touching hands with them all; a shake for men and a kiss for women. This appeared to be his natural environment, a peacock wandering amongst ornamental flowers that all seemed to know him.Lestrange followed behind him, a little too close to Harry, in his opinion, and always watching him as a hawk might, as though he were about to bolt out the door, which was certainly a prospect he had considered, and was still considering. He had a clear run; he could just avoid all the embarrassment that was certainly about to descend onto him like an avalanche down those French mountains his peers could afford to ski on, and just get away from it all; back to the contract tutorial, and the professor’s boring voice, and that little bluebird outside the window.Harry also got the curious feeling that people were watching him, that they were looking, and sizing him up for slaughter, and the more Malfoy looked back at him, the more people stared. Curious to see their new toy no doubt. For all he knew, they came here every week, always with a shiny, or, in his case, somewhat dim, thing that they sat with, and smiled at, and sacrificed for their own gain.And the more he thought about it, the more he tensed; his muscles turning to stone beneath his skin, and the more he tensed, the more he panicked, and the more he panicked, the less oxygen was available to fill up his lungs and the less oxygen there was the more he felt like a giant was rattling his brain all around his skull.
Lestrange took a hold of his arm, gripping it tight; the texture of his gloves was strange, even through Harry’s jumper.“Breath, Potter; in and out and in and out, you got that?” he said, his hand still firm around him.Harry nodded, feeling the same way as when he had realised Tom’s fingers were stroking his back. That same protection and comfort, except, Lestrange wasn’t entirely equivalent. Behind Tom’s actions had been a sliver, however small, of warmth, and a frill or two of indulgence; with Lestrange, it held nothing more than pure practicality.“Now, you’re going to come with me, while we leave that peacock to finish preening, alright?” Lestrange said, already starting to push him towards a more secluded part of this restaurant. But before they could get that far, Malfoy had sidled up to Lestrange.“I heard that,” he said, digging his elbow, ever so casually, into Lestrange’s waist, whilst smiling like they were the best of friends.“Yeah, you were fucking supposed to.”The booth Lestrange showed him to was nice, private, but not shoved into the back of beyond. Rather, just enough away from everyone else to make it feel as though they were alone, especially as Harry was facing away from the crowds. Not to mention, there was something awfully sophisticated about sitting on red leather chairs. The sound they made when he shifted and their coolness to the touch, that smooth sleekness that shouldn’t remind him of Tom’s smile, but somehow did anyway. Lestrange sat across from him, his hands smoothing across the tablecloth, speckled with the cerise that ran off the lights. Malfoy slid in beside him, which probably made the whole scenario more intimidating than it was supposed to be, but then again, it was probably better that they couldn’t see him wracking his hands and cracking his knuckles under the table like that would somehow make him more comfortable.“So… umm… why are we here?” said Harry quietly, unable to shake the far-fetched fantasy that he was about to be disposed of, dumped as a friend in the middle of a restaurant because he saw something he shouldn’t have.“Because it’s what friends do; they go out to lunch,” said Malfoy, already opening the menu, but looking distinctly over it, at what Harry thought might be someone across the room. Probably another great someone he knew.“But--” he started.Lestrange interrupted. “We want to get to know you, Potter, properly, you didn’t say much when we all got together, so we thought you might be a little more talkative if it was just us?”Harry swallowed. It was certainly less intimidating with only four pairs of eyes on him, especially when Tom’s counted as an infinite number of burning irises all of which seemed to see right down into the deepest, darkest depths of his soul. Compared to that, Malfoy and Lestrange scarcely scratched the surface. But still the thought of ‘getting to know them’ was nauseating, a black sludge of apprehension began to slide its way through his blood, cooling him from the inside out until every part of him felt clammy and deeply uncomfortable, though he couldn’t exactly why.Maybe, it was because if they got to know him, they’d understand he wasn’t as interesting as they thought he was; they’d discover that he was ordinary and boring and not all clever and sophisticated, and then they’d just throw him away and he’d be left knowing what he could have had if he was that much more remarkable.“After all,” said Lestrange when no one had taken the initiative to interrupt him, “Riddle says you can argue for the high heavens if you fucking want, but I’ve never heard you, and if I don’t hear you soon, I’m going to start thinking you’re playing favourites.”Harry might have said something, explained the situation as best he could. Make him understand that he wasn’t playing favourites, it was merely that Tom did things to him he couldn’t explain. He made him want to argue and debate and drag himself out of that protective shell. But he didn’t say any of that because Malfoy was already speaking by the time his brain had even processed what Lestrange had said.“Can’t you watch your language? We’re not in one of your backend pubs,” Malfoy said, pulling a face.“It’s a private club, and you fucking know it,” said Lestrange back, the slightest of sneers affecting his tone. “You’re just salty because you’re not invited.”“I don’t want to be invited down some back alley, where my chances of being murdered increase exponentially, thanks,” Malfoy retorted, the flick of his hair, just a touch too practised to be a merely casual gesture. Harry could picture Malfoy, flicking his hair in Tom’s direction every time he said something, he didn’t like.“That’s got nothing to do with the location and everything to do with the fact you’re a prat.”Malfoy shoved him against the high back of the chair, with just enough force right on Lestrange’s collarbone that Harry couldn’t help but see a maliciousness in the action. An unnecessary viciousness that had Harry swallowing and almost subconsciously reaching up to touch at his own collarbones through his shirt and wandering what it felt like to have a fist against them. But, however gratuitously violent Malfoy’s actions were, they didn’t get a reaction. Lestrange just continued to smile, the tip of his tongue visible again between his teeth.Far too slowly Malfoy retracted his hand rather like a dog might give up ownership of a bone if pressed by its owner. “But first,” he said, clearly trying to brighten his mood from the inside out, “lunch. What would you like, Potter? We’re paying.”Harry picked up a menu made of the same red leather that had his fingers itching; he didn’t remember receiving it, but it didn’t matter, it was in his hands now.
He started to scan through the options. There were a lot. Organised, apparently, in no particular way, with no particular aim in mind other than to list. To make matters worse, the handwriting was looped and twirled in a way that was almost impossible to read, and certainly impossible if you had no idea what half the listings were actually supposed to be.“Umm…,” Harry said, still scanning, always glossing straight over anything that seemed unreasonably priced, which was pretty much everything on the menu; “I’ll just have the sandwich.” The silence that followed made him swallow, and look up very slowly from his little leather prison, Malfoy was staring at him with an expression that could only be described as disdainful.“You will not be ordering a sandwich,” he said.“I thought…”“When I said, order anything you like, I meant something worth eating,” Malfoy continued, the expression still not leaving. From an objective point of view, Harry would have said Malfoy had never eaten a sandwich. Perhaps if he did, then he’d learn to appreciate the art form of poverty.“What’s wrong with a sandwich?” Harry said, a little defensively, after all, the humble sandwich was very much a staple of his current diet. Most meals, he’d found, could quite easily be replaced with sandwiches in one form or another, usually with some cheap spread like honey or low-quality jam.“The problem,” Malfoy said, speaking as though Harry’s diet had personally offended him, “is sandwiches are so… dull, and anyway, if we’d wanted to take you out for just a sandwich, we could have stayed at the university, with their rather… unique approach to food. But we made the effort to take you out.”“Sorry–-” Harry started, thinking he should just go now and save them any further embarrassment.“You don’t have to apologise-–”“Correction,” interrupted Lestrange, his fingers snapping right in front of Malfoy’s face, “never apologise.”Malfoy glared at him and mouthed something that Harry didn’t catch. Though, by the way Lestrange raised an eyebrow, it didn’t appear to have been appreciated.
Just by being around them for a few minutes, Harry got the distinct feeling that a discussion with Lestrange was somewhat similar to being pelted with stones, just one thing after another until Harry could virtually feel the bruises starting to form on his tongue. With Malfoy, it was different, it was still being buried, but this time, it was far more similar to drowning. To have more and more water poured onto of him, so that it was smooth on the skin, but no less suffocating.“What I’m saying,” Malfoy said carefully, considering each word before he released it from his mouth, “is that you can have a sandwich anywhere; but we’d love you to try something with a little more…”“…Class,” finished Lestrange.For once Malfoy didn’t glare, he just continued to smile, his pink stained hands, looking almost bloody, as they rest on the table. “So, at least look at everything else.”Speaking of looking, Malfoy was looking around a lot, but always at the same thing. Always subtle enough that if Harry hadn’t been watching him so carefully, he might not have seen how he looked over his menu and smiled. In the guise of just looking around, Harry turned for a brief second to skim his eyes across the rest of the restaurant. But even a short glance was long enough to see what had caught Malfoy’s eye. A waitress balancing several wine glasses on a glass tray.She saw them watching and smiled, before putting down the tray and its contents, and started to approach, though not before she had surreptitiously smoothed down her dress and given her hair a quick pat-down. It wasn’t necessary, she was a pretty girl. Not in the same way as Druella, or that red-haired girl Harry liked to look at, but still nice. Her hair was either cut short or done up in a way that eluded Harry, he’d never understood how girls managed to do their makeup and hair so well every day. It was just another one of those grand secrets that all women had but would never share.When she arrived by the table, she smiled again all big and bright, and tucked her hair behind her ear, even though it wasn’t in her eyes. She fitted in here, with her dark hair glazed with the red light, and lipstick in almost a matching shade that made her smile so much whiter. She swallowed before she spoke, her hands fumbling a little as she tried to get her notebook out of her pocket.“Good afternoon; what I can I get you, gentlemen, for – for,” she lost her train of thought quite suddenly when both Lestrange and Malfoy turned to look at her at once. “I’m sorry, what can I get you to drink or--err--to eat?”She swallowed again like there was a rock with jagged edges in her throat. Harry knew what that was like; he knew how hot her palms must feel, and how cold that string down her spine must be.Though he still watched with curiosity as her eyes lingered first on Lestrange, he did not return the gaze. Or he did, but it wasn’t the sort of gaze anyone wanted on them. Too ragged at the edges, prickly like the blackberry brambles that used to grow where Harry used to live. And though, they, much like Lestrange, were striking, they always pricked his fingers and made him bleed. The blood mixing with their juices until his hands were just steeped in this sticky red sweetness.Harry swallowed and shook himself, suddenly aware he had been staring at his hands, flexing his fingers, trying to see every part that was inside him and imagining them coated, once again, with that sheen that was the same colour as the wine Tom liked to drink. Malfoy hadn’t noticed him staring, but Lestrange had, and his eyes were dark and interested, as though just by looking he could see the stains on Harry’s fingers.Harry turned away to watch the waitress’ own fingers as she fiddled with her notepad. Just smoothing over the coil binding at the top before running the tip of her nail down the edge. If the bubbling of conversation had been quieter, Harry would have been able to hear the scraping of her nail on the paper. She didn’t notice him watching, she didn’t really notice anything other than the way Malfoy was looking at her; like she really meant something.It wasn’t the same gaze as he had afforded to Tom, rather the complete opposite. With Tom, Malfoy had been demure, reserved, always waiting to see how much he could have before taking it, but now, Malfoy was looking at her with a confidence that must have flowed like a river from a self-assurance that he was indeed desirable, which he was. He returned her gazes with the gift of a smile. A slight, lazy, smile spread from the corner of his mouth. It was the sort of gaze, Harry wished he could master; attractive, and provocative, and all just on the right side of tasteful.“Err--so, do you gentlemen know what you want, or should I give you a little more time?"“I, for one, know what I want,” Malfoy said slowly, his eyes dipping down to take in the full length of her body. She blushed and smiled, the fingers on her right hand twirling the hair around her ears. She continued to smile even when Lestrange interrupted the moment, cutting brutally between them so that he could order.Without the slightest bit of shame for interrupting, Lestrange ordered a salad in a manner that just about passed as polite enough for polite society. Or, what Harry had thought was polite society, but now, he was having seconds thoughts. Perhaps, polite society did exist, but they weren’t part of it; they were something much more magnificent: high society, in all its glittering gory glory.Malfoy continued to smile at the woman like she was the prettiest thing in the world, before Lestrange kicked him under the table, hard enough that Harry felt it as well. At which point, his smile turned to a glare and he deigned to order the unpronounceable, in Harry’s opinion, vermicelli soufflé. Then it was Harry’s turn. The waitress continued to politely smile, even as Lestrange and Malfoy talked, coerced or perhaps even threatened, Harry wasn’t entirely sure anymore, him into having what was apparently just pasta with some sort of tomatoes. If he hated it, it would be entirely his own fault for not wanting to probe too far, and so he was just sort of hoping they were right that it was actually nice, or, tolerably edible.It was entirely strange to have suggestions given to him, having choice itself was a novelty, and one Harry was learning he didn’t really want. It would be so much easier for someone to just do it all for him, to introduce him to these things one by one; someone like Tom. Which was weird because the role that he assigned to Tom was no different to the one Lestrange and Malfoy were currently fulfilling. But something made him trust Tom’s opinion in a way that he didn’t for either Lestrange or Malfoy, no matter how much they smiled and said that it would all be fine.All it was, was a nervous nagging at the base of his stomach, but it was enough to further put him on edge, enough that he was subconsciously gripping at the tablecloth and twisting it between his fingers. In the deepest, darkest part of his mind, the one that he wasn’t entirely willing to truly acknowledge, Harry wanted Tom to be there. To sit beside him and order for him, because Tom… would know what he wanted, even if he didn’t know himself.Both Lestrange and Malfoy also ordered wine, with “it’s never too early to drink rosé,” as the excuse, but that didn’t stop the creeping feeling down Harry’s back that it was indeed too early to be drinking anything that wasn’t tea or water; he was having the latter.The waitress smiled at their order, or more specifically, she smiled at Malfoy, and then just nodded to both him and Lestrange. She thanked them and turned away, and Malfoy continued to watch completely shamelessly; his eyes sweeping over every line like he was an artist painting her figure with his eyes.As soon as she had turned her back, and was a suitable distance away, Lestrange hit Malfoy with his gloves. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”Malfoy didn’t even turn to look at him. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to resort to violence?” he said, still watching the last flays of her skirt before she disappeared around a corner and into the main section of the restaurant. Over the next few minutes, more than a few looks were exchanged between her and Malfoy. Harry would catch him, in between the heaves and swells of the faint and, very polite, conversation, just drifting off slightly, his mind leaving behind the mundane suggestions of the weather and university life, and begin to meander, as a river does, to more… personal concerns. She was looking back as well, even when Malfoy was actually engaging in the conversation, Harry could see her; her neck craned, looking back at the table, far more than necessary.He might have said that it was similar to the way Tom and Malfoy had been looking back and forth, but it wasn’t. Sitting here, watching the two of them smile back and forth at each other, the hints of what they wanted, and it was obvious what they wanted, weaving between the people and chatter; it was clear, this wasn’t the same. This was soft, sweet, a fleeting moment caught before his eyes, just a tenderness. The same sort of things as Harry had accidentally witnessed the wide, open, studios of the art department when he had stumbled in there after dark. He hadn’t meant to be there, he probably wasn’t even allowed, but he had been, and he’d seen the way that girl with the pale hair had smiled at the girl with the freckles that dabbled across her skin like ivy across tree bark. He’d seen how they’d touched their hands, and he might have seen more if he hadn’t scarpered.But that sort of look didn’t exist between Malfoy and Tom, or maybe it did, but it was so coated in this darkness, glazed over with sort rawness that cut straight to his bones. Watching them had been what Harry imagined it was like to drown in oil, feeling the sticky sludge slide through his lungs, scorching and melting as it went. Harry doubted he’d ever see that sort of look outside Tom’s company, and he certainly didn’t see it here. Though every time Malfoy did look over, he was treated to a look from Lestrange. A knowing, unimpressed sort of look; both a warning and an expression of disapproval before he’d even done anything. To give him credit, Malfoy didn’t take any notice. Or, maybe he did, but firmly compartmentalised any disapproval, and filed it under things he didn’t particularly care about.By the time she brought their drinks, more than a dozen of these poison-laced glances had passed between them, and they were really starting to interrupt the flow of conversation. Not that Harry minded; just watching was something he was far better at then talking about things he neither understood, nor cared about. She didn’t appear to notice as she placed the glasses down; Lestrange’s first, then Harry’s, and then Malfoy’s, where her hand lingered for a few seconds more than was professional.
She still had nice hands; all soft and smooth. The nails short but kept nice, unlike Harry’s own, he caught them too much, on any surface available and they always broke low enough that they scraggly and unkempt.In Harry’s honest opinion, that moment, with the two of them staring at each other, seemed to last forever, and it must have done for Lestrange as well because he coughed obnoxiously and rolled his eyes several times, each one more dramatic than the last. At the same time, his fingers began tapping on the gloves that he’d left prominently on the table, probably as a reminder that, as Harry was learning, he wasn’t particularly patient.When she managed to eventually separate herself from Malfoy long enough to actually bring over their food, Harry couldn’t help but have apprehensions. He’d never been a fussy eater per se, but he’d also never eaten food, he couldn’t really pronounce, and as much as that tiny voice in the back of his head tried to convince him otherwise, he simply didn’t feel good enough for this food. Though, his doubts were somewhat quelled when she placed it down in front of him. As far as he could see from a first glance, it looked entirely ordinary. Not the sort of thing he’d be able to cook himself, but the sort of thing he could imagine cooking; if he had the means, and the basic skills, and the effort; but he could if he really tried.To put what this dish was simply, was to say it was pasta in a shape Harry didn’t even know you could buy, littered with ingredients of all colours he assumed must be edible. A dash of green and smidge of orange and all of it, glazed in that same sticky pink glow that everything here was. Such a pervasive glow that infused everything, from the forks to Harry’s water, almost making it the same colour as their wine. But despite this prettiness, Harry continued to eye the entire meal with suspicion, even if it did look so much better than what his usual lunches looked like, he didn’t entirely trust it, though he couldn’t say why.“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she said, her voice taking on soft lilt that it had not had before, and her eyes once again only fixing on Malfoy. In different circumstances, Harry might have felt offended, but, right now, he’d rather stay anonymous. He’d only just decided that, maybe, he did actually like humans as a species, as long as they fitted into a very specific mould, and there was no way he wanted to do anything else to do with anyone right now, except maybe if that person was Tom.But Malfoy interrupted his carefully construed thoughts by speaking. “Yes, actually, I think there is,” he said looking at her intently enough that Harry couldn’t help but feel he was interrupting something. It was as though they had known each other for years and then somehow separated, and now they were reunited for a moment. But Harry also knew he over-romanticised something that was not romantic. Now, what was between Tom and Malfoy, that was romantic, at least on one side of the equator, but this, well it wasn’t, was it? This was just a search for meaning when the world was devoid of it. The pursuit of satisfaction, even in the most inappropriate of times.“Could you show me the cloakroom?” Malfoy was saying, still silky and as smooth as his wine.“Oh, of course…” she said, the disappointment obvious in her tone, “it’s just over there,” she said her hand, waving vaguely to a doorway a few feet behind them. Somehow, everything about her closed up in that moment, as a tulip does at night, she furled herself up, and Harry recognised well the slight embarrassment that came with overestimating your worth.But Malfoy merely smiled. “I’m sorry, I think you misunderstand,” he said, standing up, a little too close to her. If the restaurant had been empty, it would have been noticeable, but everyone here was too busy paying attention to themselves to notice a waitress. “I want you to show me the cloakroom.”She blushed again and giggled at her own mistake. “Oh – yes, yes, of – of course,” she repeated unnecessarily and turned to start walking.Malfoy was about to follow when Lestrange slapped his hand flat down against his, trapping it, though only superficially, on the tabletop. “Must you do this everywhere we go?” he hissed.Malfoy leaned down, “I rather think it makes or breaks an establishment,” he said with a smile bright enough to burn, “how accommodating the staff are, is always a good indicator of quality, wouldn’t you say?”“No, I wouldn’t,” Lestrange said, as he pressed his palm harder into Malfoy’s knuckles, enough pressure that he winced, and his smile turned to a glare. “All that I would say is Druella would hate you, and I hardly think Riddle would sing your praises either.”“Nor would you, apparently. Pray tell, does it offend your fragile sense of morality?” he said all as sleek and slippery as Tom might have said, but with a nuance of warmth and joviality that distinguished it. If Tom had delivered the line it would have been murderous, but with Malfoy, it was quite the opposite, harmless, as though this was a mere inconvenience to his day as opposed to the weighty moral dilemma that Lestrange seemed intent on turning it into.“Don’t talk to me about fucking morals, Malfoy,” he snapped.“Then don’t lecture me. I’m not your wife and you're not my father, so I don’t have to listen to anything you say. I can do whatever I want, and right now, I want to enjoy myself whilst I still can.”“You’ll enjoy yourself even when you fucking can’t,” Lestrange spat back. The bitterness as obvious as a flower in bloom; at that precise moment, Lestrange didn’t sound like he liked Malfoy or the things he did. Harry himself wasn’t so sure what to think. It certainly sounded wrong, looked wrong, and felt wrong. Commodification was the first word that came to mind, quickly followed by exploitation, neither of which were particularly positive interpretations. But, at the same time, it sounded exciting, the sort of dangerous, deviant, thing that Harry would never do, however much he was starting to want to.They stayed watching each other for a second like they were having a silent debate about this behind their eyes before Lestrange lifted his hand and released Malfoy from the somewhat pathetic grip he had been in.“Fine,” Lestrange said, “do whatever you want, but if you’re more than twenty-five minutes, then I’m ordering everything on the menu, including that very rare bottle of Madeira Pather, and leaving you with the cheque.”Malfoy rolled his eyes, “fine by me,” he said, snatching his hand back up and following the pretty waitress towards the cloakroom.With Malfoy gone, there was a large, empty, space beside Lestrange, and its presence, or rather lack thereof, made conversation falter. Apparently, Lestrange was a touch too prickly to bother with small talk. So, the space swelled, and the silence spilled out between them until it was utterly palpable in the air; a dark, wet thing that seeped through Harry’s skin and made him damp and awkward. Whether deliberate or not, it was all made worse by Lestrange, even though he wasn’t doing anything. He was just sitting there, his right hand casually splayed on the table and his left hidden underneath.What should have been a simple and even pleasant silence to gather his thoughts, was interrupted by a buzzing inside his head. A single thought rebounding off the walls of his skull until he couldn’t ignore it any longer. “I am not your wife”. It could, quite easily, have been non-literal, but just the tang of the edge of Malfoy’s tongue has suggested it wasn’t.Harry knew he, probably, shouldn’t be so interested in their private lives, but he couldn’t help it when they were dangled so tantalisingly before his eyes. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to see if it was true, confirm the thing that Malfoy had alluded to confirming. For that was the one truly convenient thing about marriage was the evidence it left behind. Some were private signs: marriage certificates and photographs and outfits and memories, but others, they were public declarations. All he needed was to observe Lestrange’s fingers, just to see if he had a ring. But, almost like Lestrange knew that was Harry wanted, he kept his left hand firmly under the table, and instead just leaned back on the seat and sighed, cutting through that silence like one might break an egg into a bowl. One harsh crack and all the solemnity dissolved.With an unnatural grace, Lestrange inclined his head towards Harry but began to spread the rest of himself out, oozing into Malfoy’s seat, now that Malfoy was not there to share it. “You know, he thinks that this is a victimless crime,” Lestrange said, casually picking up what might have been a walnut from his salad and tossing it into his mouth, “all because he thinks it doesn’t impact anyone apart from him and her, but in actual fact, it has far-reaching consequences for you and I as well.”The way in which his tongue glided around the words was truly uncomfortable; they were a touch too familiar in his mouth, and Harry got the distinct feeling this wasn’t the first time Lestrange had made this sort of complaint to trapped witness.“For one, it’s fucking impolite,” he said, “and two, now we’re not going to get service because he insisted on fucking our waitress.” Lestrange rolled his neck back, stretching himself out a little more and taking another walnut, “I mean, he could of, at least, had the decency to use the one over from us, wouldn’t you say?”Harry wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say at all, so he said nothing. Instead, focussing his energy into pushing the pasta around with his fork and hoping that Lestrange would take his silence for agreement. After all, what was he supposed to say? That Malfoy was immoral? That he condemned his actions? How could he? When said actions looked so fun. The sort of on-the-edge life Harry almost wished he was brave enough to live. The sort where he didn’t have inhibitions and he just went with the world, let every experience flow through him like water, but he wasn’t like that. He had reservations. Multiple reservations. They sat in silence for another minute, Harry pushing the food around his plate, and occasionally eating a bite. It was genuinely good, but it still felt wrong to be eating when Malfoy wasn’t with them. A violation of some practice he couldn’t quite remember learning but was now so embedded into his psyche that he was never going to be released from it.Lestrange must have picked up on it because he was looking at him with an eyebrow raised. “If you’re hungry, eat; don’t bother waiting for him to get back.”Harry smiled meekly and continued to push the food around. He didn’t why he was being so awkward, he just was. This was all so new and exhausting, and as nice as it was to eat real food, the emotional cost of it currently felt unnervingly high. There was no denying that when Harry still didn’t eat, Lestrange’s fingers started to tap as a direct response. And after a few minutes of irritated silence, he snapped and looked behind him in the direction of the cloakroom. No one was there.So, he leaned over, though he didn’t exactly have far to go, and took a forkful of Malfoy’s food. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony now,” he said, immediately eating it as if it were his own. “You want any?” he asked looking up, “I mean, it’s good and he fucking deserves it for leaving it unattended.”“Uh--sure,” Harry said, he didn’t know why, but this might be his only opportunity to try all this stuff, so he might as well make it count.“Take it straight from the bowl then, that way, if he does even notice then it’s all my fault and not yours,” he said with a smile that made Harry feel warm, not in the same way as he did when Tom smiled at him, but similar. This was much more friendly, innocent, and for the first time, truly, in his life, Harry felt included in something. Even if that something was a direct robbery of someone’s food. About a quarter of Malfoy’s food later, Lestrange went back to his salad. Though not before he leaned closer; his elbow pressed into the table and his head resting on his right hand as if they weren’t in a restaurant at all. “I’ll say this now, Potter,” he said, lifting his head just to gather a forkful of his own lunch to eat, “if you’re going to idolise; don’t idolise Malfoy, he’s not a good influence.”Harry swallowed. “Who is then?” he said quietly, curious whether Lestrange would bring Tom into all this, or whether he would continue to leave him as the unspoken extra guest at the table, somehow present because of the sheer fact he wasn’t.Lestrange paused. For far too long really. Enough that Harry ate smaller bites of food, just so there would be enough to last this entire conversation. As he did so, he half-watched how the light dappled around Lestrange, making it look like speckles of blood were dusted across his face. Harry wasn’t sure why his immediate had been blood, but the thought of fruits or paint just didn’t do the colour justice. And something about blood and Lestrange went together like an artist and blue paint; not entirely necessary for each other, but significantly limited without. It might have been the savagery in his smile or the red glitter behind his eyes, but either way, there was something that suggested blood and Lestrange were meant to go together.Lestrange himself did not appear to notice Harry’s considerations; he was too busy thinking whilst staring at the light as a moth would. “Rosier,” he said eventually, cutting into the pleasant silence that had formed.“Not…?”He didn’t even need to finish before Lestrange was laughing.“Riddle? Fuck no.”Only the second after he said it though, he seemed to realise the finality of the statement was inappropriate. That it contravened an unspoken rule known only to a select few but sensed by everyone. Lestrange tried to smile naturally, to settle all his features back into something neutral, so as to take away from what he had just said and pretend that it wasn’t something unsayable.“I mean, of course, he’s an influence, but Riddle has…” he paused, the right word clearly eluding him for a while; hiding in the corners of his mouth where his tongue did not probe. “…sharp edges if you know what I mean; when Rosier, he’s as soft as a marshmallow. You ever had a marshmallow? They’re lovely little things.”The shock of the change, from heavy to light in the blink of an eye was jarring, but Harry still shook his head, after all, it was far easier than speaking. Though, the uneasiness remained, in the back of his skull, like a veil behind which was a monster and not a bride.From the short meetings Harry had had with Rosier, he would not have described him in terms of marshmallows, but maybe he was wrong. Not that it mattered, how they’d got to this topic was forgotten to Lestrange, now that the topic of confectionary had been brought up.Of course, he knew what marshmallows were, he’d seen them in the shop windows and smelled them on street corners, but he’d never tasted one. His excuse was that they were often expensive, and even if they weren’t, it somehow seemed like a luxury he shouldn’t allow himself.“Well, as soon as we get our waitress back, I’ll buy you some,” Lestrange said with a satisfied smile.“Umm…Thanks.”“You don’t need to thank me, we’re friends.”Harry smiled; he could feel the heat on his face; that slight blush that always appeared at the worst possible times. At least, here he might be spared the worst of the colour visibly spilling down his neck. Lestrange smiled too, and with an action that was excessively deliberate, he lifted his left hand to raise his glass to him mouth. He sipped his wine slowly, the contraction of his throat oddly hypnotic, before placing the glass down again. Though his right hand immediately picked up his fork again and began to stab at a leaf of his salad, his left stayed stroking around the base of the glass, his thumb sliding up and up the stem, over and over the curve.Harry could see it now. That little bit of gold he had been searching for. The strangely delicate ring on his ring finger was so obvious. Harry couldn’t stop watching it. Staring and staring at the way the light reflected on it, casting a gold sparkle onto the background of pink like the milky way had been inverted before his eyes.“I didn’t know you were married,” Harry said quietly, for want of anything better to say, and, anyway, it was now like the elephant in the room. That large thing that was hanging over both of them, just waiting to be said, so he might as well go and say it. He didn’t mind whether Lestrange was or not. Rather, the thing pressing so acutely into the back of his head was that marriage was just such a big thing; it held so many connotations, and responsibilities and obligations, and suddenly Lestrange didn’t look old enough for any of them.“Well, I am,” said Lestrange nonchalantly as he played with his salad like they were simply discussing the weather, and not how he was spending the rest of his life with the same girl. The same girl, that he had happened never to have mentioned before.“How long?”“Well…” he paused, his tongue searching for a date, “…we had our two-year anniversary in August, and now it’s November; you do the maths.” Two years, three months and however many days. It sounded like such a long time, even if it wasn’t really. Suddenly, Harry felt quite young, very young; he was only eighteen now, so when Lestrange had got married he’d only just turned sixteen, not that that mattered; but Lestrange couldn’t have been that old either, the maximum he could have been was--“Before you ask, I was nineteen, we both were,” he said slowly, before adding, “it’s not that young.”Harry opened his mouth to say… to say… something, but there was really nothing to say, nothing that he could say, and so he closed it again. Lestrange could say whatever he liked, but nineteen was young. And yes, maybe Harry didn’t know what it was like to pledge the rest of his life to someone else; before a few days ago, he’d never even thought about it, but still, the prospect of marriage was horrifying. Until Harry had met Tom, there had been no one he’d even fathomed wanting to spend more than a few hours with, and yet, here was Lestrange having given away his entire life to someone else. He took another forkful of pasta, silently cursing them for choosing a seat with no window to stare casually out of. The only things that he could stare at without being surreptitious were Lestrange and the cloakroom, neither of which he particularly wanted to look at right now.“You know, you can ask questions if you fucking have them,” Lestrange said between mouthfuls of his and Malfoy’s food.Harry swallowed, his throat felt dry and itchy, and this whole conversation had made his stomach turn, and not in a good way. “It’s… you know… such a… I don’t know.”Lestrange smiled, his eyes settling on the rim of his glass. “It’s fine, you should have seen Avery’s face when he found out; compared to him, you’re doing pretty well.” That was mildly reassuring. Though Harry could practically see Avery’s stumbling and fumbling, his tongue somehow tripping over every word, he didn’t look like he took surprises particularly well, even less, the ones to do with interpersonal relationships.“What about the others?” Harry asked, for, whilst he could imagine Avery’s awkward blustering, he couldn’t quite imagine what their reactions would be. They all seemed too distant, too disconnected from the real world to let this sort of thing touch them. Really, they all appeared too ephemeral, too transient, just passing through this world on their way to enlightenment to actually have to deal with human connections.“What about them?” Lestrange replied with that same detachment which was as irritating as it was enviable.“How did they… take it?”“Oh,” he said, apparently caught off guard, “they were at my wedding. Druella was Rowle's maid of honour, Riddle was my best man, and Rosier and Mulc– Malfoy managed to turn up. I can’t honestly say if they were fucking sober but...” He smiled. “They were all there.”“Oh.”It was Harry’s turn to sit slightly gormlessly, his mouth still open. But he could see it now, that understanding, that camaraderie of the five of them, six he supposed if they included Lestrange’s bride; just the six of them laughing by the flowers and dancing on the lawns and being complete disinterested in everyone else because they were in their own little cosmos, where nothing but themselves really mattered. Lestrange interrupted his little daydream. “What about you? Is there anyone in your life?”“No,” he paused, now that he thought about it, the response had been too strong, too forceful, and apparently Lestrange thought the same because now he was leaning in closer, that vicious smile replacing the more gentile one.“No one?” he said, eyebrow raised, “how about I rephrase the question: is there anyone you’d like in your life?”Harry swallowed, if the flush from earlier had died down, it now rose again like a phoenix from the flames. There was no way on heaven or earth that he was going to outright admit to Lestrange that the one person crushing in on his mind like Typhon waves on rocks, was his friend, even less could he tell Malfoy that. And supposing he did tell them, well, it wouldn’t stay a secret; they’d almost certainly tell all the others, including Tom, and then Harry wouldn’t have any choice but to hide in his room and never come out again. For it was one thing to have a private little infatuation, it was quite another to have the unattainable man of his darkest dreams know about it.So, he just squirmed in his chair, half wishing the floor could just swallow him up, and absolutely avoiding all eye contact with Lestrange. After all, if he looked at the table long enough, it did become interesting; how the tablecloth was crinkled in some places and not others, how it scrunched up around the drinks but not around the plates, how Lestrange’s elbows resting heavily on the edge was messing the entire arrangement.“There is someone, isn’t there?” Lestrange said, the words weaving out from between his teeth and his chin resting on his hands and that infuriating smile embroidered into his mouth.Harry shrugged as casually as he could, hoping that it neither confirmed nor denied exactly what he was thinking and that maybe, just hopefully, Lestrange could drag his own conclusion from the slurry without pressing him further.“Oh, Potter, you can do better than that.”He swallowed, excuses spinning around his head like a hurricane. “They don’t… so, it doesn’t matter,” he said, honestly, though he had quickly decided he was perfectly willing to be dishonest if it got Lestrange away from smiling like he knew every secret that had ever passed through Harry’s head. But Lestrange just leaned closer, until it looked like a truly confidential conversation, the sort of thing rich men had in restaurants like this, backstreet deals and shady transactions all veiled in the privacy of gentlemen at dinner.“You know, there are always ways of making people like you, Potter; we’d be very happy to start acquainting you with them…”Harry leant back into his chair, his hand flat on the tablecloth just to stop it shaking and drawing unwanted attention. It wasn’t an indecent proposal, and perhaps if the object of his newfound affections wasn’t quite so cosmic, Harry might have accepted, but still, there was a wave of indecency that hung around the proposition like fog in the morning. A deeply, disturbing feeling snaking between the wires in his stomach.He must have shown the apprehension on his face because Lestrange retracted, just enough, and not in any way that suggested he was offended. “If that’s something you want, of course,” he clarified, though this time there was definitely the hint of something sinister behind his tone, like a pinch of some unknown spice that permeated all the way through a dish, making it taste good but… different, a little ominous in ways Harry couldn’t quite explain, but felt right in the very nadirs of his stomach.“But still, they must have been charming to catch your eye,” Lestrange continued with that same deliberate tone, as though he already knew exactly who it was that Harry had been watching, and now he was merely trying to get Harry to say it out loud. To admit, just how much he wanted Tom to notice him, just him. How much he wanted things he couldn’t even articulate but all involved Tom’s tongue curling around words like they were candy canes. “Someone, intelligent. Someone, argumentative. Just someone who offers a bit of excitement, right?”Harry shrugged and pushed the last pieces of his pasta around the plate, avoiding Lestrange’s bright eyes that were starting to sting at his forehead, and, instead, wondering if they’d charge them extra for the tomato stain on the tablecloth.“Come on, Potter, I’m trying to get to fucking know you, and you’re sitting there as tight-lipped as a doxy in the confession box.”Harry still didn’t reply. If Lestrange didn’t like it, then he could just report back to all the others not to bother because he wasn’t as interesting as they’d all mistakenly believed him to be.“Silence possesses few benefits, Potter, other than trying my patience, and whilst Riddle claimed not to bite, I make no such guarantees.” The tone was unsympathetic. A sly thing that Harry could practically feel gripping his wrists and telling him to talk as though this were a police investigation.When Harry still didn’t say anything, Lestrange sat back and put down his fork. Instead, he crossed his arms, mirroring Harry’s own movements, except with more assurance that he was right.“Would you rather do casual conversation? Because I’m not one for that, so if you’d prefer to do small talk about the fucking weather, tell me now, so I don’t have to waste my fucking time and we can just wait for Malfoy to get back, alright?” It was a cold statement, laced with a disappointment that Tom would probably have put slightly more tactfully. Harry couldn’t even remember when he’d started comparing everything to Tom; when he’d become the benchmark for all appropriate responses, he just had. But Tom couldn’t help him now because, now, if he were Tom, he’d smile, and make some sort of clever quip that put Lestrange right back in his place; and he couldn’t do that. Well, he could, but Lestrange would probably eat him alive.“I just--” Harry swallowed, “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to say, alright,” he said quickly, the words all running out like a stain on a white shirt, unable to avoid how his voice cracked in the worst possible way.Lestrange didn’t move; in fact, the only motion at all from him, came from his fingers as he used them to hold his fork as he stirred the remaining leaves of his salad. Like that, he was absent, considering all the options meticulously. Intently enough that Harry tensed when Lestrange looked up at him, his eyes wandering all over his face. “To be quite honest, I don’t fucking care what you say,” he said, softer than usual without that hard strung of being right running through the middle, “as long as you say something.” It was reassuring, fraternal balancing right on the edge of paternal; close enough that Harry had to wonder if Lestrange wanted children. For the first time, he could imagine him with them, that firmness mixed with a fairness that would never be appreciated until they were adult themselves.Lestrange snapped him out of the thought. “How about I make the question easier for you?” he said, his hand resting on the table in a way that drew Harry’s eye for no particular reason.“Tell me something you like, anything at all.”“Law?” Harry said, very quietly, and looking at the table because the table couldn’t judge him.“Which bit of it?”“Criminal?”Lestrange smiled, pressed forward enough to suggest he was no longer merely being polite. “You interested in a life at the bar?”No,” said Harry, perhaps too quickly, but he wasn’t. Or, he didn’t think he was. The bar was the place all his peers wanted to go, to take silk, though they must know barely any of them were actually worth it; they didn’t even deserve cotton. Harry wasn’t like them, he understood his worth, whilst they had coddled their whole lives into believing that they were special, he understood, he was just… average, and when you’re average, there was no point in aiming higher than what you deserved, or rather, what this society seemed to think you deserved. So, no, he wasn’t interested in being a barrister.“Shame,” said Lestrange, though Harry had almost forgotten he was even there, though now he was looking at him Harry couldn’t help the tension stringing itself through his shoulder and his back and his neck, because Lestrange was looking at him a little too attentively. “Riddle thinks you’d make a good barrister,” he said slowly, and leaning in like this was something he shouldn’t be sharing. “Riddle thinks you’d be good for a lot of…” Lestrange paused to take a sip of his wine, wetting his lips as he did so; enough that Harry felt that same pressure in the base of his stomach, as though a stone was forming as a pearl does within an oyster. Lestrange just smiled,“…careers,” he finished, “particularly the bar, but then again, Riddle would be fantastic there too, and that’s not what he wants.”The sound of Tom’s name fizzing over Lestrange’s tongue made Harry want to ask him questions. So many questions, like, what did Tom want to do with his life? If he wasn’t persuaded with the thing, he’d be the best at.Harry might have said that Tom was aspiring to academia, but somehow that was little too hollow; it did not contain the bright, glittering dreams that he evoked in the people around him. And, unlike Lestrange, Harry doubted Tom had much tolerance for children, even if they were legally adults. If he was disinterested in the most interesting, people Harry had ever met, then he’d never survive teaching in some dingy classroom with people with only an eighth of his own intelligence. Which could all only mean that Tom had different dreams, more exciting career ambitions, and he was simply dying to ask what they were. And maybe he would have asked if he hadn’t remembered how Lestrange had smiled at him; how he might just have seen what Harry thought of Tom in his deepest dreams. He didn’t want to give Lestrange an excuse to start up that conversation again. So instead, he said something dumb that made Lestrange smile again and take a sip of his drink.“You’re into criminal too, right?” Harry said swallowing the rest of his water like it would drown out every thought of Tom that was swirling around his stomach.“Oh, I love it,” Lestrange replied, his lips catching on the rim of his wineglass as he drank again, and the sound of his ring echoing out as it clinked against the glass.“Umm… defence or prosecution?” Harry continued with the limited court proceedings he was vaguely certain about, and rather hoping, in the back of his mind, that he’d hit a goldmine of conversational topics where Lestrange could give up the pretence of altruistic interest, and just concentrate on himself again.Lestrange’s smile certainly spread wide at the question, and in different circumstances, Harry might have called it voracious, but even now it definitely bordered on the farther side of eagerness. “Defence,” Lestrange said, “it’s far more satisfying than prosecution. After all, the law might state that we are all innocent until proven guilty, but that’s not the case, is it?”The way he said it, made Harry inclined to agree, though he wasn’t really sure why, and suddenly he was quite grateful that they were in a restaurant, surrounded noise and people. Like this, there was less weight to Lestrange’s words; they didn’t seem real or meaningful, and in the back of his head, Harry could pretend he still had faith in the legal system, even if there was a growing feeling in his every inch of his conscious self that that faith was misplaced.“I mean,” Lestrange continued, “the second that you are up there, you’re guilty, everyone wants you to be; so, the greater skill is to subvert expectations. Make them all doubt themselves, until, suddenly, they can’t believe how they could possibly have thought you were guilty in the first place.”“You want… power?” Harry found himself saying, the words just slipping out without him hardly noticing. It was the same thing that Tom did to him, how he dragged conversations from his mouth like they were fish, and his carefully placed words were the bait.“Yes." Harry swallowed, there was something, just something in the simplicity of Lestrange’s answer that made the hairs on the back of his neck raise, setting him on edge like someone was scratching ice down his back. Maybe, it was just his smile, or maybe it was the brazenness with which he admitted to what he wanted; with such a clarity, an understanding, and simplicity that Harry’s own dreams could never emulate. Unless, perhaps, he could get right down to the essence of what it was that made Lestrange’s opinions quite so fascinating, so intense that they felt as though they might swallow him up.“Why do you want it?” Harry asked, shifting in his seat to try and dispel the uncomfortableness of talking about something he’d never really had.“Everyone wants to be powerful, Potter, even you.”“But…” he put his fork down and looked across the table to where Lestrange was sitting, haloed in light, like an angel but with the devil in his eyes, “what if… I don’t want… to be?”“Oh, you do. Power manifests itself in different ways; I, for instance, want to get what I want, when I want it; but Malfoy,” Lestrange paused to snicker to himself, “he just wants the power to live his life as… let’s call it, promiscuously, as he wants; and you, well you want power in order to change your life, don’t you?”“Why would say that?” he said, as defensively as he could, without sounding offensive.“Because Riddle said so, the first time he met you. He said you were unsatisfied, that you were lost, that you were looking for… something.” Although he did not say it, Harry suspected the word Lestrange was going to say was not ‘something,’ but ‘someone.’ He was looking for someone. And maybe, he was. Or, maybe, he’d already found them smiling at him from the first-floor window.“So, for you, going back to a case and all, it’s the thrill of the chase, and not the sting of the kill?” said Harry, his mouth as dry as a wood dust, and using the dramatic words he knew would catch Lestrange’s macabre eye, in a desperate attempt to get away from him so meticulously deconstructing him like he was nothing more than one of the opposing counsel’s witnesses. Still though, there was the same insidious thought creeping up his spine: he liked this. In a twisted, painful sort of way, being stripped back to the bones was… horrifyingly intimate.He wondered too what this looked like to the other patrons of this restaurant; Harry had seen them glance up casually, more out of curiosity at his presence than out of maliciousness. But still, what did they think they saw? Was it the methodical demolition of an argument? The casual deprivation of his case until he was sitting there as stripped as any carcass for Lestrange’s vulture-esque entertainment. Though, unlike with his official witnesses, Lestrange was making no attempt to remodel him, to change what he was saying, only to record it for later purposes.For the first time, Harry was grateful that Tom wasn’t here. Just from Lestrange talking about what people wanted he felt like he was burning up from the inside to the out, and the thought of standing in a court of law and having to look at Tom whilst he did that, was frankly breathtaking. If Tom had been here now, he would have stolen away the oxygen from his lungs and watched as Harry suffocated on the red-soaked air, and it might just have been beautiful. But whatever it was he felt inside, Harry hoped, for the sake of the jury, Tom never did become a barrister. Or, maybe he should, for Harry couldn’t quite imagine anyone ever denying Tom the things he wanted, and if what he wanted was a conviction, then he was going to get it.Harry shook his head, suddenly realising he was staring again; looking at nothing in particular for a little too long until there were sharp lines, and even sharper edges covering every inch.“That’s a skilful misdirection, Potter, turning everything back to me; but I’ll assume it’s flattery for your sake. To answer your question though, yeah, you could say it like that, although, you sound like you disagree?” said Lestrange, apparently happy to be led away from these explorations, as though he was an oceanographer than had already surveyed those previous waters to satisfaction.“It's just--you know…”“You’re going to have to say in plain fucking English if you want an answer.”Harry swallowed; he could do this, Lestrange he didn’t care what he said as long as it was something. He could argue, he could make cases; if he did it to Tom, he could do it to anyone, right?“The chase, seems superfluous; after all, no one likes the fat on pork roasts, do they? So why would a jury like it on their case? They hold so much power in their hands at that moment that they don’t – they don’t – need any more aggrandisement,” Harry swallow, “they get to play God with people’s lives, surely that’s the simple fact you play too, yeah?”As he spoke, Lestrange’s head tilted to the side and his mouth spread again into one of those sleek smiles that simply meant he’d thought of something. Though when Harry finished, all in a breathless rush, Lestrange stayed silent, as though he was sampling the silence between them. Seeing how uncomfortable he could make it.“I like that,” he said eventually, “but I didn’t know you had the brutality in you, Potter; to condemn a man to death because you want to feel like God. But then again, Riddle said weren’t as much of a pushover as you looked, that’s why he likes you; because you’re… multidimensional. Almost nebulous, if you know what I mean.”Harry did not know what he meant, but it didn’t matter when he could feel his heart beating quite so intently on the length of his tongue, pressing right down into the centre as through the slow swirls an eddy was forming on the floor of his mouth, threatening to pull everything inside itself, until he was choking on his own tongue. He reached for his water, and tried, unsuccessfully to stifle a coughing gasping stutter that resulted in a fair amount of water failing to reach his mouth. If Lestrange acknowledged him spluttering, he had the courtesy not to mention it. He just looked over his own glass with a decorum that Harry was so far away from it was embarrassing.“Now tell me,” Lestrange said, firmly ignore that Harry was still choking, “have you ever considered – ?”He didn’t get to finish, for they were interrupted by Malfoy sauntering back over to the table and grinning like a child who’d got some candy. He looked immaculate; shirt all proper and his hair done right, and nothing at all how he’d been around Tom. But maybe that was because it was private, when this, well… it wasn’t.“Twenty-three minutes, thirty seconds,” he said, slapping his hand down on the table, “I do believe you’re picking up the bill.”“Urgh,” Lestrange groaned, “you know, every day you stray further from probity,” he said in the most bored tone Harry heard him use yet, as though he recognised exactly where Malfoy was headed and had the power to stop him, but simply chose not to.“Well, I can tell you that it was definitely worth it.”Lestrange raised both eyebrows, “really? Worth even enough to ignore what Riddle said about outsiders?”Malfoy rolled his eyes and sighed. “It’s not like I plan on seeing her again, and anyway, what Riddle doesn’t know, won’t hurt him, will it?” There was the slightest of threats stitched through his words, and Harry suspected that, although he addressed Lestrange, that little tiny threat was supposed to apply equally to him. That he should consider himself, bound, and as good as dead if he were to step over that mark.“You tell me, you’re closer to him,” said Lestrange, still spread across as much as the seat as he physically could be without lying down.“So?” said Malfoy, “you’ve always been his confidant, so, if anyone’s going to tell him, Lestrange, it’d be you.”That was probably a fact. From what Harry had seen, he suspected Lestrange wasn’t as concerned for morals as he apparently made out, at least, not when it came to, getting the results he wanted. No matter how many people might have to fall in order for those desires to be realised. Lestrange laughed though, for a good twenty seconds, before his face very suddenly went still and inclined his head to look Malfoy in the eye. “Riddle doesn’t need me to tell him things that are fucking obvious.”“And how, pray tell, is it obvious?” said Malfoy, leaning down, both hands now on the table.“Would you like it alphabetically or by letter count?”Malfoy didn’t smile so Lestrange continued with that look that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing. “One, I can smell her perfume from here; two, there’s lipstick on your collar; three it’s just fucking obvious. We’ve all seen your infidelity enough to know what it looks like on your skin.” The bite behind the words was now undeniable, so much so, that the question ‘how many times had this happened?’ started to skim across the surface of Harry’s brain, before digging right down between the folds.“That wasn’t a particularly great list,” said Malfoy sourly, rubbing at the corner of his collar with his fingers, as though that would make the dark red stain disappear. It didn’t, it sort of spread it right into the fibres, like the tomato stain on the tablecloth that Harry was currently hiding under his plate. They stared off a little longer. Lestrange clearly enjoying his short time above Malfoy on the food chain. “Would you, at least, let me sit down?” Malfoy said impatiently.“Fine,” Lestrange groaned again, as if this was all way too much effort, before shifting himself across the leather and back to his original position, as though they were resetting this entire afternoon back to stage one.Malfoy slid in once again beside and picked up his fork, but before he took a bite, he actually looked at his food. “Wait? Did you eat my lunch?” he said, motioning to the glaringly obvious forkfuls taken from the righthand side. There was no way Lestrange could have actively denied it.“Well you did leave it without supervision,” he said casually, examining his nails because it looked pretentious and was just melodramatic enough to be annoying.“You are unbelievable, do you know that?” said Malfoy.“Yeah, well you fucked a waitress.” It was blunt to say the least, and Harry found himself just staring at the wood of the floor, following its grain patterns with his eyes and hoping the tension would start to melt away soon. At least enough that he could look up, and maybe start examining the leather on the chairs instead.“Touché,” said Malfoy, apparently unwilling to argue the point, though he hadn’t the grounds nor the means to have refuted it. Instead, he started to delicately pick at his half-eaten and, by now, lukewarm, if not entirely cold, soufflé. He still ate it though.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Harry sat in the lecture hall, listening to the continual drone of the professor as he walked over the wood of the stage and occasionally wrote screeching words and phrases onto the blackboard. It was a dull lecture, just like every other law lecture seemed to be, which only added to the presupposed belief that law was the dry subject that everyone who didn’t study it considered it to be, simply to make themselves feel intellectually better. He would have been dying of boredom and resigned to watching a moth flitter over the light on the wall, had it not been for the new folder Harry was flicking through instead of listening.Ever since his first week, Harry had been moving back in the lecture theatre, now he was in the sixth row from the back and over to the left, a secluded spot just behind a large group of young men who spent more time whispering about the small group of girls in the seats close by, than they did listening to what he was being said. It was a good place to hide, right in plain sight as it were. This way, Harry was never asked questions, but he could still half pay attention to whatever they were being instructed on.He only needed to pay half attention anyway now because Lestrange had given him a large folder of his own notes; it had been an apology of sorts for keeping him discussing the weaknesses of a meritocracy for long enough that he’d missed a lecture, all because Harry had been too awkward to say anything about it. Having to stutter out the fact later had been mortifying, so too had been sitting in the car with Lestrange as he was driven to where he lived. Lestrange hadn’t invited him in, so Harry had just sat in the car. And, though he had tried not to, Harry couldn’t help himself but stare at that house; even in the shadows of his, admittedly, half-concealed view from the driveway, it was… immense. This infinite block of delicate lines and tight shapes and twisted spires on the horizon, and Harry had never seen so many glinting windows in a property because windows and space and light were all those strange luxuries that people like him could only dream of. Lestrange had probably never even considered the absence or excess of windows, and it just took Harry’s breath away to imagine how far all those potential rooms sprawled away behind the trees. Had Lestrange been in every room? Did he even know what was in every room?He wasn’t given adequate time to fully dissect the possibilities of Lestrange’s living arrangement though, as, before long, Lestrange himself was back on the gravel carrying a hideously large cardboard box. At first, Harry had tried to not accept it, after all, in a way it felt like cheating, but at Lestrange’s light-hearted insistence that they were friends and this was what friends did, he’d eventually caved and let the box be placed beside him. The rest of his evening had been spent going through that box and examining piece after piece of lined paper absolutely smothered in notes.In total, he was now the proud owner of a pack of notes that reached up past his knee, fortunately, though Lestrange’s methodology was systematic and, significantly, disciplined, with each piece of paper titled and dated with a fastidious degree of accuracy, in a way that Harry knew his own notes did not resemble in the slightest. If Lestrange’s notes were the great architectural achievements of the Roman Empire, then Harry’s must have been the primitive constructions of a Medieval peasant, one with a fairly severe visual impairment.It was best not to compare them really, especially when Harry started reading them; in short, Lestrange’s notes were… absolutely fascinating. Every inch of the margin of the textbooks, and every piece of the hundreds of pieces of paper, were meticulously crammed with so many observations and comments and opinions, all written in Lestrange’s half-legible scrawl. Some of them were additional notes supposedly said by whoever was lecturing this class two years ago, but others were undoubtedly original critiques; whole paragraphs discussing the interesting dynamic of strict liability and its potential application to murder in the unique circumstances of totalitarianism, not to mention the section that must have lasted several pages on the difficulties in applying gross negligent manslaughter since Bateman.And that was all from just scanning through the criminal notes of homicide offences, there was an equal number, if not more for non-fatal offences, and theft, and fraud, and sexual offences that Harry didn’t even want to think about. There was also a similar quantity of note pages for contract and constitutional law, and Lestrange had thrown in property and trust as he didn’t need them anymore. Though there was a small bloom of guilt swelling just below his ribs for having access to all this, an even smaller part of Harry was prepared to overlook it, after all, it was about time that he had an advantage over everyone else, and as he flicked over yet another page, he knew that this might just give it to him. After the lecture finished in its usual nondescript way with sparse applause and a hurried exit, Harry left by the backdoor. It led to a longer, quieter corridor that would take him to the same place, eventually anyway; he always took it to avoid the cram of a hundred law students milling around in the corridor for a good fifteen minutes, before they divided themselves off and went to pursue their daily lives.Instead, by the time he entered into the main corridor, there was barely anyone left behind, just the other loners who had nothing better to do than stand in the corridors and wait for something to happen to them; Harry used to be like them. Purposeless. It had been a pitiable existence and not one he was willing to return to any time soon.
Though it only took him mere seconds to regret thinking that, because as Harry rounded the gentle curve of the corridor, he saw Rosier lounging surreptitiously in one of the leather chairs in what was supposed to make up this Law department antechamber that marked the oncoming intersection between the entrances to the Politics, Philosophy and Law departments, but it had rather become an open meeting space, almost always busy with people moving in and out of the Law department, buzzing between lectures and tutorials and seminars, usually with as much diligence as the most committed worker bees.Today though, the space was surprisingly quiet, in fact, of the five seats available, placed in a circle, only one was even occupied. For the briefest of moments, Harry wondered whether it was because of Rosier that the other seats remained so painfully empty; perhaps he was merely the vanguard for the rest of them to descend here. But after a moment’s consideration, he shook that thought out his head though, after all, he’d like to think that knew their schedules pretty well by now, and certainly, Lestrange had said he was busy all day today, and Druella always had an advanced ethics lecture around now, and Tom always spent at least three hours in the library. So, it was likely just Rosier. Rosier who didn’t even belong to the law department, lounging in the law department’s chairs like he was waiting for something, or, Harry’s mind so insidiously suggested, someone.Harry swallowed and stayed where he was, just out of sight, secreted behind a marble statue of someone he had never taken it upon himself to learn the name of, but who he should probably have known. Rosier continued to sit, if such a position could even be classed as sitting. It was then that Harry decided the theory he had been working on with regards to a division in the group probably held true. He’d decided that the group of six could be divided four and two. In the group of four, which included Lestrange, Tom, Druella and Avery, were those that sat neatly, each limb folded carefully into themselves, and not a hair out of place. Whilst in the other group was Rosier and Malfoy, and they were the sprawlers; they sat in a way that was reminiscent of a cat, lounging across an entire seat, with their arms or legs, and sometimes both, spilling over the sides, and currently, Rosier was definitely living true to that categorisation.He was practically lying back in the chair, and in the past minute or so, had taken it upon himself to fold his legs over the right arm whilst his head rested against the left; meanwhile, one arm was curiously, and by the looks of it, uncomfortably bent underneath him whilst the other stayed splayed over his chest. It was the sort of position that very few people could get away with without looking entirely louche, as though they were treating the university like their favourite club, or worse, Harry imagined their own home. But Rosier managed, somehow, to bring a degree of sophistication to the entire affair, though perhaps that was, in part, due to what looked like the intellectual conversation he was engaging in. Rosier was currently smiling and talking with an older woman that Harry didn’t recognise, but the familiarity of the conversation seemed to suggest Rosier, at least, knew her well; he certainly didn’t try to display the slightest formality, either in his careless arrangement of limbs or in his informal wording. The slights of which Harry could hear as they echoed around the high ceilings and back over the stone floors.It was a strangely surreptitious position to find himself in, pressed against the white plaster the wall, listening to someone he was supposedly friendly with chat to someone else who looked perfectly harmless. If he was braver, more confident really, he would walk right over there and introduce himself, but the thought of that alone made his stomach churn and an uncomfortable heat settle on his palms. He rubbed them on his trousers and glanced around the statue again; this was certainly an intrusion into a private conversation, even at this distance, but he couldn’t find it in himself to stop.The woman had her back to him, but she stood up straight, in her left hand she held a collection of papers, and her right brushed every so often against her skirt, shifting the material in a way that caught Rosier’s eye more than once. But he appeared uninterested in pursuing it any further than a mere frustrated glance as though the constant movement was distracting him in ways, he’d rather it didn’t.But he didn’t have to keep up his tense smile for too much longer, as only a minute later, whoever she was, was turning to leave. Her low heels clicking against the stone as she headed towards Harry and his hiding place, in fact, she walked right past him into the law department. Though, if she spotted him standing too close to the marble statue and pretending to search his bag, she didn’t say anything.For a while longer, Harry stood, or rather, hid behind the statue, watching as a couple more students wandered down from the philosophy department and nodded at Rosier. Neither of them stayed to converse.There was another back way that Harry knew, down a couple of flights of stairs and through three corridors; it took you right under the main campus building and deposited you in the courtyard a good ten metres from the nearest Law school entrance, so he didn’t have to walk past Rosier and risk being seen, or worse, actively engage his conversation. But at the same time, Harry bit his lip, if he wanted to assimilate himself with them, that involved meeting them not just when he was invited, but instead, taking the initiative and just… talking to them, and who better to start with than Rosier?Soft as a marshmallow, that was how Lestrange had described him, and despite not having extensive knowledge of that particular confectionary, Harry was pretty sure that marshmallows were entirely harmless, particularly in small doses. Right now, Rosier certainly looked harmless, with the lazy tilt of his head back on the chair’s arm, and the arm that had been splayed across his chest wandering vaguely, as though it were searching for something.Swallowing hard, Harry exited his hiding place and walked towards Rosier, slowly, attempting to amble casually as though he had only just arrived and hadn’t been hiding like a coward behind a statue for the last five minutes. “Uh--hello,” he said, awkwardly, stopping a couple of feet from Rosier’s chair and waiting to be noticed like some newly-orientated ghost.Rosier looked up and his face split into a smile, “oh, hello, Potter,” he said, “I assumed that if I sat here long enough, I’d probably come across you.”“Yeah--umm--I was in a lecture,” Harry said, referencing the corridor he’d just come down unnecessarily; Rosier probably knew this building like the back of his hand. He continued to stand there, understanding the analogy of a lemon far better than he’d ever done before, as Rosier passed his gaze slowly over him. Starting at his shoes and climbing like a hydrangea up to his face.“You can take a seat if you want,” Rosier said after he’d properly examined each inch of him. Half-heartedly his arm flung out in a vague gesture towards the seat positioned opposite his in the circle, “or you can sit on the table if you really want.”They both looked at the low, wooden table with the shiny veneer and several newspapers that were days old now. “No, I’m fine, really.” Harry regretted it as soon as he said it, and regripped the straps of his bag, hating how they felt slippery in his palms; Rosier had raised an eyebrow and settled himself deeper into his own chair, leaving him to stand tall as the self-insistent fool.“Suit yourself.”After a bit of silence, where Harry shifted from foot to foot, and Rosier’s fingers tapped roughly and repeatedly on the red-brown leather of the chair like there were insects under his skin, he looked back up at Harry sharply.“Look, you don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” Rosier asked. Though the question appeared to be one of mere politeness, instead of actually asking permission because, in the matter of seconds that Harry took to even start thinking of the answer, Rosier had gotten a cigarette in his mouth and was going through his pockets, apparently looking for his lighter.Harry swallowed, “Umm – no,” he said, in case he still cared for the answer, “but – I didn’t – I didn’t realise that you…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to either; it was obvious what he was going to say, and Rosier must have known that too because he interrupted.“Oh, I don’t smoke,” he said with an eyebrow raised, “it’s such a unpleasant habit,” he continued, his tone condemnatory, mixed, perhaps, with a hint of surprise that Harry would suggest such a thing, as though the entire notion was ridiculous, despite the cigarette in his mouth and the lighter now in his hand. It was a terribly fancy thing, even by their standards, silver and coated in coils that looked like snake scales as though there was a serpent constricting the life out of whatever poor hunk of metal had been there before its arrival.“But--” Harry started.“But what?” Rosier interrupted; there was a slight change in his tone, almost imperceptible, and Harry certainly couldn’t tell what had changed, it was just… there was something in it that he’d never appreciated Rosier having. A type of viciousness that made him feel almost stupid for having asked in the first place and made him question whether Rosier was ever like that around Lestrange. Rather like an animal prodded too many times with a stick that it now reacted violently.There was another long stretch of silence, where Harry found himself looking predominantly at the floor, though he snuck a glance or two up to see how Rosier held his burning cigarette to his mouth. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke caress his tongue before leaving it a burning cloud that stung the back of Harry’s throat.“And you’re not going to mention this to my sister, are you?” he said, looking at Harry quite earnestly all of a sudden, as though his previously sharp words had never happened; but at the same time, there was an uneasiness behind his eyes like he didn’t quite trust him to say the right thing. Harry swallowed, and kept his eyes on the stone slabs of the floor; he shook his head. It seemed to be the most neutral response, and he certainly didn’t want to be the one to get between whatever below-surface argument was happening between the two of them. Harry swallowed again as he watched the thin coil of smoke twirl upward with all the elegance of a ballerina, and the relaxation evident in the soft slackening of Rosier’s smile when he exhaled again. Even if it was a distasteful and, not to mention, expensive habit to keep, Harry could at least the aesthetic attraction of being doused in a great haze that blurred out the unpalatable characteristics of one’s personality.“Who was that you were talking to just now?” Harry asked, mostly for want of anything better to say, whilst edging back a couple of steps and trying to not breathe in the smoke-tinged fumes.“Oh, her?” Rosier said, “that’s just my ethics professor; she’s the one supervising my dissertation,” he added. There was a silence where Rosier’s lips moved but without producing words, as though he was trying to decide whether or not to say something. “You want to know a secret,” he said suddenly making a decision; he sat himself up a fraction and beckoned for Harry to lean closer to him. Harry did, with a quick step forward and an awkward bending at the waist that made his bag scrape the floor. This close to Rosier he could smell the heavy scent of smoke, though, right by his skin there was the faint flavour of something else, a light undertone that must have been the cologne he was wearing.“You know,” Rosier murmured, soft and low like this was a wholly inappropriate thing to be sharing in such a public space, “she’s having an affair with one of the constitutional law professors.” His voice dipped lower and Harry had to lean even closer just to hear him, “quite the scandal, really,” Rosier said, “given he’s married."“How do you know?”Rosier hummed lazily to himself and took another drag of his cigarette, “she told me of course,” he said casually.Harry couldn’t think of any words to respond with; he’d never been one for salacious gossip, there was always something more substantial that had needed his attention instead, but Rosier’s easy smile suggested he was fuelled with petty gossip and scandalous rumours alone.“But why? Why would she tell you something like that?”For a second Rosier looked at him like he had asked an absurd question, but the expression melted away a moment later and was replaced by the same comfortable smile that Harry could now see held a certain innocence when compared to that of Malfoy and Lestrange. In the former, there was always a looseness in his morals or his tongue, and in the latter was a prickliness, so much so that Harry was faintly nervous about having his skin cut open when having, even the most, innocent conversations, but Rosier had none of that. There was nothing… dangerous under his skin, only amiability, even if that wore thin sometimes, and maybe, Harry could see why Lestrange had said that Rosier was the role model he should be looking at.“Because someone had to know and she likes me,” Rosier said, breaking him out of that analysis. Though he seemed to sense that the answer was inadequate, perhaps he even read it in the way Harry’s lips pursed before he could stop them.Rosier tipped his head to the side and glanced across the room; “I have close relationships with all my professors,” he said absently, “after all, it really… pays to get to know them.” The leniency that he’d felt towards Rosier, and the relative safety of him when compared to his friends, waned a little then, and instead, an uneasiness settled in Harry’s stomach as he stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to another and wondering whether he was imagining the serpentine quality to Rosier’s smile.He couldn’t bear to look at it, there was just something incredibly slippery and deeply uncomfortable in Rosier’s gaze, and anyway, the floor was interesting. The colour of the stone and the shadowed patterns form the window in the ceiling, and of course the grouting. Who was he kidding? Harry looked up again, Rosier was still being apathetic; his eyes closed now and the burning tip of the cigarette getting dangerously close to his fingers. If he had to put a name to it, Harry would have called it an antiquated decadence, or maybe a simple materiality that he himself had never had the pleasure of experiencing; a comfortableness underpinned by the knowledge that he was… untouchable. Such behaviour was enviable, to say the least, which was probably why Harry stayed, just to watch, and breathe in the vapours of the person he almost wanted to be.“Uh--I didn’t know you were writing a dissertation?” he said, giving himself an excuse to linger, though, at the same time, he couldn’t help but resent that he was putting significantly more work into this conversation. With Lestrange it had been easy; he asked a question and Harry answered it, simple. But this was hard, and every word that Harry said felt like another mistake for which he would be judged later when he wasn’t around to hear the criticism.“Oh, it’s mandatory for third years,” Rosier said, all soft and smooth like he was speaking to a dream, “but, in a way, it’s good to finally have a chance to have our thoughts considered; you do get sick of writing about what everyone else thinks all the time.”“I suppose so, what are you writing about?”That was apparently the million-dollar question because Rosier opened his eyes and smiled, actually making an effort to twist himself around to look Harry properly in the eye. “Utilitarianism,” he said with a touch too much enthusiasm, “specifically how, despite its ostensible concern for altruistic values, it’s really just a conduit for self-interest.”Harry swallowed and nodded, suddenly feeling very much out of his depth; he knew his mouth was moving like one of those dumb fishes in the pond in the park he walked through sometimes, and that no words, or really anything coherent at all, was coming out of it. His brain was so empty that he was almost grateful for a voice loudly interrupting them.“God, you and your bloody dissertation,” said the voice sharply, though it echoed a little thanks to the high ceilings and apparent lack of restraint for using materials no room should be made of, and so the sound was hazy and indistinct and Harry had to look over before he recognised the speaker. It was Avery walking towards them, his hands by his sides and this expression on his face that Harry didn’t quite know what to make of; although if he had to say it was somewhere between boredom and innate aloofness. As though he was pleased to see someone he could talk to, but was disappointed that it happened to be him and Rosier.“Is it even possible,” Avery continued, coming closer enough now that his voice no longer echoed, “for you to go five minutes without mentioning it?” Despite apparently addressing both of them, he was only watching Rosier, and the expression was one of judgement, not encouragement.For his part, Rosier only rolled his eyes and tilted his gaze towards Harry before inclining his head minimally in Avery’s direction and giving him half a smile. “I’ll stop talking about it as soon as you can go five minutes without being critical about other people's life choices,” he said, and though the tone was warm, Harry couldn’t help but pick up on a certain… spikiness just under the surface.“I’m not being critical of your life choices,” said Avery, “I’m being critical of you as a person, there’s a difference.”Rosier glanced over at Harry again, like an aside in a play, and sighed deeply before turning back, “I don’t really know why you could possibly criticise me, given you haven’t even chosen your topic yet and it’s practically Christmas,” he said, and whatever hidden shot was disguised in the words clearly hit its mark before Avery’s expression turned to glare.Harry swallowed, glancing nervously between them and taking the smallest step back. There was an undertone to the words that made them slippery, even if they weren’t overtly disparaging in themselves; it was undeniably different from the friendly jesting that he’d heard between Malfoy and Lestrange yesterday. That had been pleasant rifting between good friends, when this, was coloured with a faintly antagonistic glaze from both sides.“It’s fucking November,” said Avery, “and, anyway, I’m waiting--”“What for? The end of the monarchy?“Oh, shut up,” said Avery, swiping at Rosier’s head, but missing as he ducked forward, before taking the seat that was to the right of Rosier. He slumped himself in it with the same brand of glare that he always seemed to be wearing. It appeared to Harry to be his permanent state and he was genuinely surprised that those harsh lines hadn’t set themselves as a constant into Avery’s face.Harry watched as Avery fiddled with his own fingers, and breathed carefully; he looked like he was working up to say something and Harry could only hope that it was going to be pleasant because he didn’t particularly want to take on the role of mediator, that was if they would even listen to him, which, between Rosier’s apathy and Avery antagonism, seemed unlikely anyway. “I thought you stopped?” Avery said, referencing the second cigarette that was now burning between Rosier’s fingers, the snide tone of nearing triumph a little too heavy to be entirely pleasant.“No,” said Rosier, exhaling deeply and licking his lips.Avery continued to watch him, “I assume you’ve told your sister, then?”At that, Rosier practically choked on the smoke, “do you really think I’m that stupid?” he said, actually taking the opportunity to glare in Avery’s direction. Avery tilted his head and made an expression that suggested he might be willing to argue that particular point, probably until the end of time, and Harry might just leave if they did that, make his petty excuses and leave them to stay at each other’s throats like poorly adapted housecats.When neither of them said anything and the silence was beginning to border on unpleasant again, Harry shifted the bag on his shoulder and tried to take the initiative, as someone more confident would.“Why shouldn’t Druella... know?” he asked quietly, after all, he wanted to know, and right now he was at a distinct disadvantage in this conversation, and they knew it. They were probably doing it deliberately, well Avery knew it, Rosier probably just didn’t care. Which was so different to the other, whereas Lestrange had opened up the space between them, Avery, preferred to keep it as closed off as possible, as though he didn’t deserve to catch a glimmer of their lives, and to be perfectly honest, Harry knew he didn’t really deserve it. He should probably just have stayed behind that statue, or even better just stayed in the law department until the sunset when he was required to leave.He was pulled from that unpleasant alley of musing by Avery laughing, and it was hard to tell whether he was being laughed at or with. “Obviously,” he said, “she doesn’t like the taste.” Those last words came out with a certain disdain, like the answer to that question really was obvious and Harry was the idiot for not seeing it.“The taste of what?” Harry’s mouth said before his brain could reasonably have stopped him from making himself the fool, again.“The smoke,” said Rosier quietly, and it was there again, the undercurrent of viciousness that made Harry momentarily question Lestrange’s judgement on the definition of niceness. Although, at least this time, it wasn’t solely directed at him, but was rather dispersed through the air, scattering, predominantly, in Avery’s direction. After that, Harry kept his mouth shut and didn’t bother to ask why she would be tasting it if the smoke was on the inside of Rosier’s mouth. Probably, it was just a simple slip of Avery aggravating tongue; finding the most irritating way of saying something simple. She probably just didn’t like the smell; Harry certainly didn’t, it was too acrid on his throat and burning on his skin, not to mention how it lingered on his clothes for too long.“Anyway,” said Rosier, evidently tired of having all the attention on himself, “what have you been up to this morning?”Avery smiled, apparently willing to indulge this civility, however, temporary Harry suspected it might be; there was a small part of him that wondered what it was about the Rosiers that Avery disliked so much to be antagonistic to both of them. But whatever the reason was, it probably wasn’t as salacious as he hoped it was. Most likely, from what he’d seen, it was probably an incredibly petty fight that had been going on for months now, and whose origin Harry would find out eventually if he played his cards right and learnt to ask the right questions.“If you must know,” Avery said, “I was out; saw Lestrange though.”“I thought he was busy?”Avery rolled his eyes, “well, I saw him out with Rowle, if you count that as being busy,” he said with enough sharpness to dress even the limpest salad to the nines.“Oh, come on,” said Rosier, that same dreamy tone back from earlier, as though for one short moment he was forgetting all about Avery, “it’s romantic.”Avery just rolled his eyes “Urgh, sure it is, a walk in the park with your ticket to a media conglomerate.”Rosier twisted round, “if Druella ever finds out that’s what you call her, you know she’ll have your tongue,” he said, licking his lips and repositioning himself, legs crossing back over each other and his spine twisting further.Avery just leaned back, both hands raised, “I’m just telling the truth; sue me for it.”Harry looked back and forth between them as a casual spectator watches a tennis match, always following the ball and never the players. “Sorry,” he said, interrupting before Rosier could serve for another round repartee, “what are you – talking about?” he said, feeling stupid even as he said it because it just felt like he should know stuff like this; the small contextualities that gave their conversations a substance he couldn’t help but want to understand. They both turned their heads to look at him, and Harry knew he flushed. He could feel it, hot and pink and awful, spilling down from the tips of his ears and splashing his cheeks.“Lestrange’s dirty little secret,” said Avery.It was Rosier’s turn to roll his eyes, and sigh like a particularly exhausted parent, “her name is Rowle,” he said, “Lestrange’s very lovely wife,” he continued, “and my sister’s very good friend.” As he spoke, the wistfulness of his previous tone drained away and he was back to apathetic reality, where he directed his glares towards Avery. Despite being new to that glare, Harry suspected there was a warning behind it, a firm suggestion to cease causing trouble before he took it too far.Harry swallowed. “But – ” he started, knowing already that he was probably messing up Rosier’s intended peace-plan, but he needed to know, “Why – do you call her… you know?” It was an awkward question, ungainly executed and so clearly showed his terrible need to be included, whilst maintaining the fact that he probably didn’t want to know, or worse, wouldn’t understand the answer anyway. “It really doesn’t matter--” Rosier started before Avery interjected, “because that’s what she fucking is,” he said, evidently more than happy that Harry had taken the bait that he’d been so obviously dangling temptingly from the low-hanging branches. Though, clearly, Harry didn’t look as convinced as Avery would have liked as he was starting to clarify the position. None of those words registered, none of them could cut through the distinct feeling Harry had in his stomach; an unconvinced twisting, after all, it was one thing to hear about this woman from the mouth of her husband, and quite another to hear about her from the mouths of his friends, and a part of him really didn’t trust Avery’s judgement. It was something in the way he acted, not quite slippery, but still somehow off.“Look, I’ll put it simply for you, Potter,” Avery was saying, as he leant forward, his elbows resting on his thighs and his hands working themselves together, “Lestrange’s family owns, through two different companies, a good third of the national newspapers in England; Rowle’s family owns enough to make that up to a half, hence he marries her, and his family gets a textbook conglomerate,” he said, clapping his had together and looking far too pleased with himself.Rosier just continued to look on with a mixture of irritation and disappointment. “However,” he said coldly, and with a kick of his foot that managed to scrape, though not cause any meaningful damage to Avery’s chair, “they got married over two years ago now, so let’s not drag that argument up again, alright?”“Oh, well excuse me for caring about the monopolisation of the media market and the decline of independent journalism,” he was saying, or rather claiming loudly to anyone in the vicinity who might have been in the position to not only hear him but also agree with him. As much as he wanted to Harry couldn’t ignore him, and he looked up to see Rosier, lighting up his third cigarette.“You don’t care about the monopolisation of the media market,” he said, using a tone that sounded like he was bored of having this conversation, probably because he’d had to endure it so many times in the last four years, and each time accompanied by Avery’s self-satisfied face. Speaking of Avery, he was smiling again, though this time it was so painfully artificial, all teeth and no eyes, his nails scratching at the stitching of the chair. “Oh, but I do,” he said, “ever so much.” Avery kept up his irritating grin for long enough that Rosier actually reacted. “You are really are being childish today,” said Rosier, leaning back further in his chair and crossing his legs over one another in the most blatant display of decadent laxity that Harry had ever bared witness to, and it made him feel awkward and ungainly just to be standing nearby.“I have an essay deadline in..." He checked his watch, "in five hours and I'm looking for a reason not to write it," Avery said, “that’s where you come in." He smiled, though the way he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and the lowering of his expression into a frown at the thought of the subject implied it was hardly light on his mind. “You’re an amusing distraction.”That, even to Harry who was self-confessedly not an expert on teasing repartee, sounded like a challenge. But if Rosier saw the bait, he didn’t immediately take it. Rather, he made no indication at all of having noticed, and instead, let his hand hang over the side of the chair, and the tips of his fingers scrape over the stone of the floor, almost certainly gathering dust and grit under his nails.When he looked up, he smiled in a way that made Harry’s stomach turn on itself because that look really had just one meaning behind it; it was Rosier seeing the line of conversational propriety and not caring in the slightest that he was about to cross over it, in fact, there was such a disregard for it that Harry would almost guess that Rosier thought he was above the basic decorum that the rest of the population had to abide by. Perhaps he was just bored.“You do know,” he said lazily, his eyes settling on Avery’s own, “that, if it’s the module I’m thinking of, Riddle took it last year,” he said, putting a little too much emphasise Tom’s name; “why don’t you just ask him for help?”“Because I don’t need Riddle’s bloody help,” Avery snapped practically before Rosier had even finished speaking, and his tone, unmistakably unfriendly.Rosier raised an eyebrow but didn’t bother continuing that exact argument though he certainly looked like he wanted to; there was this smile at the corner of his mouth and an energy in his fingers. Harry suspected it was an argument that had happened several times before. For a moment, they all sat, or rather, Harry continued to stand whilst the other two sat, in silence, the sounds of the corridors interrupting their non-existent conversation; people talking, and faint flapping of what was probably pigeons on the roof the building, and clicking of shoes down the ends of corridors, not to mention the occasional slamming of a door.“You won’t surpass him,” said Rosier suddenly, breaking the silence. As soon as he said, the air around them changed, turning sour, prickly even, and Avery’s expression once again turned into a glare.“I might,” he hissed, his own fingers gripping, almost imperceptibly, tighter against the arm of the leather chair, digging into one of the natural indents created by the stitching, and, not for the first time, Harry was quite glad he was standing to the side of Rosier, instead of the rather more hostile cross-fire directly between them.“Not in political econ you won’t,” said Rosier matter-of-factly, and audaciously examining his nails as he wound Avery up further with each word, and Avery was taking the lure. With each passing second his glare deepened, and the heel of his shoe ticked against the wooden legs of the chair. “I doubt you’ll even come close.”“Yeah, well I’m not taking the bloody advice of someone who spends his entire life whinging about people who’ve been dead for the last hundred years, alright?” Avery snapped. But it didn’t have any meaningful effect; Rosier just rolled his eyes and gave Harry a look that he imagined was the sort you gave a sibling when your parent said something truly stupid; not that he’d really know having never had either. Nor was it apparently enough to get Rosier to even consider stopping, for a moment later he was shifting his legs to the side so that he could see Avery’s glare for himself.“You know, the last time I checked,” said Rosier, still smiling, “Marx was really very dead, so was Smith, and Ricardo.” Avery jutted his jaw, but that only made Rosier’s smile broaden, clearly, he was doing this for no other purpose than to further antagonise Avery. “I mean, even Weber must just be a few dusty old bones--”“Fuck you,” Avery said, throwing what looked like a lump of metal that could either have been his own lighter or, more sinisterly, a pocketknife, with a surprising degree of accuracy at Rosier’s face; it caught the edge of his cheek before skittering across the floor. Almost immediately a redness began to bloom on the bone, and Rosier’s hand went to touch it, accompanied by the sound of pain. It certainly looked a painfully hard hit from Harry’s angle, maybe hard enough to bruise.“You done now?”Rosier just rubbed his cheek with one hand and took a drag of his cigarette with the other, “no, don’t worry, I can go all day,” he said with a smile, “in fact--"“If you say another fucking word, I’ll-–”Before Avery got the opportunity to describe in intimate detail what he would be doing, he was interrupted; “you’ll what, Avery? Throw an itsy-bitsy tantrum,” said Druella as she approached from down the corridor.On hearing her, Rosier choked unattractively, and half-dropped, half-flung the cigarette onto the floor, “Druella,” he said, still coughing, “I thought you’d be in there for another twenty minutes?” As Rosier spoke, and this held his sister’s attention, Harry moved forward, just a step and crushed the smouldering butt of the cigarette under his shoe; perhaps it was out of comradeship, perhaps it was simply to stop a fire spreading, but either way, Rosier flashed him a grateful smile as he slowly drew himself upright.“Well,” said Druella, “as is often the way with men, he wasn’t as interesting as he thought he was.” She smiled and continued casually, “so I left, and I guess I struck lucky to find all three of you here, or at least…” she paused to glower at Avery, “…two of you.”If Avery took offence to the gesture, he actually held his tongue for once, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder what words exactly Tom had said to spin such a tight leash that it was clearly still having an effect.But he didn’t consider it for long as his eyes were caught by Druella leaning forward, over the back of her brother’s chair. “You know, I can smell it on you,” she murmured into Rosier’s ear, soft enough that Harry barely caught the words at all. But Rosier just tilted his neck to the side and exhaled slowly, “and what are you going to do about it,” he said softly, letting his gaze catch her eyes.“You know exactly what I’m going to do,” she said, pressing herself into the back of Rosier’s chair, her right hand spreading over Rosier’s shoulder, the nails making small creases in his shirt, and the left, gripping hard into the brown leather of the chair.“By the way, Potter,” Druella said, straightening up and turning to him, “I want to take you out to lunch today.” She said it firmly enough that it didn’t sound like she’d accept being refused, “after all, I can’t let all these… boys, monopolise your attention, however much I’m sure you’re enjoying that.”She smiled and reduced the pressure of her hand on Rosier’s shoulder so that she could check her watch, “now’s as good a time as any for me,” she said, “you?”“Uh--fine?”“Good,” she said, “we’ll go now then.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The place Druella took him to was… interesting. It was this great building with hideously high ceilings and wide gaping windows that, on the outside, were splattered with rain and, on the inside, were draped with thin, gold-gauze curtains that looked like they were left-over from the springtime. Away from the windows, inside the hollow cavern that constituted the body of the building, like the underbelly of some ancient beast that only those rich enough to dine between its ribs knew existed, were multiple round tables each contained within its own, small, cosmos and each filled with the lively smiles of rich women talking over tea.There was something about the scene that it created that was warm and pleasant and distinctly feminine, perhaps it was the pink-hued flowers and the easy sound of laughter; the same noises repeated over and over as each conversation was sequestered in its own, individual, space. And between each enclosed universe was a ring of quiet where neatly dressed waiters walked in a controlled, slow, pace, each of them in white suits with white gloves and white smiles. The conspicuous uniformity of each of them made Harry faintly uncomfortable and he clung close to Druella, his hands not quite in his pockets, but drawing closer to it than was probably appropriate.But instead of focussing on his discomfort as they walked through the entrance hall and into the belly of the beast itself, Harry kept his focus on the tables. Most of them were filled with women who reacted in one of two ways, the first, chattered along as though he didn’t exist, the second, pointedly paused their conversations to watch him as he passed by, or perhaps they were watching Druella. Either way, there was a parting corridor of silence that opened up to them as they walked through the room; Druella’s heels clicking loudly against the wood of the floor but her demeanour unchanged—she still walked with her spine straight and her shoulders pushed back—the epitome of confidence.Harry followed slightly nervously behind, always eyeing the empty tables off to the side of the room, by the flat expanses of creamy wallpaper or in a slightly darkened corner; he very much hoped they’d be tucked away in a corner, somewhere where no one else could see them as he had been with Malfoy and Lestrange. Especially, as this silence that was pre-emptive of their appearance was almost unnerving, that, and there was something so distinctly other about these people, something that made him feel as though Harry was an alien walking amongst them, and it wasn’t simply that they were women as though she knew she was royalty and all these people were but commoners.As they headed towards the most central table in the room, Druella dropped back so that she was no longer leading, but rather was walking by Harry’s side as—dare he think—a friend might. She smiled at him, something sparkling in her eyes. “You know, Potter,” she said, “it is a common opinion that a woman must sacrifice her femininity so that she can remain competitive to a man, because, of course,” she said with a perfect eyebrow raised, “a man is the ideal that we all must emulate.” As she spoke, her tone was markedly sardonic and there was something cold at the centre of it, as though she were quite willing to put the heel of her shoe through the chest of anyone who deigned to disagree with her.Harry chose not to say anything—it was easier than having to edge his way around a conversation he didn’t know anything about, and Druella seemed to like that because her smile widened, and she continued with her portion of the conversation. “So,” she said, “I rather like having this space that is exclusively our own, that way we have the power to decide to share it.”They stopped at the centre-most table that, like all the others, had a pretty cream tablecloth and a glass vase with pretty pink flowers blooming from the top. It was soft and sweet, and, had it not been from the cut-throat sharpness of the menus and the serrations on the knives, Harry would have relaxed entirely. But the presences of those particular articles made him hesitate and glance around, looking for some unknown danger that was breathing down his neck. Though, maybe, that feeling was simply the one that every man felt when they were in the presence of someone as sharp and serrated as Druella Rosier.“When I have the power,” Druella continued, as she took her seat and gestured for Harry to do the same, “I can wear my favourite blouse without a man looking in places he shouldn’t, and I can have an intelligent discussion without having my credentials questioned by someone who thinks he knows more because he’s educated,” she said, spitting out the final word as though it had personally offended her—perhaps it had.Harry swallowed and shifted a little in his seat, which was all at once spindly and secure, soft to sit on but hard against his back. “What about the waiters?” he said, nodding his head up to one of the many male waiters who paced passed him, this one, carrying a large jug of water.“Oh, Potter,” Druella laughed, “they’re hardly people,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, even as she signalled one of the waiters holding water over to the table. Ignoring what he was doing, just as you might ignore the inconsequential acts of nature as you walked down the street, Druella continued to chat as he approached. “What you need to do, Potter,” she said, “is to find yourself one of these physical spaces,” she continued, shifting herself, rearranging the cutlery and the glasses and the menu to her satisfaction, and moving the flowers to the side so that Harry could see her face.In the warm glow of the room, she was unbearably beautiful, the soft lights spilling down from the ceiling and smoothing out the shadows on her face until it was smooth enough that she could have been made from glass or alabaster or marble, or any of the other precious materials that the great artists carved their signatures into.“Somewhere that you can call your haven,” Druella was saying, and Harry figured that he must have missed part of the conversation for the comment seemed so offhand, so unnecessary to make, particularly as Harry didn’t need a space. He didn’t exist for long in any physical spaces, he simply slipped through them as a marked intangibility that was never permanent because it was far easier to live in a state of ephemerality than to be marked and judged in the state of permanent being.But before he could bring up that point, the waiter arrived, his white smile shining and his hands steady as he poured them out two tall glasses of water, before placing the glass jug filled with leaves and what might have been a lemon—Harry wasn’t sure, and it was probably rude to ask—on the table. Druella didn’t watch the pouring of the water as he did, nor did she acknowledge the waiter in any other way, very much how Lestrange had behaved; dismissive bordering on irritated at someone else coming into their assiduously sculpted spaces.“By the way, I do hope,” Druella said, interrupting Harry’s thoughts, “that Lestrange and Malfoy weren’t too rough with you; they can be a little…” she paused, her tongue running over her lips, “…much, sometimes,” she said eventually. “Especially, if Malfoy gets his eye on a pretty thing, and Lestrange is left to dominate the conversation with that rather reformist legal drivel of his.”Harry shrugged; he wouldn’t admit it, but he’d rather liked hearing Lestrange’s reformist legal drivel—though, maybe, having to listen to it every day, or during a dinner party would sour someone’s opinions of it somewhat.“Oh,” Druella said, “you don’t have to pretend you enjoyed every second, believe me, you’re not the first who’s had to endure it, and I doubt that you’ll be the last either.” As she spoke, she reached for her water, taking it in her hand and sipping it slowly, tasting and judging it. When she swallowed, she glanced over at the waiter, who had continued to stand there, probably waiting to see if they were ready to order; she quirked an eyebrow, her eyes pointedly glancing towards the door. But the waiter’s eyes were glazed over, and it took a moment for him to get the hint; in the meantime, Harry found himself alternating between staring at his plate and smiling sympathetically at him. Eventually, and after several increasingly less subtle hints, he got Druella’s insinuations and left them alone. “I do hope you won’t mind,” Druella said as soon as they were, once again, alone in their bubble of privacy, “but I like to take my time to get to know a person before I invite them anywhere people will take note,” she said, tracing her nails over the gold edging of the menu but not yet picking it up. “And whereas Riddle likes to interrogate a man to determine his intellectual prowess, I’ve always preferred a more… intimate touch.”She smiled, her fingers moving to lightly touch the plate before skimming around the rim of her teacup, if it had been a glass, it might have sung; even so, there was such a furious delicacy behind her movements, her fingers at once both elegant, feminine, things made to be looked at, and useful, masculine, things, perfectly capable of executing her more violent intentions—the ones that Harry could almost see glimmering just beneath the surface of her skin, but never quite coming into the light.“Nothing untoward though, don’t you worry,” Druella continued, that same smile that Harry would almost class as mischievous, spread over her mouth and pushing indentations into her skin, “I just think more can be revealed about someone through casual conversations, than through what can only amount to a cross-examination; your opinion?" Harry looked down at his plate and, out of sight, under the tablecloth began to pull at the ends of his jumper.“I guess—they both have their merits?” he said eventually, glancing up to catch Druella’s reaction. But it must have been the wrong opinion to have, as immediately, Druella’s face tightened, her lips squashed into harsh lines and her fingers abruptly stopped their swirling over the china.“Please, Potter,” she began, more coldly than before; her tone brittle and the corners of her mouth sharp, “don’t sit on the fence. It’s the one thing I’m going to ask of you; opinions are the most attractive thing that anyone can have about them at any time,” she said, “I mean, sure, diamond rings are gorgeous, and I’ll always give a man in a Savile Row suit a second glance, but an opinion is what makes a woman stay, or…” she said, pausing dramatically, her eyes fixing on his, “should I say a man in your case?”The natural flow of oxygen caught in Harry’s throat and he choked on the air. Blindly—desperately—he reached for the glass of water the waiter had provided and practically poured it down his throat. It didn’t help. At least, it didn’t abate how uncomfortably warm Harry now felt under the scrutiny of her gaze, though there was no judgement in her face, merely a distinct curiosity like she had a bet going on this and would rather enjoy the victory if the outcome were to be in her favour.Harry swallowed another desperate gulp of water and tried to ignore the churning embarrassment in his stomach; somehow his perverse—for they were perverse—preferences didn’t sound right coming from Druella’s mouth, it was more something Malfoy would say whilst grinning in that vaguely inappropriate way. But regardless of how wrong it sounded in her mouth, Harry couldn’t ignore her, as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t ignore what she had just said and indeed the implications of her saying it because it meant someone knew. Someone had seen his thoughts. Just thinking about them all watching him staring at the things he couldn’t have made a blush bloom thick and red like the university rose garden over his face—almost indecently lurid in the presence of such pastel propriety.Scarcely without thinking about it, Harry’s hands retreated under the table, pulling at his sleeve harder in the hope of unravelling it and thereby giving him an excuse, albeit a poor one, of leaving and never coming back. Although he knew of his insidious inclinations—and he’d been certain the moment he saw Tom’s hand slide into Malfoy’s hair—Harry had hardly dared to allow himself to have a thought about… about men. And he’d certainly never articulated them before; especially not to someone who had the power to ruin him for the decisions of his heart. Rather those preferences were his sacred secret, a smooth, sleek he thought about in the dead of night when the world was dark, and his predilections couldn’t be appraised by the reigning morality of English law.Those moments, the ones he caught late at night when the covers scratched on his skin and there was such a dryness in his throat, were lovely in a horrible, torturous, way. Just the thought of faceless smiles got under his skin in a way that no rational thought could explain, and the memory of Cedric and his soft hands and gentle gaze was all but suffocating. Though, if Harry were being honest with himself, it hadn’t been Cedric visiting him when all the lights were out and there was no one to police his thoughts.At first, the identity of his twilight fantasies had been defined merely by sensation; the smell of old books, and sweet cologne, and the touch of fingers on the back of his neck. But they’d become more sophisticated as time passed and he’d almost felt the stroking of someone’s hand through his hair and the asphyxiating colour of black honey eyes watching him. Those nights were the longest and darkest and most smothering things that Harry had ever lived through, and what made it worse, was that, just recently, something new was bleeding into those moments, something tangible, slowly solidifying as time continued. Sometimes this thing—this person—had pale eyes and pale hair and spoke in two voices, and would surely now be wrapped in smoke, other times they had a razor-sharp smile and red speckled hands, but mostly it was another someone; this one with choking eyes and a smile that was torn at the edges. Someone who looked like Tom.It took several moments of stretched out silence for Harry to realise that Druella was staring at him, and when he did, he almost jumped; all at once embarrassed at his thoughts and glad that her attention hadn’t wandered to a more interesting specimen. Though, he still blinked hard and tried to focus. For her part, Druella tilted her head slightly, she was still sitting across from him, her delicate hands resting on the table; the ring on her middle finger glittering.“So?” she said, her words continuing in their clipped formality, but the tone, easy and genuine.“Umm…” Harry found himself saying, as he tried to swallow down the swelling lump in his throat with more water. “Umm—either is fine—I guess,” he said eventually, feeling how every letter stuck to his tongue and made talking almost impossible.“Either,” Druella repeated back, faintly amused as her fingers tapped on the tablecloth, but still not passing any judgement on him, rather just letting the flavour of the words seep into her mouth and give her a proper palette for a reply.“At least you know yourself,” she said finally, before sitting back, “I mean,” she continued, “I do love Malfoy, but he was terribly fickle; and, before you accuse me of illiberal, I’m all for the exploration of oneself, but…” she said with a roll of her eyes, “lurching back and forth between descriptors, is the apex of indecisiveness and, as I said before, indecisiveness is very unattractive.” As she spoke, Druella raised her glass of water to her lips and sipped at it delicately, leaving behind a faint lipstick stain on the side; a perfect imprint of her lips that Harry imagined many men would love to have the privilege of exploring.“How did you…?” he started, though he trailed off when he realised what sort of question that was, and what sort of place they were in. Not that Druella seemed to care, for she just smiled at him—smug and knowing.“Know?” she offered, “well, Malfoy was the one to guess, hardly a surprise really. He said it was the way your eyes lingered.”“Lingered on what?” Harry said before he could stop himself. In the moment of silent realisation that followed he reached for the tablecloth and tugged at it, twisting around his fingers. Sure, his eyes had lingered on everyone to be perfectly honest, but that didn’t mean he thought it was obvious. In fact, he’d always thought he’d been so, so subtle. The warmth of his blush took the opportunity to expand its territory like some war-driven country and began to track itself over his skin, staining his throat and making hot shame prickle at his ears. When they had all been together, they had all looked at him, was that what they were all thinking? How his eyes lingered? The possibility was mortifying, and Harry tugged harder at the tablecloth.“Well,” Druella said, still ever-so-casually as she leaned in closer again, her hand now splayed across the table, “I imagine your eyes were lingering on an attractive man.” The way she said it was so knowing, as though she had seen exactly who Harry was staring at and knew every shift in his thoughts. He dipped his head to stare at the table and at his fingers caught up in the white fabric.“There’s no shame in it,” Druella added, “some men really are worth staring at—Riddle, for instance,” she said, though she took far too long to pronounce his name, and just let it just drip off her tongue like candle wax, “he’s almost irresistible.”Harry swallowed, the heat on his skin spilling down further, curling down his neck and pressing heavily under his collar. There was a lot about Tom that was irresistible, from the way he looked to the way he spoke, he oozed that awful something that Harry wanted to get his teeth into.“Is that what you find attractive then?” Harry found himself saying, the words slopping out of his mouth before he had had the opportunity to vet them for impropriety. But Druella just smiled and looked up from the menu she had now picked up and was handling gentle, as though too much pressure would ruin the pages.“Well,” she said again, “superficially, perhaps, but there’s so much more to a man than what he looks like, don’t you think?”“I guess,” Harry said, and, though he felt shallow just thinking about it, he faintly suspected he might be willing to overlook some of the cruder characteristics of a woman or a man with a nice face, just for a little while at least.“You don’t sound convinced,” Druella said, her hand still resting delicately on the sharp edges of the menu.“I’m not.”“Well then,” Druella continued, that little smile creeping further over her mouth as she did so, “if you really want to know—which I think you do—I like a man who knows his place, or at least, has the proficiency to learn it.” She leaned in closer as if she was sharing a shiny little secret. “I like a man who not only enjoys having his place given to him, but wants it, craves it even, and will do anything to get it.” Her mouth stayed upturned in that glittering smile, but now it was joined by glimmering shimmer spreading over her eyes and lighting the impossible blue like the hottest of flames. “Simply,” she murmured, “I like a man who is so infatuated that he doesn’t mind getting down on his knees.”The words hung between them for a moment, heavy on the china and bending the menus under its weight until suddenly Druella was leaning back, laughing and breaking open the soft sweet second and letting all the meaning run out. “I can’t imagine your tastes are similar,” she said, dipping her gaze briefly down to the table again and rearranging the small knife and fork that were folded into the napkin.Harry swallowed, at least this way he was saved the embarrassment of having to look her in the eye whilst he tried to properly comprehend the question she was asking. He liked a lot of characteristics, at least, he always thought he had, and for some reason that made him too complex to define his ideal ‘type’ in a few short sentences, but now… he wasn’t so sure, and none of this would have happened in the first place if he hadn’t met any of them, and their snaking ability to be exactly what he wanted in ways he couldn’t quite express. Instead of answering, Harry swallowed again, his fingers fiddling once more with the rounded edge of the table, just picking at the veneer through the tablecloth as though the answer could appear in wood splinters.“So?” Druella prompted, her nails tapping against the white of the tablecloth, once again making creases that reminded Harry of the way Rosier’s shirt crinkled when she gripped his shoulder. There was certainly the same passivity to the both of them, and, although, one was sentient and one not, both of them still let Druella do whatever she wanted to them. “What are your tastes, Potter?” She was looking right at him now, her eyes still glimmering and the very tip of her tongue visible between her teeth. “And don’t worry if you think they’re too salacious for a woman to hear,” she said, a delicate hand raised to her chest in mock-scandal, “because you needn’t worry, I’ve endured the company of both Malfoy and Alicia, and believe me, between the two of them, there’s hardly a sacrilege left to commit.”Once again, Harry shifted and stared at the table, though he only had to do that for a minute or so before Druella couldn’t stand it any longer.“Alright, if you’re not going to reveal,” she said, placing her hand flat on the table, crushing down the menu, “I’ll have to guess, won’t I?” As she spoke, Druella hooked her eyes onto him, and looked, though ‘looked’ certainly didn’t do the gaze justice, for it was so much more than merely looking; it was scrutinising at the very least. A sharp, focussed dissection of his personality that made him squirm.“You like someone who…” she started, pausing to bite her lip and let her eyes roam further over his face as though she were reading predilections that were written into his skin. “…who knows their own mind; someone… compelling, and capable, and compulsive… and I think, deep down, under all those prickles, you like being told what to do,” she said, slowly, as though the fact fascinated her, “and so you want someone who knows what you need even better than you even know yourself…” Druella trailed off, her voice blurring out into the murmurs of the other patrons, and the clinking of teacups against saucers, and the chewing, and the footsteps.“Am I right?” she said, louder, her voice cutting through the noise and interrupting the thoughts that were starting to swirl through Harry’s head like steam gathering above teacups and curling into the air. But he couldn’t say anything, not when there was a tightness in his throat and his stomach was turning over itself.“Umm, well…” he started and ended; knowing Druella was right, painfully right and he had never even realised it. And now that that thing was out in the open, released from where it had sat so heavily in the back of his mind ever since he’d met them all—ever since he’d seen Tom yank Malfoy forward by his hair and pressed down so hard on his spine—it was everywhere. There were so many words swimming through his brain, words that weren’t even inappropriate in their colloquial meanings but still felt indecent on the tip of his tongue; the sort of thing that he couldn’t possibly say aloud as they sat in a restaurant where there were strangers sitting nearby and enjoying their lunches.“Don’t worry,” she said softly, her hand still resting on the table, now curved upward, all feminine and gentle, “I won’t judge you, Potter, after all, my own tastes are hardly…” she glanced at the table beside them that was filled with a group of older women in fancy clothes, “…respectable, are they? I mean a man down on his knees, what an outrageous concept.”Harry shook his head, trying to shake himself free of such embarrassment, and just say it, after all, by the way, that Druella was watching him, he didn’t think that she wasn’t going to let this one go until he said something that suited her tastes.“I think—I like… personality,” he said finally; it didn’t do any of his feelings justice, but at least it was based in the truth. After all, the thing that had been hovering on the edge of his thoughts was a charismatic personality that integrated itself with the folds of his brain and curved down into his lungs, filling him up from the inside out with feelings he hardly knew he even had access to, let alone that he would want. But he did want it. Someone compelling. Someone capable. Someone compulsive. Someone who could see him from the inside out and still liked—maybe even wanted—what they saw.Druella interrupted that daydream. “Like a wave knocking you right over,” she said, “the air forced out of your lungs, and the swell practically consuming you. Do you like the idea of drowning base splendour of someone else’s character?”Harry was silent for a moment; his tongue limp in his mouth, as he watched the lights catching on the glass of the vase. “Yes,” he murmured.Just for a second, Druella let herself slip into a proper smile, before reigning it in and darting her hand across the table to straighten out Harry’s menu, “then you’ll consider yourself lucky,” she said, “that there is such a lot of personality here to go around.”In a periphery glance, Harry could see a waiter starting to approach, but Druella just waved her hand he quickly changed course to the table a little to the left. “We couldn’t possibly order before a decent conversation about it all,” she said by way of explanation as she picked up her menu again and ran her fingers down the edge of it; it was almost a surprise that she hadn’t cut herself already.“Any drink you like the look of?” she said, now opening the little menu book with a precocious delicacy and watching him over the top of it, “I’m willing to consider tea or coffee, whichever you prefer.”“I don’t—drink coffee,” Harry said quietly, and it was true, coffee had always had a distinctly unpleasant aftertaste, not to mention the smell seeped into everything he owned and hung there for weeks, festering until he could afford to wash his clothes. He didn’t drink coffee or, for that matter, be around people who did, if he could help it. Apparently, Druella disagreed with that idea, because she had lowered the menu to properly reveal the blunt instrument that was her mouth. “Perhaps you should try it one day; after all, it is an awfully good stimulant for when you’re out of it.”There was a glimmer of a smile in her voice, but also the trace of something else; a suggestion if those late nights doing… dubious things that knocked them ‘out of it.’ “But it’s fine,” she continued, “you’ve made your choice easier, and, anyway, I am, of course, an expert in all things tea, so ask anything you like.”Harry nodded awkwardly and started to read down the menu. It quickly became apparent that half the things written here were unpronounceable for him, and the descriptions provided next to each on in this twirled script didn’t exactly help to determine what they actually were. Phrases like ‘deep fruity notes’ and ‘a gently perfumed aroma’ were perfectly pleasant to read, but utterly unhelpful in determining what was actually in the drink he was thinking of putting into his body. He stayed silent and continued to scan through the names again and again, trying to decide which would be the least awful simply by the arrangement of letters that made up its name.“You know,” said Druella, leaning closer once more, making the interaction far too intimate like they were sharing in an affair and not lunch, her menu was now covering her mouth and muffling her words a little, but the intention to hurry proceedings along, was obvious. “I said to Riddle that I was going out to lunch with a friend today…” Harry looked up at Tom’s name like a dog who just heard his master’s call, “…I didn’t say who I was going with—after all, a woman can’t give away all her secrets—but he told me to order the Rose tea for my ‘friend.’” She paused, watching him intently, her eyes just glittering in the light, “have it with two cubes of sugar, he said,” she paused again, “is that what you want, Potter?”She said it with a challenge in her tone, daring him to have what Tom wanted him to have because surely Tom must have known it was him, she was going to seek out. Harry didn’t need prompting.“Yes,” he said, looking at her straight in the eye with what he hoped was a steadfast confidence that he didn’t feel inside. He turned to the waiter who had now appeared, beckoned simply by the examination of a menu, “I’ll have the Rose,” he said, a hot feeling prickling at the back of his neck, like everyone here knew what he’d just done and how it made him so hot and jittery in his skin. His head entirely dizzy with thoughts of Tom sitting there and telling him what he should order, all because he thought that Harry might like it. These thoughts were so heavy and so deep that it was only in the vague distance, like a sound coming to him from underwater, that Harry heard Druella order her tea and something to go with it—sandwiches maybe—the words all too fuzzy to hear through the rushing in his head and the giddiness in his heart. When the waiter was gone again, Druella leaned back in her chair looking self-satisfied with a heavy smile and her hand wrapped loosely around her glass. “You made a good choice,” she said, “but I must ask, and you must answer, do you like attractive men giving you recommendations?”“Doesn’t everyone?” said Harry, his brain giving a response before he’d even had time to properly process the audaciousness of the question.Instantly, though, Druella’s smile widened and her face glimmered, almost unnaturally bright under the paleness of the lights. “Oh, look at you,” she said, her voice coloured with notes of amusement. “You’re just so much sharper than I thought you were. I won’t lie…” she said with a quirk of her eyebrow and a flex of her fingers, “…when we first met, I thought you were just another grovelling little sycophant; a shiny thing that caught his eye because you were everywhere he was, but then I heard you talk, and talk to Riddle like that no less.” Druella laughed, “no one ever tells him he’s wrong to his face—well—no one apart from us, that is."“I didn’t tell him he was wrong,” Harry protested.“Believe me, you did. It was all he talked about,” Druella said, taking another sip of her water, her thumb gliding over the side and leaving a streak through the condensation.“He talked about me?” Harry said—blurted out, really—fast and loud enough to make Druella raise her eyebrow again, forming that perfect arch that must make everyone feel wildly insignificant. But Harry couldn’t help it, the swelling satisfaction inside his ribs just wanted to spill out everywhere and make a mess at the thought of him being stuck in Tom’s thoughts and on his tongue.“Naturally, he did,” Druella continued, still that deliberate smile on her lips, “and I would know because I had to go to lunch with my grandmother’s friend the next day, and—of course—I brought along Riddle because he’s such a lovely thing to have around if you’re not in the mood to talk.” She paused momentarily to lean forward and place her glass back down onto the table. “Anyway, the important part of this is that you were definitely the prolific topic of conversation; this wonderful learned little thing that Riddle had found the darkest corners of the library.”“He finds me…” Harry swallowed, “…interesting?” he said, the word catching in his throat in faint disbelief because it was one thing to suspect the way that someone looks at you means something, and quite another to have it so blatantly confirmed.“Oh, sweetheart,” Druella said, laughing openly again, “you are far too obvious to be interesting.” It was scarcely moments after the words left her mouth that the small swell of hope was receding like the tide and Harry’s stomach was turning itself in knots. “But,” Druella continued and Harry’s heart started to beat hard again, swaying back and forth like a bell in a church tower, ringing and ringing until his thoughts became a mess. “You are fascinating, and if Riddle is fascinated by someone then he must have his reasons, and I will find exactly what it is about you that’s got him so... enamoured.”“Enamoured?” Harry parroted again like an idiot; it was a wonder that anyone would want him around at all if all he managed to do this afternoon was mimic everything that everyone else said. Though he could hardly help it, not when his heart was pumping hard enough to obscure the sound of his thoughts as the moon sometimes does to the sun; he shifted again, once more twisting the edge of the tablecloth between his fingers as he remembered the way that Tom’s gaze had passed over him and the feeling of the tips of his fingers as they ran over the back of his neck.“Of course,” Druella said, “who wouldn’t be? You’re very…” she dropped her eyes to run them around his silhouette, “…unusual.”As she looked at him, her smile caught at the corner of her mouth; though her gaze was firm and curious, and it left Harry feeling a little like one of those long-extinct animals that were stuffed and marvelled at in museums by the well-to-do on rainy days—the ones that people looked at with almost pity as they read about his poor adaptability for the world around him that would have led to his untimely demise.“And you like unusual things?” he heard himself say.Druella was about to reply, but before she could there waiter was back, still with his white smile though, at least to Harry, it looked a little forced—his mouth stretched across his teeth, not because he genuinely wanted to, but because he knew there were consequences for not playing by the rules set by rich people’s whims. This time, Druella did not chat through his presence, rather, she stayed there, silently staring and surely judging the exactness with which he placed down each plate and the shake of his hand as he did so. The waiter must have been looking at her as well because the slightest raise of her eyebrow led to an exponential increasing in his shaking, though whether it was from authentic nerves, or this strange desire to prove his competence, Harry couldn’t be sure.They both watched in silence as he placed down a silver spire-esque contraption that Harry had only ever seen in cake-shop windows that at the base held sandwiches, and on the second level held scones, and the third was reserved for small pots of sauces: one yellow that might have been mustard, one white that must have been cream, one that was simply butter and a final one, that he assumed was jam. After placing it all down, the waiter looked briefly between them; his eyes lingering a slight of a second too long on Druella’s face, it made her tap her fingers, the points of her nails scratching over the tablecloth and her eyes going cold.“The manners of some people are truly barbaric, don’t you think?” she said, addressing Harry, though she looked firmly at the waiter, and he recoiled before Harry had the opportunity to reply, hastily removing himself from their table and scarpering over to the corner and out of sight. Less than a minute later, a second waiter was coming over wearing the same winning smile and finished the task of the first. Druella ignored him, which apparently, was the better option. “Riddle certainly does—like unusual people, that is,” she said, as though there was not a new waiter standing before them pouring them tea that should have been done by the one that Druella scared away. “He likes to chew on them,” she continued with a teasing smile, “in fact, he rather likes to get them between his teeth, and to bite down hard, and to swallow them whole.” She laughed again, knocking her head back and letting the light skitter of her hair and radiate out as though she were an angel.Harry was smiling too, though, his was born from nervousness, that strange desire in the pit of his stomach to get along with her, and to do that, he needed to smile when she laughed. But the humour of the moment imbued him with a sense of false confidence, and quite by accident Harry heard words exiting from his mouth that should have stayed squarely on his tongue.“What else does he like?” he said.Druella snapped her head forward and raised a perfectly plucked brow again, “how presumptuous, Potter,” she said, still wearing that loose authority around her neck as she waved away the waiter and picked up her cup of faintly green tea.Harry flushed, again—or rather even more—and swallowed, his eyes settling on his own, fittingly pink, cup. “No—not—not like that,” he said, even as his brain politely suggested it was exactly like that. There was so much he wanted to know about Tom, he wanted to glut himself on his life story and absorb each part of his personality until he intimately understood the frequency that Tom existed on, but it wasn’t entirely because his heart beat harder at the thought of Tom. Rather—at least partially—it was because he wanted to imitate them, for there were so much of these people he liked, and Harry wanted to cut them out like teenage girls do with the posters of their heroes. He wondered briefly if Druella had posters in her bedroom.That thought was once again interrupted by Druella herself—she did a lot of interrupting. “Well,” she said, “in what respect, then? Tea flavours? Professors?” she paused, her smile widening, “or indeed, his salacious affairs, perhaps?”Harry flushed harder, the colour of his face must have been nearing indecency, especially when surrounded by such delicate, pastel, shades of pink—all sweet and sophisticated compared to the raging shade that was burning itself into his cheeks. “Just—what’s he—you know—like…?”Druella raised her newly filled cup to her mouth and sipped, the heat of the tea not, apparently bothering her. “So, you’re asking for a behavioural profile?” she said, before adding, “oh, don’t pout at me, Potter, it’s obvious.”Harry dropped his eyes to the table and tried to settle his mouth back into something decent, Druella just rolled her eyes and looked so painfully like her brother that Harry had to wonder how identical they would be if Rosier were to grow his hair to her length or if Druella were to wear his clothes and sprawl so casually over the furniture.“Fine,” she said, even when Harry had made no more attempts at persuasion and was, in fact, fine to drop the matter entirely, “because I like you,” she continued as she placed down her cup, “I would say that Riddle is… ravening for things, it can be people or just experiences, but whatever it is, as soon as he has his teeth around it, he won’t let go,” Druella said, reaching out to take up one of the sandwiches in place of her teacup.She took her time, ripping a small corner off it and placing it into her mouth and Harry mirrored the action, though rather than taking a proper bite of his sandwich, he nibbled at the edge of it. The thing itself didn’t taste awful when it touched the tip of his tongue but that didn’t mean he was going to be any less tentative about eating the rest of it. “To be honest, and don’t tell him that I said this,” she said after she swallowed, “I wish he’d be a little more careful with the people he consumes, slow down and savour them a little perhaps, instead of treating them all like analeptics.”She shook her head slightly like she was remembering all the people who had been chewed up and spat out over the years, before leaning forward conspiratorially.
“Personally,” she said, all but speaking hushed secrets behind her palm, “I’d diagnose it as some sort of malady that he has, and one that I think you might have as well,” she said, pointing the rest of her sandwich towards him almost accusingly.“A malady?” Harry repeated weakly, the parrot in him rising again; though that wasn’t the part of the conversation that he should be taking issue with, that title belonged to the fact she’d just alleged that he had a problem, and he certainly didn’t want that. Although, on the plus side, it would be the same problem that Tom had so it couldn’t be all that bad.“Yes, obviously,” Druella said, rolling her eyes and, once again, looking terribly like her brother, “I think you have a profound need for understanding that gets under your skin, like a hunger, really, or a sickness; I get snippets of it every so often when you forget yourself and just talk. It’s quite fascinating to see.”She leaned back in her chair, gripping hard at her sandwich so that her fingers left behind prints in the bread and watching him with an intentness that made Harry shift uncomfortably and stare at his plate. “Of course,” she continued, “you’re not as voracious as Riddle is with knowledge, but that might just be because you’re younger, and you’re new to this…” her tongue searched over her lips for the word, “…intellectuality,” she settled on, “but, the bud is blooming—I’ve heard you argue, and Lestrange says you have such fanciful ideas—these uncompromising visions of what you think the world should be like.”“That’s not my fault,” he protested as loudly as he dared, though the pitch and tone must have sounded desperate for it drew the attention of the women sitting on the next table over.Druella just laughed as she always did. “Oh no, Potter, you miss understand me,” she said, “I don’t think it’s a problem, and much less any sort of mistake or attribution of fault, none of us do.” She paused again to take a bite of her sandwich—a different one now, with white bread and small slices of cucumber, so thin they were like green circles of paper—and chewing it slowly and carefully before swallowing. “In fact,” she continued, “my brother and I are, obviously, theological determinists, so it’s hardly a surprise that you’re here because it was all meant to happen, wasn’t it?” Druella said enthusiastically. “We were meant to meet,” she said, her eyes still bright and that blunt mouth of hers moving in animated delight, “and you were meant to be with me here—that’s destiny, you see, you have these views and you were meant to share them with us.”Harry didn’t quite follow the argument she was making so he just nodded and busied himself with plunking sugar cubes into his tea and watching the ripples.“You know,” Druella said casually, now working her way through yet another sandwich—taking each bite with a starving daintiness like a raven pecking only the best parts of a piece of roadkill, and alternating between tearing pieces off of it and eating like one of those intelligent squirrels he saw in the park as she sipped at her tea, “you have another malady in common with Riddle too.”“Excuse me?”“You heard me, Potter,” she said, “you have a malady, one that involves a certain beguilement with morality—and, personally, I find that far more interesting than the simple pursuit of knowledge for its own sake.”Harry reached over to pick up his cup filled with pink-stained tea and taking a small, small, sip—the delicate flavour sliding over his tongue and making his mouth hot, both with the temperature and the implications. Tom wanted him to drink this. Tom had sat and thought about his recommendation and now Harry was fulfilling it, and that made something hot and heady begin to grow between his ribs like a fungus.“Why?” he said, before swallowing down another mouthful, and clarifying, “why, do you think I’m interested in morality?"Druella did another one of those laughs where her head tipped back and her eyes sparkled with something that wasn’t quite pleasure, but rather nestled itself closer to condescending amusement as though Harry was the latest in a string of peculiarities that she brought here to decide whether or not they were worthy of her interest. “Well,” Druella said, replacing her sandwich with the water jug, “by the way you talk, I would say that you’re consumed with whether or not you, yourself are a moral man,” she said, watching the water slosh into her glass, filling it right to the upper rim, “and, you know, it’s such an adorably superficial preoccupation."Harry just frowned at her—she hadn’t quite answered the question, in fact, she had quite successfully skirted all the way around it with her fanciful words and pretty fingers wrapped around the stem of the jug. But the set of her mouth suggested that she wasn’t willing to answer the question either and Harry just had to accept that. “To go further,” she continued, ignoring the confused way he was looking at her, “I think the question of whether you are a moral man plagues you all the time, but instead of facing it head-on like most people would, you hide in the letters of the law.” She paused, and leaned forward again, creating that artificial intimacy that made something shift in Harry’s chest, his fingers clenching around his sandwich. “You hide yourself behind your statute books and your cases, looking for something sentimental—dare I say something meaningful—in what is simply the cold and dispassionate disciple of law?”“You’re wrong about law,” Harry said, the speed and intensity of his words almost surprising him, but just as there had been with Lestrange, there was something in her tone that made him want to prove her wrong. Perhaps it was the boldness of her assertions or the dexterity with which she shared them, but either way, he wanted to prove himself to her—show her, as it were, that he was worth her time. That and her insult struck as lightning does to a tree, hitting the skeleton and burning up the flesh in such a way that it was as though his opinions had been personally condemned, and for a moment, Harry was reminded of the set of Druella’s mouth and the cruelty of her tone as she addressed Avery.“Oh, am I?” Druella replied with feigned surprise, her hand raised to her chest again in mock horror just like Malfoy had done, and Harry wondered how deep the similarities ran; whether these were basic superficialities that each of them had picked up over the years of knowing one another, or perhaps whether they were deliberately shared among friends—idiosyncrasies given out like gifts.“It’s not cold,” Harry clarified, the exactitudes of the argument he planned to make still absent on his tongue, but maybe—hopefully—they would appear with whatever provocative prompt Druella blessed him with.“Well,” she said, “Lestrange certainly acts like it is the coldest thing in the world—sub-zero one might say,” she said with a smile at some joke Harry didn’t get, “he does, indeed, claim to be the sole objective reasoner left in a world filled with hot-headed heretics.”“Well, he’s wrong then, isn’t he?”“Is he?” Druella said, leaning forward, her hands pressed flat against the tablecloth and her sandwich abandoned, “he’s been doing this for nearly four years, but somehow you already know better, do you?”There was the same challenge in her tone and indeed in her eyes as there had been when she suggested that he order the Rose tea, as though she was daring him to say something to contradict the others merely so that she could prove a point of argument of her own with them later, or perhaps it was more parasitic than that, perhaps she was harvesting him for his opinion and, later, in the privacy of her own home, she would dissect his answers.“Yes,” Harry said, far more confidently than he felt, though there was something in his bones that told him, he simply had to do this, he had to share his opinion. When Druella stayed silent, he continued, “he’s had four years to confound his beliefs, so he’s blinded to how things really are.”“But your eyes are wide open, aren’t they, Potter?” Druella said, still leaning forward, though now her fingers were tapping against the tablecloth, their sound dampened but still loud in their questionable silence; Druella sitting and considering what he said, and Harry squishing his sandwich down to a pancake and doubting every word that had come out of his mouth. “You think,” Druella eventually continued, “you see the world how it really is, in all its ugliness and that makes you special.”Harry swallowed. “I don’t delude myself,” he said carefully, “neither does the law—I mean—it’s there, all the time as this constant objective arbitrator that protects us and our morality, isn’t it?”“You tell me, Potter, you are, after all, the expert.”Druella leaned back, her fingers still tapping, “however, if you want my opinion, the law may set out a manifesto on morality, which it believes to be axiomatic, but that has nothing to do with, real, individual, morality.” Druella smiled, “that,” she said, elegantly lifting her hand to take one of the scones from the topmost shelf—the remains of her sandwich still sitting on her plate now entirely unimportant—“is an entirely personal endeavour.”For the first time in a while, Druella took her eyes off him and focussed on her scone instead; the removal of her gaze shouldn’t have been as liberating as it had been, but there was something so intensely suffocating about her eyes and without them on him, Harry could take a deep, full, breath.“And as such,” she continued, not looking up, as she cut open her scone and started to spread it, first with butter, letting it drip over the edges before turning the knife over; she looked up and smiled, and kept smiling as she reached for the small pot of jam. “Sometimes,” she said, “you have to embrace your own morality—dissect yourself—and confront what you find in the very depths of your soul.” Druella raised her scone to her mouth, “for instance,” she said matter-of-factly, “could you kill a man, Potter?”“No,” Harry said instantly, a knee-jerk reaction to the unthinkable, because such a thought was, entirely unthinkable, after all, there were academic notions and the discussions of the certainty and appropriateness of the law, and then there was the crimes it was meant to protect people from—crimes such as murder.Druella continued to watch him but she didn’t speak for her mouth was full, instead, she chewed slowly, her jawbone moving steadily in circles and another spot of jam dripping onto the tablecloth. She swallowed. “Could you kill a man to save a friend?” she said, just as casually as before like this was no more than one of her ethical studies, and perhaps it wasn’t, but how could anyone like a study that allowed one to muse on such horrific concepts as the murder of a fellow man?“Umm—no?” Harry said again, though even he could hear the lilt of a question affecting the final syllable. He shook his head to try and get the traitorous sound out.“Could you kill a man to save yourself?” Druella continued, apparently on a matter of principle now, “after all I do believe the law will forgive you for that one."“I don’t—I don’t know,” Harry heard himself admitting, though now it sounded truly distant like he was underwater, and the words were floating above the surface, calling out to his mouth but never quite finding it. And he didn’t know the answer. Killing a man sounded like such a violent, monstrous act, an abomination—perhaps even a perversion—of what it meant to be a human.Druella just smiled before taking another bite. “Perhaps you should consider it,” she said after swallowing that bite too, “you never know when it might come in useful to know just how far you’re willing to go.” There was something unspoken in those words, an unwritten rule or perhaps it was a mantra that suggested things that they were all willing to do for the sake of something. And though it forced a sickness up and along his throat, the contents of his stomach shifting uncomfortably, Harry still forced himself to look in her eyes and ask the question that was scratching at the back of his throat.“How far would you go?” he said.For a moment, Druella narrowed her eyes and there was the flicker of a smile over her mouth giving away some emotion that Harry couldn’t quite read. “Well, that, of course, depends on the stakes, doesn’t it, Potter?” she said, though immediately, she seemed to sense that her answer wasn’t fit for purpose as she smiled sweetly and put down her scone, taking a sip of her tea before continuing.“Would I kill a man to protect myself? Yes, I would,” she said, simply and always holding Harry’s gaze, “would I kill a man to save a friend? Yes, I would.” There was a gravity to the way she spoke, this inherent seriousness that almost made Harry’s heart ache because she had thought about this, they had all sat down and discussed the murder of another person, and they had all come to their own natural positions on the morality of the action. What decisions had Tom had come to?His thoughts were interrupted by Druella coming to her conclusion: “would I kill a man?” she said, “well, that depends on what he did, doesn’t it?" It was the casual calmness to her tone that got Harry, that distinct slowness to the letters as though she was forcing herself to be calm even as her insides buzzed with excitement and Harry couldn’t help but think that maybe it wasn’t just Tom who like to eat people up.“Surely, it doesn’t matter?” he said, a lump forming in the back of his throat because killing, and even just talking about killing, went against everything that the law stood for, didn’t it? And he hated that there was a question now in his head because he had been wrong about the aspects of the law, hadn’t he? So, could he be wrong about something like this as well? “Extra-judicial killing is wrong no matter what,” he said, trying to keep the slight tremble out of his voice and to look Druella firmly in the eye. She held his gaze, her hand holding her scone out, a spot more of jam dripping down onto the plate.“I would profoundly disagree,” she said, “say a woman is ruined by her husband; he is cruel and controlling and she kills him—how—how can you say that’s wrong?”“The law will rebuke him—she doesn’t need to take justice into her own hands.”“Oh, Potter,” she said, slightly condescendingly, “it won’t,” she said, simply enough, “the law doesn’t care for you if you are a woman, or if you are poor, or if the colour of your skin is not to their liking—there are entire swathes of the populace who are unloved by the law—and if the law is tailored for so few to enjoy, then why should the rest of us obey it?”“Because the law is what maintains order.”This time Druella raised both her brows and sat back in her chair, the lights of the room dappling shadows across her eyes and making dark, murky, spots form about her mouth; their formation mirrored a smile, but one that was cold and cruel in the best possible way.“Is it?” she said carefully, “I mean, I took a module—that I would highly recommend, by the way—last year with Riddle and Lestrange, on criminal morality, which concerned itself with the intersection of philosophy and law, and there was the simple question that permeated through every aspect: what differentiates a society and a civilisation?” Druella paused to look at him directly, the dark patches in her eyes glistening with something as dark as it was delicious, “do you happen to know, Potter?”Harry shrugged and avoided her gaze, and Druella only took that as encouragement.“Well,” she said, “the secret is, law and philosophy; by all accounts you can have a society with just philosophical principles guiding the masses, making them rely on their supposedly inbuilt morality—there’s no formalised order and individual get by through internalised shepherding. However, in order to have a civilisation, you need a formalisation of moral conceptions, simply, you need a legal system—you need order. But shall I tell you the most fascinating thing?” she said, barely pausing for his answer, “the most fascinating thing is that both are viable for human life—formalised order enacted through the law and the courts and the police can all be snapped out of existence just like that,” she snapped her fingers and Harry swallowed hard at the sound.“That means you can essentially decide which theory you want to live by and pursue it, so, which would you rather live in?”“You know my answer,” he said quietly, picking at his scone with his fingers—there were too many thoughts inside his head that he couldn’t focus. Not when there was the thought of murder nestled between the petals of the flower on their table and staining the food he was eating with a foul, but distinctly moralistic, aftertaste, and all his thoughts on the law were being so casually challenged by someone who had barely spent a moment learning it. The great, intellectuality of it almost made him wish to be back with Lestrange and his careful prompting and equal careful dissections of arguments—all calm and slow and insidious—that allowed him time to think.“You’ll have no shame in saying it aloud then, will you?” Druella prompted.Harry swallowed forcing his tongue to do something other than flop about his mouth. “A civilisation,” he said ever so quietly.“Why?” Druella said, “And don’t say because there’s the law.”“Because there’s a coherency."“There’s coherency in philosophy, isn’t there?”“I wouldn’t know,” Harry said, the tone dipping somewhere between defeat and bitterness—after all, something about this examination felt like unfair, “that’s not exactly my specialism.”Druella smiled and leaned back in her chair—her argument thoroughly won—the tips of her fingers running over the edge of her teacup. “Then I suggest you get to know,” she said, “after all, no one likes a man who builds his foundations on ignorant ground.” The way she said it was so confident and self-assured, as though she, herself would never commit such a social faux pas as being ignorant.“And how am I supposed to do that?” Harry said.Druella opened her mouth to speak again, but before she could say anything there was a cry, or rather a squawk from across the room. “Druella, my darling, is that you!?” a voice came squealing from behind them, and Harry looked up to see a large, older, woman with a heavy mound of red hair piled up on top of her head in a style that even he could tell had gone out of fashion several decades ago. He exchanged a look with Druella, whose own mouth had set itself into a single hard line, one that stretched right to her jaw, and her eyes had darkened like the swell of the sea before a storm.With practised restraint, she closed them and swallowed, when she opened them again, she was smiling, though there was an obvious inauthenticity to the stretch of her mouth if you knew what you were looking for. “Hepzibah?” she said, turning around, smiling and speaking with such a sickly sweetness to her tone that it surprising that world around her didn’t dissolve into sugar.“Oh darling,” the woman—Hepzibah—said as she approached the table, invading other people’s spaces on her way, and somehow leaving a trail of broken conversations and chairs in wanton disarray, behind her, “I had no idea that you were going to be here today, and—oh—”She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes fixing on Harry’s, and so clearly studying him. Harry studied her back: taking in the glittering of her earrings, and the powder-pink of her dress that would have flattered Druella but was off against her skin even to his untrained eye and looked more like wet candyfloss pressed into the grass after the fair had come to green; it clashed with her hair.“Druella…,” she began again—addressing Druella—and, apparently, having recovered her sensibilities, “care to introduce me?”Druella continued to smile tensely, her jaw drawn tight and her teeth probably grinding together, pressing down on each other. “He’s a friend,” she said coldly, her scone now placed down on her plate, and Harry suspected Hepzibah, whoever she was, was a frequent invader of everyone’s privacy, as well as their spaces. But even so, his heart squeezed a little at the thought of being counted as Druella’s friend. Right now, though, what made it worse was that she didn’t say anything, rather she stood there, her hand resting on the table looking at Druella in such a way that even Harry was uncomfortable—her eyes just roaming over him as though he were an oil painting that she was determined to reveal as a fake. He looked down at his plate, staring at the string of flower strung like pearls around the rim and the crumbs in the centre—vaguely wondering what time it must be.“You know,” said Hepzibah eventually, her tone shifting into something proper and hypocritical, “people will talk of your fancy man, if you’re not careful, sweetie.”Harry kept his head down, so he didn’t see if Druella broke her smile, but she certainly didn’t offer a reply and only began to tap her nails on the tablecloth again; this time the sounds were curt and unfriendly. And that pause that Hepzibah had so clearly left for her own moral elevation now felt painfully empty—not to mention awkward. “But anyway,” she said when all the silence and cold stares became too much, and as she leaned over to grab the jug of water and pouring herself some into Druella’s glass, “I’ve been meaning to visit you, darling.”“Hmm?” Druella said, watching as Hepzibah drank from her glass, her vulgar shade of lipstick staining the side.“Because,” Hepzibah continued, “I need you to tell me how my Tommy is doing; I haven’t seen him in so long that I’ve started to suspect that he’s been avoiding me,” she said with a laugh, as though the entire notion of someone wanting to avoid her was impossible to conceive—it must have been nice to be so utterly un-self-aware. Druella winced at that laugh, her head dipping to hide the grimace of her expression and Harry would swear that she was gritting her teeth, her knuckles rimmed with white as she grasped her knife, still slicked red with jam.“He’s fine,” Druella said eventually and with a tone that would make most people wither—not Hepzibah though, she continued to smile at Druella as she took another sip of her water.“Oh, that’s just fabulous to hear, darling, as I said, I haven’t seen him for at least a week now, and you know how hard that is for me,” she said with a flutter of her hand towards her face, her last trembling with artificial exhaustion, “with my delicate health and all.”Druella rolled her eyes and clenched her hand even tighter, her fingers still wrapped elegantly around the silverware, her ring surely leaving an ugly indent in her skin. But Hepzibah either didn’t notice or was too self-involved to care and she continued to chat away.“You know,” she said, “he was coming around three or four times a week to see me,” she said, weaving a sort of possessiveness into the words that made Harry curl his hand into a fist under the table, pushing his nails sharp into his palms and surely leaving behind some stinging marks; there was just something so garish about this woman that made him entirely disinclined to share anything with her, least of all someone as special as Tom—even if he had no right to claim that Tom was his to share.“All that effort just to talk and… well, you know…” Hepzibah said with a preening expression that made something in Harry’s stomach clench because there were implications to her saying that, and they were implications that Harry would rather not think about at all. But, fortunately, before he could think too hard, Harry’s entire thought process was interrupted by the cool voice of Druella and her sickly smile that was getting increasingly close to snapping off her face like a rubber band.“Well, he’s been awfully busy recently,” she said, the tone that was ever so sweet on top, and ever so sour underneath, “but I’ll make sure to tell him to drop by the next time I see him.”“Thank you, dear,” said Hepzibah, preening slightly as though she had proved her worth simply by having a man like Tom remotely in her orbit, “after all, you know how much… pleasure I find in his company,” she said, before snorting at her obnoxious innuendo and smiling wider—grinning, really—and it complemented the cloying quality of her crooning. How Tom put up with it—because clearly, he did—Harry didn’t know.“He speaks highly of your company as well,” Druella said stiffly, knocking back her tea like it was champagne and turning herself to face Hepzibah. Taking that as yet another cue to continue talking, Hepzibah smiled and stepped closer so that she could stroke her fingers down Druella’s shoulder; she stiffened. “Well,” she said, “as you’ve finished here, I would love it if you’d join me—your friend too, I suppose,” she continued, her hand raising off Druella to reference Harry like he was a rare creature in the zoo to be admired on the occasion.“Oh, I’m afraid that I’ll have to apologise on his behalf,” Druella said before Harry had the opportunity to say otherwise, “because Potter here, has got another appointment to get to.”Harry was going to protest that he really didn’t have anywhere else to be, but Druella kicked him under the table, hard and right to the shin; the point of her pretty shoes surprisingly sturdy. “Another time, perhaps,” she added with a forced diamond smile that looked like Tom’s.With feigned upset, Hepzibah simpered at him before turning back to Druella, “oh well,” she said, “you’ll still come won’t you, sweetie? I mean, of course, you will—so, I’ll be in my usual seat,” she said with a final pat to Druella’s head like she was a good little pet that did what she was told. In all honesty, Druella looked like she might bite that hand, or maybe shove her jam-coated knife through it. But whatever violent fantasies she entertained internally, externally, Druella simply nodded and smiled, and that seemed to satisfy Hepzibah as she turned and whisked herself away towards the back of the room, leaving yet another trail of devastation behind her.As soon she was out of direct view, Druella’s smile dissolved like sugar in tea and it was replaced with a half-sneer. “I apologise, Potter,” she said struggling to keep the curt frustration out of her tone, “but it looks like I’ll have to cut this short.” As she spoke, she picked up one of the perfect sugar cubes and placed it on her tongue like she was running out of internal sweetness and this was her poor attempt to replenish the supply.Harry continued to watch her as she chewed the sugar, the sound rather loud in the, now tense, silence; it made him distinctly nervous, as though the slightest wrong move on his part would instigate an avalanche that would bring the full brunt of Druella’s tongue down on him. “Who was that?” he asked, awkwardly, just as he had done with Rosier and Avery—always on the wrong side of the frosted glass of conversation, desperately clawing at the pane like a desperate cat wanting to be let into the house.“Hepzibah,” Druella said, “Hepzibah Smith. An old friend of my grandmother, and…” Druella paused to glance behind her, Harry followed her gaze to where they could see Hepzibah, over at the far side of the room engaged in animated conversation with a waiter,“…she’s officially my godmother, but I use the term lightly.” As she spoke, Druella watched, her gaze steely and her eyes cold; so much so that Harry couldn’t help a mild clenching in his stomach as he watched Druella, and she clenched and unclenched her fingers to her palm.“That woman is ungodly,” she said, casting her own eyes to watch her fingers, “and if you can avoid her company, as my brother so successfully does,” Druella looked up, “then, I suggest you do so.” Her tone was so mechanical in that moment that Harry wondered exactly what it was that made Druella hate—and it was hate in her eyes—her godmother so very much.“Well,” she said with another glance over her shoulder, “it was lovely talking with you, but I probably won’t see you until Sunday.”“You’ll be there?”Druella swallowed and smiled at him. “Oh, we wouldn’t miss it,” she said, standing up and stretching herself out like a swan, before composing her features into a bouquet arrangement of sweetness and harmony, and wandering over towards Hepzibah’s table—her hips swaying and her dress swishing around her knees.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sunday arrived far slower than Harry would have liked, and he spent the whole morning pretending he wasn’t nervous. He was. He was so nervous because he was about to meet Tom—alone—and that should make anyone nervous. At least he knew where he was supposed to be meeting him though, for he’d received a note in the mail—just a scrap of a thing—telling him to meet them in The Slytherin Room in the third basement of the library. It all sounded rather clandestine; him, alone with a handsome man in the basement where no one could hear you and no one wanted to be heard. For all Harry knew there could be monsters living inside the walls and bodies rotting under the floorboards, but that was probably passing into the realm of make-believe, after all, there were a lot better places to hide a body than under the floorboards.Sunday was an especially quiet time for the library. Most students weren’t working on Sundays, perhaps it was for religious reasons, or perhaps—and more likely—it was because they had better things to be doing than wasting the good years of their life holed up in dark corners, whittling away at their youth. To be honest, though, Harry wasn’t sure if the absence of people made it any better. There was certainly no denying that the silence amplified his footfalls on the stone stairs, until they were loud, crystalline things ringing through the air and letting everyone who wasn’t there know that he was coming.In his entire journey down to the third basement, Harry saw no one but the librarian, and she was asleep at her desk, her cheek pressed into the grooves of the wood and the expression of rested bliss on her face; Harry edged past her, practically on his tiptoes, in his (successful) attempt to not wake her up. Beyond her, the absence of people and indeed the absence of life itself, did nothing to settle Harry’s nerves, and the strings inside of him felt like they were being plucked by a particularly ambitious, but not very gifted, player; their fingers getting caught repeatedly between the cords and twanging at the strings with a ferocity that made Harry fear for the functioning of his legs. Each beat of his heart was louder than the last until it was rattling around his chest and knocking on every rib, beating him blue from the inside out. He shivered despite the sticky heat of the building itself. That cloying, curling heat that latched onto him like a leach and worked its way inside of him, stretching out his blood vessels and sinking lower into his stomach until he was pulling at his sweater just to have something to hold on to.It only got worse the deeper into the hollowed hallways that Harry went, those dark winding corridors lit by only a thin stream of buzzing fluorescence that painted each wall with eerie colours that were as magical as they were maniacal. There was only one student down here, amongst the monsters, and she was hunched over a desk in a small puddle of light, anxious not to be seen and not to be heard by whatever lurked in the darkness. Harry could feel her eyes on him—pricking at his back—as he passed her by and disappeared into the writhing maze of books and shelves and tiny little rooms that no one had entered for years. The dust was the most poignant reminder of the abandonment; the itching, prickling sensation that always hangs around old buildings, that and the constant, almost choking, heat that was still wrapping itself around him even this far below the surface of the city. This was truly what it was to walk through the belly of the beast; to feel the functions of its body beat around you—its heart, its lungs, even its blood vessels slowly squeezing the hot air between the shelves and into Harry’s skin. This was what it was to have been consumed.To his immense relief, the door was exactly where it was supposed to be, at least according to the directions written in faded paint up on the wall, and had its name engraved on a little silver plaque: The Slytherin Room. Harry stood outside it, staring at those slick black letters and almost feeling the weight of them on his tongue; he’d never heard of anyone coming down here, much less being invited down here, and thought of Tom inviting him made another shiver start in the base of his spine. He swallowed. This was the moment when his life would begin—when he would become an elusive somebody, and the things he did would mean something.Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hand wrapped around the handle, but not quite ready to push it open. Not when his heart was throbbing like this—threatening to push its way out, stretching apart his ribs and forcing itself through, just as it had done when he’d first met Tom, and every time their eyes had met since. It made a hotness spread beneath his skin, a burning embarrassment, combining with the feeling of being special for the first time in his life because someone had looked at him. Someone had noticed him. And, as though a ghost was following him, he could almost feel the brush of gentle fingers on the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades; cooling, calming sensations that were so different to the abrasion of his bag against his shirt and the painful pounding of his heart.He was going to push the door open, of course, he was, but as the moments stretched out longer in front of him like the atoms of a lifetime lined up and waiting to happen, Harry faulted. The doubt creeping into the back of his skull and diffusing out between the folds of his brain and making his hand stiff on the metal of the handle; he squeezed his fingers and swallowed.Perhaps it was fate that made a noise behind the door—enough of a sound that Harry pulled his hand from the handle, his heart beating, pounding again, between his ribs. Inside the room, there was the sound of a voice—two voices—one, identifiable as Tom’s, the other, a man that Harry didn’t recognise. Maybe, he should have left it there; turned around and returned through the darkened corridors and empty rooms to reach the stairs and climb his way out of the third circle of hell. But he didn’t. Harry stayed, his right hand pressed flat into the wood, balancing himself, and his forehead resting against the centre—listening."I'd be careful, Alphie,” came Tom’s voice, “that you don't get involved in something you shouldn't,” he said, his tone, as casual and condescending as it had been when he’d admonished Lestrange. That laxness in the syllables that made them run together ever so slightly, as though he cared so little for the matter that he couldn’t even be bothered to enunciate them correctly."I'm already involved," the other voice snapped back, every syllable delivered with a biting precision. “Mulciber made sure I was involved,” the guest added accusingly, and Harry imagined that each word had been accompanied by the pointing of a finger right at Tom’s chest. “And now you have to deal with the consequences of that.""Oh, right, the consequences—is that supposed to intimidate me?" Tom said, “is this whole charade of yours supposed to intimidate me?" The tone was so confident and so mocking that had Harry been the one standing there in front of him, he would have withered to the ground at the utter shame of his pitiful existence. But whoever Alphie was, he didn’t wither. He took two quick steps forward and Harry imagined him standing over Tom, a crease in his forehead and his hands squeezed into fists. He imagined Tom too, his chin tilted up, a disdainful eyebrow raised, his entire body strung with that impressive disinterest only achievable by those who are so certain of their self-worth.Sensing that the next words that would be spoken would be done so in a soft but devastating tone, Harry shuffled further forward to press himself closer to the door, and to embody the eavesdropper and the snooper, the pryer and the meddler. But, as hard as he pressed his ear to the wood, he couldn’t hear anything that was said. He couldn’t hear anything. Though, he did feel something—a small indent in the wood that was hidden by the gloom. Harry raised his fingers to it, feeling the scratch as it flowed up and down, zig-zagging into the shape of an M. The letter stood stark against the wood, and now it was there, Harry couldn’t help but keep touching it, running his nails deep into the groove and feeling the smooth edges with the pads of his fingers—it wasn’t a new marking. There was no splintering at the sides and the four straight lines had been made smooth with the press of fingers, as though young lovers had leant against the door and caressed the marking like it was their beloved’s cheek.Harry was willing to pass it off as just that—two people young and in love writing it down so that everyone would know—if it hadn’t been for the markings that came after. His fingers caught in them as he traced the M for the fourth time, and it began with a small mark the shape of a comma and moved into several more characters that muddled together. He swallowed and began to outline each one slowly, the lines were harsh, carved with the sharp strokes of a pocketknife and worn smooth with fingers over time, but Harry got into a rhythm of drawing them out and matching them up in his head with the correct letter: an N, an I, an H, another I and finally and L, then a small space and another word. In all, it spelt out nihil dicit.The words themselves were unfamiliar but from Harry’s, admittedly limited, experience in language, it was probably Latin; that was the language of the moment and the millennium, the language of the elite, and the language of the law. For reasons Harry couldn’t place, his heart was heavy on his chest, beating in time to the conversation on the side of the door, and he was so caught up in notions of the illicit and the forbidden—not that this was either. The words, whatever they meant, were carved clearly into the middle of the door, if the six of them hadn’t put them there, they must at least know that they were there, and no one who was committing crimes, was bragging about committing them quite explicitly.But Harry was dragged away from that thought by the sound of the voices again; although the words themselves were still soft, their manner of delivery was becoming increasingly unpleasant and the volume was rising to the point that Harry was starting to hear phrases again."They won't always be there to look after you, Riddle,” Alphie said, all snide and determined, as though this wasn’t the first argument they’d had behind closed doors, “and without them, what are you? Nothing but a scrappy little wannabe who thinks he deserves so much better than he can get.”“And what does that make you, Alphie?” Tom replied, lingering on each word and finding little joy in the taste of them, “the family disappointment? The first Black that doesn’t seem to quite measure up?" He paused as a comic does to gain the full effect of their punchline, “at least, that’s what I heard.”The remark clearly didn’t sit well with his companion because there came an audible, angry, huff and the sound of footsteps close to the door followed by a curt, but muffled, comment that Harry didn’t quite hear. What he did hear, was a heavy thunk right against the door—the sound of something metal going into the wood. Harry fumbled back, his heart banging as he waited for someone to open the door and find him. No one did. The only sound at all was a lowered voice—Tom’s voice—speaking so softly through the wood that Harry couldn’t hear him no matter how close he got to the door."You wouldn't," Alphie said a moment later and with an air of confidence that wasn’t genuine; it was too frayed—too weak—at the edges and soft in the middle. The voice of a man who’d met his match and only realised it far too late."Do you want to bet your life on that?" Tom said, louder now, enough that each cold syllable was delivered into Harry’s ear with all the weighty clarity it deserved, “because, I assure you, it will be your life you’re betting with.”Alphie didn’t reply and as Harry pressed his ear right to the wood, he could almost believe he heard the nervous swallow that afflicted everyone when they feared for their lives. Not that he was any better himself—like a deer hearing its mother get mauled between a predator’s teeth, Harry stood still, his heart asphyxiating itself, and he waited; waited to be heard; waited to be found, waited to be eaten in the same way.“I didn't think so,” Tom said, a murmur more than anything but it scraped over Harry’s ear and wouldn’t it be nice to have all Tom’s words close enough to graze his cheek? His tone cold and sleek, serrated at the edge and just hypnotic, like hot molasses, and Harry wanted to drown in it; to be enveloped and suffocated and consumed.
“Now, get out,” Tom continued, “and take your pitiful attempt at intimidation somewhere else.”The fumbling at the doorhandle gave Harry just enough time to scrabble away from the door before it was swinging open and he was face to face with both Tom and his companion—a dark-haired boy who could have been handsome if the dark circles of exhaustion were not so deep and his mouth wasn’t misshapen into such a sneer.
Upon seeing him, Alphie stopped, his hand still on the door handle and his gaze tracking up critically over him. He rolled his eyes.“You just can’t stop yourself, can you?” he said, still staring at Harry with withering disdain, but not addressing him. “Which gutter did you find this one in?” he said, turning to look at Tom—to glare and to gloat over a statement that was neither witty nor interesting.“The same one your family dragged themselves out of—now, as you can see, I have company.” The dismissal was so blatant that Harry felt a cringe of embarrassment for every extra second that Alphie lingered there.Alphie stayed though, still seething, and words were coming out of his mouth that Harry didn’t care to hear because he was looking past Alphie to where Tom was standing—motionless and disinterested and very handsome. Even with the light behind him and the fluorescent shadows carving up his features and glazing him with a green mosaic, Tom had the sort of face that invited people to turn back and stare; the sort of face that got him remembered. He was handsome enough that Harry couldn’t help himself and he let his gaze drift downward, passing over Tom’s mouth and following the line of his neck right down to his shoulder. It was surely wrong to look at a man like this, to spend so much time lingering on the cut of his features and the way that his shirt just clung to his body, but Harry had been waiting all week to see Tom again and he wasn’t about to waste an opportunity, especially not when Tom was still distracted with Alphie and so didn’t see him staring.And that was probably why Harry saw it. The simple, almost innocuous, act of Tom sliding something in his pocket—something that looked awfully like one of those switchblades that people with less than respectable reputations carried with them. Before he could stop himself, Harry glanced at the door that Alphie was still standing beside and at the new dent in the wood, just above his shoulder.Small splinters coated the edges of the hole and the wood that was exposed was pale, and Harry could imagine the blade cutting into the door before being levered out by Tom’s hands. He could imagine Alphie pushed back against the door, as Tom traced the metal across his throat, settling the point right into the hollow of his neck. Your life, Tom had said, probably as he flicked the tip of the knife upward and left a pretty scratch on the crest of his throat. Harry twisted his hands uncomfortably against his thighs, just one thought heavy in his head: did he like it? Did Alphie like having a blade up against his pale throat? The tip of it reminding him just how fragile his life was? Alongside the question was the weight of shame that thinking such things made bloom in Harry’s heart because no good man should be thinking if it felt good to have a knife pressed to his throat.With one final comment that Harry missed, Alphie stomped away from Tom, purposefully knocking into Harry as he went; but, somehow, the action didn’t feel like it was born from malice. Rather, it was the cry to be noticed, to be seen, and Harry tried to see. He looked, in that brief moment when their shoulders collided, at Alphie’s hollow, over-stretched eyes with those darting pupils like a deer in the hunt, and he tried to see what it was that Alphie wanted him to see.“Harry,” Tom said, cutting into the space as he stepped out of the room and into the corridor. “Harry,” he repeated, his hand touching at his shoulder, his fingers curling over the ridges of his sweater and down his arm to his back so that Harry could feel the press of Tom’s fingertips on his spine. “Come on.”As Tom led him inside, Harry glanced one final time over his shoulder and watched as Alphie blurred into the darkness of the corridor, not bothering to turn back and perhaps that was the one impressive thing about him. “Who—?” Harry began, allowing himself to be led.“Alphard Black—he’s a friend,” Tom said, and Harry swallowed, the remark that that wasn’t how you treated your friends saying firmly on his tongue. He left it alone though—perhaps even forgot about it—as he let himself be guided across the threshold, marked by the door, and into the space that marked out the known and the distinguished from the nameless and unremarkable.The room wasn’t especially small, but the largess was offset by the furniture, and the whole effect was rather comfortable; the typical concrete of a basement floor covered first with wood and then with a carpet, and the walls lined with bookshelves—heaving with the sort of books that were either too unpopular or too niche to keep upstairs.
Over to the right were several chairs and lamps for studying and, to the left, through a wide arch was a common area, consisting of a green leather sofa, and two club chairs that matched it, between them was a low, rectangular table strewn with pens and books in neat stacks. That part of the room was not coated in books, but rather a dark wallpaper that widened the shadows until they ate up the corners and licked at the backs of the chairs. In many ways, it was like their space upstairs or like the sitting room at the Rosier’s house; an intimate space where they could do whoever they wanted, and say whatever they liked, and be whoever they were. But if those rooms represented freedom, then this one must represent a form of moral anarchy—the dark blotting out the proper considerations and letting ideas flow as sleek and serpentine as they liked, and Harry found himself drawn to it, pulled into the room by a mixture of curiosity and craving.Tom removed his hand and took a seat in the middle of the sofa, the leather dipping under his weight and creaking ever so slightly. Was it wrong to want to be a sofa? To want to feel the weight of someone else on top of you, crushing you? Probably, but that didn’t stop Harry from wanting it just a little. And for a long moment, Harry felt separate from his body—both within and without it—as he stared at the room—the hollow that had extricated itself from time and space and floated in the void of the universe as stars float in the sky. He stared at Tom too, and like a thief, he took great, greedy gulps of his face and swallowed them down just so he could have them forever close to his heart.“Won’t you sit?” Tom said, a hand gesturing to the other chairs before lingering at the sofa. Harry felt the urge to look around and see if anyone saw, even when there was no one there to see.He sat as far from Tom as he could manage without seeming impolite and stole gazes like a starving dog stealing scraps. Tom’s jacket was neatly folded over the arm of the sofa and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows, but that wasn’t the part of Tom that Harry’s eyes were drawn to; that privilege was reserved for the undone button at his collar. It was such a small detail, but Harry stared at it anyway. As Tom sat back, the material of his shirt shifted over his chest, a crease forming at his shoulder and pulling the fabric tight and there it was—a slice of his neck dipping as far down the hollow of his throat. Harry licked his lips; it was such an intimate part of a man and getting to see was like being allowed to hold his hand and Tom was indulging him with his head tilted back just a tiny bit. And perhaps that was what made Harry snap out of it, the fact that Tom made it obvious that he knew exactly where his eyes were going—the fact that Tom knew.Harry jerked his head up—a guilty movement, all jerky and nervous—and met Tom’s eyes. He flushed and felt like an idiot, sitting there staring with his mouth open and his hand gripping hopelessly at his sleeve because he needed to have something pressed between his fingers.“Tell me,” Tom said, shifting himself to sit a touch closer—the fabric of his trouser sliding over the leather, “do you find my company so unpleasant?”“No,” Harry cut in, barely before he’d even finished speaking.“Then why,” he continued, “do you look like you fear I’m about to eat you?” Tom’s gaze on him was unceasing as he spoke—his eyes sharp and appraising, and his lips parted just enough for Harry to get a glimpse of his teeth. He likes to chew on them. Druella’s words rested heavily in the back of his mind; Tom certainly looked like he wanted to take a bite out of him—a big bloody bite, and Harry almost wanted him to.“I’ve promised more time than I care to remember that I won’t bite,” Tom said, every word too conversational, as though this was merely a discussion on the more tedious aspects of contract law, and not whether Tom intended to eat him whole. “But,” he continued, “I can promise it again if you want,” he paused, “do you want me to?”Harry swallowed and stared at the carpet, tracing a loose thread that had got caught on the leg of the table and caused a wrinkle to form. He likes to chew on them. It was all he could think about, Druella’s teasing smile as she rolled those words over her tongue and, now, the edges of Tom’s teeth as he smiled.“Just one more time,” Harry said, turning to him and trying on a small smile—it felt too big and all lopsided, but the look Tom gave him made it entirely worth the awkwardness of wearing it.“Okay then,” he said, “I promise that I won’t bite.”It was only a small thing, but Tom had the decency to say it with the utmost sincerity and Harry was inclined to believe him. So, he sat back on the chair, moulding his spine to the leather and letting one hand rest on his thigh whilst the other fidgeted with the sofa seam, pulling at the little green thread and listening to the creak of the stitch as it came away from the body, and tried to relax. He couldn’t though, because of that tiny niggle in his brain; the thought that he didn’t belong here, not when he was so disconnected from the room—from himself even—like a stitch being pulled from the sofa, he felt stretched and worn, wrenched out by nervous fingers until he could hardly recognise himself.
“Do you ignore all your friends?” Tom said from across the sofa, “or is it a privilege you reserve just for me?”Harry glanced up at him. “Uh—no—I mean…” Tom watched him and left the space in the conversation painfully empty for him to continue. “I mean,” Harry repeated, “I didn’t mean to ignore you, it’s just—I don’t know what I’m supposed to be saying.”It was so brutally honest that he thought Tom might laugh, after all, from Harry knew about him, Tom wasn’t as patient as Lestrange and he certainly wasn’t as understanding as Rosier. Tom didn’t laugh; he didn’t even let his mouth twitch or his eyebrow raise, he just continued to watch Harry with that cool neutrality that smoothed over Harry’s awkwardness like icing over an uneven sponge.“Well then,” Tom said gently, “why don’t we start with what you were doing earlier this week.”“What?” Harry said, not meaning to sound so on edge but managing it, nonetheless.“Oh it’s nothing untoward,” Tom said—borrowing liberally from Druella’s lexicon, “just, if you don’t mind me saying, I’ve been hearing rumours,” he said, as he leant back, his legs apart enough that Harry had to glance at them, his eyes lingering for far too long on the wrinkle at the top of his thigh.“Rumours,” Tom continued, “that our friends have been harassing you.”Harry pulled at his sleeve, dragging it over his knuckles; there was a glimmer to Tom’s eyes and a casualness to his stance that suggested this wasn’t a serious criticism, but then again, Harry wasn’t about to make the same mistake as Alphard and assume that Tom didn’t have specks of glass embedded in his tongue—the sort that could make you bleed if he wanted.“Uh, they weren’t… harassing per se,” Harry said carefully, though some of the interrogation techniques that he had been subject to would probably come under a claim for harassment; a formal cross-examination in the Crown Court would probably be less gruelling. “Just enthusiastic, I think.”“Well, that makes a change,” Tom said, “and probably means they liked you,” he continued, speaking about them all like they were animals that either loved or loathed new company. “In fact, Druella told me yesterday that having you for lunch was quite lovely.”Harry should have been pleased, but at that moment there was only one thing on his mind. “Does Druella tell you everything?” he said, the words tripping on his dry tongue and coming out far more sore than he intended them, but this was a sore subject and all he could do was hope that Druella hadn’t shared every single thing he’d ended up admitting to her. That might have been too much to ask though because Tom was already looking at him and smiling like he knew that he was the subject of Harry’s secrets.“Of course not,” Tom said, “she likes having her secrets too much.” Harry was tempted to breathe a sigh of relief and thank some higher power for Druella choosing—because it was a choice—to keep her tongue behind her teeth. But before he could, Tom was leaned over to him in that conspiratorial fashion of plotters and blackmailers whispering plans to one another.“But that’s not to say she tells me nothing,” he said, keeping his tone light, almost teasing, “for instance, she tells me when she enjoys herself, and she tells me when she finds her company… satisfying.”Harry swallowed, torn between staring at Tom’s mouth as he licked his way around every letter of the alphabet, and staring at the floor as he regretted ever coming here. He chose the floor. And he watched the wood, examining the gaps between the boards and the pale, scraped, marking across the floor from where the furniture had been rearranged. If he had to, Harry could entertain himself for hours by staring at other people’s floors—he’d had enough practice at it. It quickly became clear though, that staring at the floor was the wrong choice because now he could feel Tom’s eyes gouging out a hole in the side of his cheek, and he could feel the warmth of him, and even hear the soft crinkle of his shirt as he shifted, but he wasn’t looking at him and to look up now would somehow be to admit defeat in a game he scarcely knew they were playing.Harry continued to look at the floor and pull at the thread of the sofa; just pulling at it in a wretched attempt to ignore Tom’s shirt with that open slit at the top and the sinews of Tom’s neck as he moved, and what it would feel like to run his fingers between the creases of his shirt and touch at his throat. Harry just wanted to touch it, to revere it and hold it and squeeze it between his fingers.“You know what else she tells me, Harry?” Tom said, pulling Harry out of his fantasy, he finally looked up and came face to face with the softest, most sacred part of a man that he rarely ever got to see.“She tells me when someone takes my recommendations,” he paused and let the words linger, diffusing out and spreading thick between them. “Did you like it?” Tom said eventually.“Yeah,” Harry replied, unsure whether he was answering the direct question or the unspoken one that simmered just below the surface of the conversation, threatening to bubble up at any moment and devour him.“She also tells me when a man has principles that she admires.”“Principles?” Harry echoed.“Yes, Harry,” Tom said, “she thinks principles make a man, and, for once, I’m not inclined to disagree—though, she seemed to think that one of your principles was a belief in non-violent means of remedy, is that the case?”Harry was silent for a second, turning over the reasons for lying and for truth-telling. He thought of Druella remembering everything he said, maybe even writing it all down in a little book she kept to herself and choosing which parts she wanted to share, and which little secrets would be hers alone to keep. And he thought of Tom, right there, watching and waiting for him to answer.“I’d say more… valuing all human life,” he said.“Why?”For a moment, Harry couldn’t speak, after all, the why was hardly relevant; human life was valuable in and of itself, and something so intrinsically precious shouldn’t be questioned with the casualness that Tom was questioning it with. It should be respected and esteemed, and not looked at as though it was an academic experiment that yielded results and founded conclusions, and entirely ignored the fact that these were real people with real lives. “Because,” he started, “people are fundamentally good—and they will always try to do good things, and that should be respected.”“Will they, though?” Tom said, a hand on his thigh, smoothing out the crease in a way that was as elegant as it was distracting, “what makes you so sure of yourself?”“People are just inherently good,” Harry said, the hint of snappiness coming in at the corner of his mouth because he meant it. “It is their circumstances, not themselves, that make them do less than good things.”“So,” Tom said, “where does the law stand in such a theory? Does it uphold these circumstances and thus contribute to the decline of humanity? Or does it stand against them—a beacon of hope in the restoration of decency?” He paused a moment, letting his hand wander back through the persistent crease and drawing Harry's eye again. “That is, essentially, to say, does the law lead to undesirable behaviour, or…” he paused again, his thigh lingering on the crest of his thigh before dipping down to the inseam, “…does our intrinsic depravity do that all by itself?”“The law,” Harry said, his mouth working faster than his brain, “but a corrupted version—one that is dirtied by capitalist ideals and—and other devaluations of human life,” he swallowed, his tongue tingling—this was the first time he had spoken all the tongues that clung to the back of his throat and it felt good. “In its proper form, the law should provide justice and certainty—it should be a tool for freedom and not for the subjugation of some people over others.”“Careful,” Tom said, “or you’ll be accused of being a communist.”“Would that be such a bad thing?” Harry replied, still bubbling and reckless from being able to say whatever he liked and have no one mock him for caring about others.“To the contrary,” Tom said, as he smiled again, though, this time it wasn’t as sweet, that innocence that had always veiled his mouth was replaced by an expression, nothing short of, sultry; the masculine equivalent of those Hollywood bombshells that all his peers saw every week at the pictures. “But you didn’t quite address the other issue, did you, Harry?”“Which was?”Tom’s smile widened, and he leant in even closer, “don’t you think it is in our nature, as people, to be monsters that like wearing human skin?”Harry was silent, the words catching on the back of his throat and dying before they could reach his lips. Frankly, it was outrageous to suggest that everyone in the world was a monster—self-interested, cruel, and vindicative—ready to do whatever they had to to get what they wanted. To think that the law was the only thing that held human morality in place was disrespectful to every decent person that Harry had ever met, and yet, for every discourteous person with whom Harry had crossed paths, it seemed to be a fitting description—and wasn’t that such a terrible thing to think?Tom’s shoulder was nearly touching his and he could feel the warmth of his body and the close, stale air on the threshold of stagnation—there was something rotten eating at the room and it made time slow down before Harry’s eyes. His heart squeezed between his ribs and every exhale of his lungs sounding louder than the last. As if separated from his body, Harry stared at himself—did he have something inside him? Something horrible and wretched squirming around like a maggot in the stomach of a corpse?“Tell me, Harry,” Tom said, making his head snap up and room strike itself back into focus, “haven’t you ever wanted to do something monstrous just because you could?”“No,” Harry said, even as he thought the opposite. Those boys from his childhood, and even from his adulthood, who thought themselves so much better than him for no other reason than they had been born with the world at their feet and he hadn’t. He had wanted to do things to those boys—violent, horrid things with his nails and his teeth, and cruel, gouging, things with the sharpened tip of a pencil.“I don’t believe you,” Tom said, “everyone wants to be a monster.”A part of Harry was disgusted; disgusted with Tom for saying that, disgusted with himself for secretly agreeing, and yet, at the same time, he was so enthralled with the idea that everyone had a monster embedded in their bones. It was the same feeling—settling heavily in his stomach—as he had when Druella talked of killing people, as though it was the natural solution to life’s problems, and when Rosier had said it paid to have secrets on everyone like people were playthings, and when Lestrange suggested that there were ways of making people like you as if manipulation was the only way anyone would ever fall in love.He didn’t know why, but at that moment, his mind went back to the words on the door and to the letter that sat before them. People didn’t carve things into wood unless they wanted them to be remembered, it was why the stone pillars, up on the roof of the English department were engraved with hearts and initials and romantic quotes about the nature of life and love and the mortal coil. Likewise, no one would take the time to write something like that so prominently, unless they wanted everyone to see, and, in Harry’s experience, the only two things people wanted others to see were declarations of love and confessions of their darkest secrets—so which one was this?“You’ve gone quiet—something on your mind?” Tom said.“Uh, yes,” Harry said, reaching for one of the pens on the table, “what does this mean?” he said, writing the phrase from the door out on his hand because he didn’t have any paper. Harry’s heart thumped as he scribbled out the words, minus the M, of course—he might not have been the most intelligent person in any room, but even he could work out that the M was an identifier—something or someone that was special enough to be written into eternity.He offered his hand and Tom took it as casually as if it were merely a bag from the greengrocer. Gently, Tom turned the palm towards him, his eyes passing over the words and his spine straightening out. He let go of Harry’s hand with a suddenness that was noticeable.“Where did you see this?” Tom said, a stiffness in his tone and his mouth souring at the edges, “if I may ask, of course?”The question was innocent, but the stillness in the room and the set of Tom’s features—a sort of… contempt leaching from his mouth, outwards to the rest of his face made Harry swallow. He didn’t like the look on Tom’s face, from the shadows that crept in, to the twist of his mouth that he’d only seen him do when reprimanding Avery. So, Harry paused, his mind whirring as he wavered between telling Tom exactly where he saw it and keeping that information to himself.“It was just in a paper I was reading,” Harry said, not quite meaning to lie but not quite feeling morally obligated to correct himself, “and I didn’t know… and I just thought of it again… so I thought I’d… ask you.”Tom’s face softened and he reached again for Harry’s hand, taking it in his palms and smoothing his thumb under the scrawled out words; he caught the last letter with his nail and it smudged—a long streak of black ink going up along Harry’s finger.“Sorry,” Tom said as he glanced up with that lovely face of his.“It’s fine,” Harry said, knowing already that he was going to treasure that mark—trace it with the very tips of his fingers as he fell asleep, comforted by the closeness of someone else.“It’s law Latin,” he continued, “and means he says nothing—admittedly, it’s more common in America but occasionally the English courts have found a use for it.” With that, Tom dropped his hand and retracted himself as if he had just realised the impropriety of holding another man’s hand like it was the loveliest thing in the world. “If you want to know anything else,” he said, “you should ask Lestrange, he’s always been the one who liked the legal lingo.”“You mean, you don’t?” Harry said.Tom smiled at him, “I mean,” he said, “it gets the job done, but it’s a little pretentious, and I didn’t come to study law because I secretly wanted a career in theatre.”“What do you want, then?” Harry said, his mouth, as usual, bypassing his brain.Tom sat forward; his knee touched Harry’s on accident, but he didn’t move it, if anything, he leaned into it until his thigh was pressed against Harry’s too and Harry was forced to decide whether he wanted to back away—maybe even get up and sit across the room—or stay, exactly where he was. He chose to stay, even as his skin prickled beneath the seams of his trousers and he squeezed his legs together because to have them apart felt indecent.“Oh, now there’s a question,” Tom said, “what exactly do I want?” he repeated back to himself, but still holding Harry’s gaze. “But do you mean that with respect to my career?” he said, “or…” he paused, his eyes settling on Harry’s mouth before tracking down to his collar and his tie and his sweater, and even lower to the buckle of his belt. “…something else?”Harry’s heart was pounding on his tongue and his hands were scrunched into his jumper and he couldn’t possibly answer even when he knew the answer. Sure, he was interested in Tom’s future career, but, right now, all he could think about was the something else that lingered, indecently, in the sliver of space between them.For want of something to do with his hands, Harry tugged at the neckline of his jumper—trying to ease the mugginess that stuck to his skin—and began to pull awkwardly at his tie, the material scratching at his neck and threatening the suffocate him.“You know, you can take it off if you want,” Tom said, half motioning at his tie, “there’s no need to maintain propriety just for my sake.”Harry swallowed and almost without thinking reached both his hands up to his throat and began to work them into the knot of his tie. He was only undoing a shred of fabric from around his neck, but he felt like he was stripping nude and the way that Tom was watching him didn’t help; his eyes were heavy and Harry could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. His lungs swelling and contracting and his heart beating below his ribs. Harry could hear his own heart as it thudded on his ribs and he wondered if Tom had ever watched a woman undress, or maybe even a man—Malfoy working his slim fingers into buttonholes and pulling his shirt off with the garish confidence of someone who knows they’re what everyone wants. He wondered how he compared, even though he wasn’t actually undressing, much less undressing for Tom; was his coltishness was endearing or embarrassing? And was his throat nice or did it make people avert their eyes? Harry’s hands fumbled as he tried to undo his shirt button. Tom caught his hand and for the second time, he smoothed his fingers over Harry’s palm and held him still.“Let me,” he murmured. Tom’s hands were warm and gentle as he reached up and slid the button out of its hole and spread his collar, the pad of his thumb catching on the crest of Harry’s throat and making the whole universe shrink down to just this room, just this sofa, just those hands.“Don’t you think it’s fascinating, though, that people can have a whole thing inside of them?” Tom murmured, “a part of them that no one else will ever see?” he said, tearing his eyes off of Harry to flex his hand, watching the outlines of the bones as they moved. Harry watched too. Tom’s hands were pretty; firm and slim, articulate somehow, as though they were a mere extension of his mouth.“I think it would be a waste,” Harry said, and he knew, the moment that the words left his tongue that they had been too harsh, too incredulous, surprised even. They had been wrong for the moment.Tom hummed and looked up at Harry; his gaze focused and dissecting, “how do you mean?”“You should always show people what you are,” Harry said carefully—he’d shown himself to Druella, let her strip him back to the bare interior walls of his personality and a part of him wanted to do the same to Tom, just pull him apart like braised meat from the bone, and see what thing he had inside him.“What if people wouldn’t like it?” Tom said, though he didn’t sound concerned about the prospect of not being liked, if anything the thought appeared to pull at the corners of his mouth and make something wicked spark in his eyes.“Someone would,” Harry heard himself say softly, “someone would still want to get their fingers into you and… open you up and… find out how you worked.” Someone would like to do that; Harry would like to do that.Tom didn’t reply immediately, he only held Harry’s eyes and let the heady silence envelop them, wrapping itself around Harry’s throat and making it hard to swallow. Down here, the only sound was the pipes rattling behind the walls and the heat rushing in your ears—it was suffocating.“Your fingers, Harry?” Tom said eventually.“What?”“Do you want to get your fingers into me?” he said with all the slick impropriety that it deserved, and Harry knew he was flushing—from the tips of his ears to the line of his jaw must have been an embarrassing shade of red that flattered no one.“Uh—umm—I wouldn’t—” he stuttered out, though his brain was already imagining them being close enough for him to press his fingers against the base of Tom’s ribs and pushing into him and curving around the bones.They were practically close enough already, for Tom hadn’t moved back and so they were there, together, knees and thighs and hips pressed together, choking out the space. And his heart was still pounding on his tongue and his palms were almost damp; he pushed them into his thigh, eyes darting across to Tom. As subtle as he tried to be, Tom must have noticed because he turned his head and took a long moment to trace his gaze up Harry’s body, starting at his cheap shoes and working his way up to his mouth. Harry licked at his lip as though his saliva could serve as a boundary between him and Tom—as though it could stop Tom from seeing him. Tom just smiled.“If you see something you like,” he said, “I recommend you just look at it.”“I wasn’t—” Harry began.“You were,” Tom counted, “you’re quite the one for watching,” he said, “for seeing things you’re really not supposed to.”Harry’s mouth burned and by the heat of his face, he guessed his face was following suit. He should have known that Tom would have remembered and that Tom would bring it up now because whatever he might promise Tom would bite. “I was supposed to see last time, though, wasn’t I?” Harry said, the bravery fizzing up from somewhere inside him, and, grasping it with both hands, he added, “you wanted me to see you.”“And what if I did?” Tom said, squeezing himself into his space, which only made Harry painfully aware of Tom’s spare hand—the one that rested on his thigh in a mock-carelessness; the one he wanted on his thigh. “Does it give you ideas, Harry?”His name sounded so intimate in Tom’s mouth, just rolling off his tongue as slick as oil. And Harry stuttered because he had ideas, so many fucking ideas but he couldn’t do any of them and he couldn’t say any of them because they all involved Tom’s collar and Tom’s throat and Tom’s bloody mouth.“Because it certainly gives me ideas,” Tom murmured, his hand coming to touch at Harry’s cheek, his thumb running down his jaw and tilting his head upward. “A lot of ideas.”Harry could scarcely breathe and a small, fervid, part of him wanted to take Tom’s face between his hands and with a self-assurance that wouldn’t be lost on Malfoy, kiss him until his jaw ached. But he didn’t because he wasn’t Malfoy—he didn’t have that cool certainty in everything he did.Tom traced his thumb downward, following the natural curve of Harry’s neck, over the crest and into the hollow where his tie used to be. Harry scrunched at the crumpled tie in his palm, squeezing his fist until his hand hurt and trying not the stare at Tom’s mouth.“I can feel your pulse,” Tom said, the words quiet and, Harry would almost say, tentative, as though Tom was surprised that he would have a pulse. “Can you feel it?” he continued, “throbbing on my fingers?”“Yeah,” Harry breathed as he listened to the slow, deep, pounding inside himself; it was soothing, in a way, and sensual—a rhythmic connection to his own body that came and went as dependable and infinite as the waves rolling over the shore. Harry had never felt as calm and composed and connected to someone else as he did then, for Tom was touching him, feeling him from the inside out and no one had ever been that close to him before.“Can you feel mine?” Tom said, and for a moment, Harry hesitated, unsure quite what Tom wanted him to do, but it dawned on him soon enough, and as soon as it had, he couldn’t reach out fast enough. His hand darting out to touch at Tom’s throat as if he could find salvation under the skin of another man. Harry didn’t find deliverance, but he did find that hard, steady beat of a human heart and wasn’t that a heady feeling? The intimacy of hearing the beat of someone else’s heart was unbearable and all Harry could do was sit there—so conscious of himself and the space he occupied, and the sound of the sofa made beneath him. He knew he should have looked away—moved away—but it was like he was stuck there, jammed between his pulse and Tom’s gaze.And Tom’s eyes were so dark and cold—the colour of dank earth and rot—and he was watching Harry’s mouth with such care and such interest. It was how someone might look when they held an orange in their palms and slowly peeled away the skin, the side of their nails stinging with the juice, but their eyes unwavering as they pared away the rind and separated out the segments. Somewhere in his mind, Harry wondered if he was being segmented by Tom’s gaze, pulled apart by tender, hungry fingers.
Tom swallowed and Harry followed the movement through Tom’s jaw and down his throat and back to his fingers pressed against Tom’s neck, where, if he wasn’t mistaken, Tom was leaning into the touch—like a wild animal one generation away from domestication. Tom’s lips were parted, and Harry could see the edges of his teeth again and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would take to make Tom bite him with those teeth; to chew on him like a piece of tenderloin beef.“Did you feel it when you were watching me?” he said, holding his gaze just as Harry had done, and Harry heard himself swallow, his saliva scraping down his throat. He could still remember every detail of Tom’s face reflected at him, from the angle of his jaw as it tilted upward, to the colour spilling down his cheek and the bob of his throat as Malfoy inclined his head.“Did you like it?” Tom continued, and Harry was uncomfortably aware of the warmth of Tom’s fingers pressed against his skin and the slightest pressure of his thumb on the very crest of Harry’s throat; it made him itch, right under his skin, right inside him. And, as if it would stop the rolling of his stomach, Harry gripped at Tom’s throat, pushing the blunt curve of his nails into Tom’s neck. In response, Tom leaned into his space, dipping his mouth so close that Harry could image the taste of it on his tongue. “Do you want it, Harry?”“I—I…” Harry was nodding though he didn’t know exactly what it was that he wanted, only that whatever it was, he wanted it; he wanted to have it, to possess it, to hold it between his fingers and call it his own. But it was the sound of the door slamming that ruined it all. Harry nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard it and he lurched back against the arm of the sofa like a deer at the cocking of a gun; he gripped at it with both hands as he, one leg up on the seat, and panted and swallowed and did his best to ignore the embarrassment that was churning in his stomach.Avery appeared around the arch, shrugging his coat off, though he stopped when he saw the two of them sitting there, at once suspiciously far apart and suspiciously close together. Without taking his eyes off them, Avery continued to take off his coat, sliding it off his stiff shoulders and pulling his gloves off, the right and then the left—he put them into his pockets, before hanging up the coat on the other side of the wall.“You’re both very quiet,” he said, stepping through the arch and letting the shadows crawl over his face, and his mouth twisted with a sneer, “I didn’t interrupt something, did I?”“No—” Harry began, but Tom spoke over him, “yes, actually—you did,” he said, as he curved himself into the leather of the sofa, his head tilted back, somehow looking down at Avery even when he was looking up.“Well,” Avery said, stepping forward again and leaning on the back of the nearest armchair, his hands resting on the lip and his fingers gripping hard enough to make his knuckles white and the imprints of his finger pads embed themselves in the leather, “I won’t say I’m sorry because I’m not.”“I never presumed you would be,” Tom said, and there was silence. Avery standing and watching with barely concealed disapproval and Tom sitting and, in his silence, challenging Avery to say out loud what was bothering him.“It’s just you, is it?” Tom said eventually.“Yeah,” Avery said, “it’s just me,”“Well then, take a seat, Harry and I were just—”“I noticed,” Avery snapped, too fast and too sour for it to have been anything other than condemnation. He continued to stand there and look between the two of them, the same way he looked between Druella and Rosier, though, Harry noticed, Avery spent a lot more of his time looking at Tom than looking at him—frankly it was a blessing. He didn’t want other people to see, let alone, know just how much he liked the way Tom had been looking at him.There was another minute of uncomfortable silence, punctuated only with the squeaking of leather as Harry rearranged his limbs in an awkward attempt to pretend that he didn’t exist.Tom was the one to interrupt the quiet. “Is your problem with Harry, or with me?” he said, his tone firm, almost nasty, though he didn’t even bother looking at Avery, choosing instead to examine his nails.“I don’t have a problem.”“Of course, you don’t,” Tom said, “so would you prefer that we discussed this outside, or are you going to get over yourself?”Avery glared; his jaw tight and his teeth practically grinding, but just as he had done before, he let go of the chair and came to sit in it like a dog when its master whistles. Sitting did not improve his mood though, and he continued to glare as he sat with his legs crossed and his arms folded. “This better?” he said with a touch too much antagonism—just as he had when he was talking to Rosier; a biting resentment that must have had a source, though Harry doubted Avery would be willing to part with it—much less in front of someone else. The remark clearly did exactly what it was supposed to because it made Tom look up and Avery smiled unpleasantly at him like a cat just after it had pushed an expensive vase off the high shelf. Without saying anything, Tom stood up and crossed the short distance to where Avery was sitting with his arms folded and both feet on the floor—it made him look like a petulant toddler, but Harry wasn’t about to voice that opinion. Instead, he just stayed still and quiet and watched how Tom sat on the arm of Avery’s chair; not inappropriately close, but close enough to suggest he trusted Avery not to be violent.“You know,” he said softly, his hand resting on Avery’s shoulder in a way that was so intimate that Harry wanted to avert his eyes, “if you want my attention, you just have to ask for it,” he paused to smooth his thumb over the seam of Avery’s jacket, “are you asking for it?”“I’m fine,” Avery said, shrugging off Tom’s hand, but not pushing him away like Harry thought he might. But whatever he might say, Avery didn’t sound fine; he sounded bitter and frustrated, though he looked up at Tom like a small child looked at adults—envious and awing and covetous—like Harry looked at all of them. Not for the first time, Harry wondered what had passed between them and made a mental note to ask Rosier about it the next time they were alone.Despite Avery’s rebuff, Tom was persistent, and he leaned into his space. “How was that book I leant you?” he said still all gentle and slow, how one might address a child.“Good,” was the equally childish reply.“That’s hardly a comprehensive analysis.”“You want a fucking book report?” Avery hissed, jerking his gaze away and choosing to stare at the floor with his jaw set tight and his hands clenched.Tom wasn’t fazed. “I just want to know that you liked it—sum it up in one sentence.”Slowly Avery turned his head back and Harry swallowed again because the air felt heavier between them. “The degradation of man into beast was as seamless as it was grotesque,” Avery said, every word pronounced with the utmost clarity, and his face steely as it stared at Tom. Unspoken words passed between them—a silent argument to which Harry was not invited to join. Probably for the best, if he’d learnt anything about Avery, it was that he didn’t want to be caught up in his arguments.“And do you think all men are beasts?” Tom said, his hand coming to rest on Avery’s shoulder again, and this time, Avery didn’t push it away. Rather, he merely continued to watch him; his mouth hard and something cruel on the back of his throat—Harry would see it twisting his lips.“Oh, I know they are,” he said, “and so do you.”Tom raised his brow, and Harry couldn’t help but feel that Avery had said something he shouldn’t have—some secret that was best kept hidden behind pleasant smiles and polite conversation.“By the way,” Avery added, “the librarian was asking for you—she sounded needy.” He pulled his shoulder out from Tom’s grip, “you should probably go and see her.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Despite all his wriggling, Tom got hold of Avery’s shoulder again, and this time, it wasn’t an affectionate grip between friends. Now, he dug his thumb into the slight hollow of Avery’s shoulder joint like he was trying to gouge out the bone with his nail, all with that serene expression—subtle enough that Harry only saw the violence beneath it because he was looking for it. It must have hurt, but Avery was doing his best to pretend it didn’t, to mimic Tom’s serenity, even when his hand was curled into a fist and his jaw was jutting in that tell-tale way. “She’s looking for me, is she?” Tom said, “are you sure about that?” Avery laughed a short, nervous little thing that bubbled up through his throat and cracked under the pain. “Come on, don’t you trust me?” “Not really.” That clearly wasn’t the answer that Avery wanted, and he struggled not to show it; his face screwing up like a child’s—his mouth pulled into a tight line and his brows pushed into a glare. If he was forced to give his assessment, Harry would have said Avery was one comment away from being goaded into saying something spiteful and reckless, something that would let Tom drop all the pretences of being nice. But Avery kept his mouth shut for once and just let Tom dig the nail as deep as it liked. From the outside, it was an odd dynamic to see like a teacher and their unruly student, neither of them quite willing to commit to following through with their threats, so they teetered right on the edge of propriety Somehow it felt inappropriate to watch and Harry averted his eyes, focussing instead on twisting the tie that was still in his hand. He brought it into his lap and wrapped it around his wrist until he could feel his pulse squeezing under his skin; the sound was steady and firm, the kind of rhythmic fetal hum that blurred out the world. And for a moment, the entire known universe was inverted and became nothing more than the palpating of his insides against the fabric. But if Harry was doing his best to stay out of it and just let it happen, Tom was doing his utmost to bring it to its conclusion. “You’d better not be lying to me, Avery,” he said softly, his hand still a claw on Avery’s shoulder, “you know how I feel about that.” “I wouldn’t,” Avery said as he raised his head and smoothed his mouth into an innocent smile that looked unnatural on him. “You better hurry, though, she’s waiting for you up in classics.”Tom still lingered and Harry could almost see him physically weighing it out, even as he rolled his thumb, shoving his nails into Avery’s shoulder as hard as he could. There must have been a dent in Avery’s skin, a small half-moon cut into him that would take several minutes to fade. He wondered if Avery would trace it later when he was alone, whether he would feel the mark someone else left on him and how much he’d resent Tom for doing it.Eventually, though, Tom slid off the chair, letting Avery go as he did so. “The others will be here soon, don’t forget that,” he said, addressing the room, and Harry wasn’t sure whether it was supposed to be a reassurance for him or a warning for Avery, but he took it as a reassurance along with the small smile that Tom offered him. It was barely anything, just the slight curve of his mouth, but it made a luscious kind of warmth ooze through him, starting right in his belly and spreading out all the way to the tips of his fingers. He smiled back.Avery went even further and actually leant over the back of the chair, waving Tom out with an alacrity usually reserved for the parting of dear friends. As soon as the door clicked shut though, Avery’s shoulder’s sagged and he dropped all the faux cheerfulness in one careless swoop. By the time he turned back to face Harry, there was none of the sweetness that he’d used on Tom left inside him. Harry watched from the sofa as Avery rolled his shoulders and leaned back in the chair, his back straight against the arch and his legs apart, he rested his hands on his thighs. He copied the stance if only to show that he wasn’t a coward; the tie shoved awkwardly into his pocket and his palms damp as he pressed them down onto his trousers. “God, I thought he’d never leave,” Avery said. Harry just watched him, not saying anything; they hadn’t yet spent enough time alone together to know how best to respond to him and silence seemed like the safest bet.It didn’t deter Avery. He just tilted his head like he was looking at some odd little creature in the city zoo. “Don’t get me wrong, I like Riddle as well as anyone,” he said, though Harry doubted it, “but, right now, I’m more interested in you. We don’t know each other as well as should, Potter.” “Uh—I guess not.”“It’s a shame, really, it is,” Avery continued, “it would be better for both of us if we were friends.” Harry swallowed, this simultaneously sounded like a trap and a truce. He glanced around the room just to confirm there were no other doors and no windows and no way out, which was probably what Avery wanted for a chat as uncomfortable as this. “Why?” he said, before clarifying, “why would it be better for us to be friends?” “Because real friends are a rare thing to come by,” Avery said, “but you’ll want to have someone—people around here have a nasty habit of eating each other. Anyway…” He paused as he gave Harry a distaining once over, “it’d be useful for someone like you—I can’t imagine you have many allies in high places.”Avery might have thought he’d bristle at that, bristle and blush and be embarrassed about who he was, but Harry had done that. He was already painfully aware of what he was compared to them—of the two different worlds they inhabited—so if Avery thought that he’d somehow made a significant point, then he was mistaken, and he should be embarrassed. What Avery didn’t—perhaps even couldn’t—understand was what it did to you. How there was an ache that came with being around everything you’d ever wanted, and yet not being able to have it—it ate away at you and when it had eaten for long enough when you were nothing but bones, it made you angry. Wanting was not a modern disease, but never before had so few had so much, and so many had so little. Never before had Harry been close enough to taste what he wanted and he wasn’t going to let it go simply because someone who had never been wanting, implied he couldn’t have it. “Does she really want to see him?” he said, though he already knew the answer. There could be no other answer when Avery was smiling like that, and sitting back, with all the confidence of someone who knew they weren’t going to be disturbed.Avery tilted his chin up. “Why do you care so much?” “I think friends should be honest with each other.” “Then you should find some better people to be your friends,” Avery said and the way he smiled made Harry’s skin crawl. “But if you want honesty, I don’t have a fucking clue where she is, and frankly, I don’t really care. All I do know is that Riddle is too much of a sycophant not to go looking for her—even if it means leaving us here on our own.” Harry watched him, abruptly aware of quite how alone he was, surrounded by thick walls and hemmed in by the shadows that licked at the corners of the room. No one would hear. No one would want to come and see what made the noises in the dark; he might as well have been buried six feet in the soil. The only people who mattered in this seclusion were him and Avery, stuck here, like two rats locked up with nothing else to eat. “Why does this involve me?” he said, keeping the words together because he wasn’t a coward even if his heart was pounding so hard in his chest that it hurt when he breathed. Avery smiled. “Because I want to make sure you know your place.” “My place?” Harry repeated.“Yeah,” he said, “you’re a lot like Riddle and that means, as hard as you try—and you have to try hard—you’ll never quite be like us. I’m sure you understand.”It rubbed against a nerve; dug into that festering thing inside him. Harry was used to these people, they were all around him all the time, inhabiting every corner of every institution he tried to access, and they were all the same. They all thought he was nothing. The difference now though was that they were alone, and whilst Avery might have had the weight of money and lineage behind him, when they were sitting here, he was just a man. He was nothing more than blood and flesh that could be humiliated and hurt, and whilst Harry didn’t want to overestimate his chances, he was quite sure that he could tear a chunk out of Avery if he was inclined—he could take his pound of flesh and he might just like it. Tom might like it too. He shook that thought out of his head immediately, for it was too… monstrous to have inside him. He might have wanted to be seen, but that didn’t involve maiming the seer. “I understand what you’re saying,” Harry said carefully because the underclass had to be respectful, “but I don’t think you’re right.” “And there lies the problem with people like you,” said Avery, “you can’t accept that there are places where you shouldn’t be.”“Maybe it’s just you that has the problem?” Harry said, the words coming out before he could think about them, and as soon as they were spoken, they seemed to presume too much. Avery looked at him, a sneer working its way over his mouth. “I don’t think you’re understanding me, Potter,” he said, “I’m giving you a very respectable way out of all of this, and it would be easier if you took it sooner rather than later.” “And what if I don’t want a ‘way out’?” “If you don’t,” Avery repeated, now leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees and creasing the dark fabric, “don’t blame me when it’s your fucking funeral being scheduled, okay?” He went quiet after that, letting the words speak, and the only real sound was that of Harry’s heart beating on his tongue, mingling with the rough and distant noises of the library—the churning stomach of the beast that they were sitting inside. Avery looked up from the table and gazed at Harry for a while before speaking again. “You’re only here at all because Riddle’s got a whole bloody thing for people like… like you,” he said with a vague wave of his hand. “People like me?” “Yeah, waifs,” he said, “strays, shiny little things he finds in the gutter. He’s like an urchin taking pennies home and polishing them, hoping they’ll turn into silver.” Avery said it like finding something valuable and cultivating it was embarrassing like the only valuable things were those that were born with their value ingrained into them and Harry might have believed that was what he thought. Except, there was something off about him. A wide, hollow innocence that stretched out his eyes as if he hoped that Harry would just see whatever it was without him having to say it. Avery was also wringing his hands. It wasn’t much, Harry would almost say that it was merely an idiosyncrasy that bared no relevance at all, but Avery didn’t stop. He just kept rubbing his thumb over his palm and down onto his wrist like there was something under his skin that he was trying to scratch out. There was some thought on his tongue that for whatever reason he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud, but the way that he looked at him was a sight that Harry wasn’t sure that he’d ever seen before. It was too vacant, too haunted and it made him uncomfortable to look at, perhaps that was the point. Harry swallowed his heartbeat and sat forward, closing the gap between them to only a few feet. What he was about to say was either some answers or his hand bitten off—he really hoped it was the former. “Were you a waif?” he said quietly, and his tongue worked across the back of his teeth as he mulled whether to say it, whether to ask the question that was swelling up inside him and practically written on his hand. After a long pause, “was… was Mulciber one?”Avery looked up sharply and for the first time, Harry saw him as he was, without all the grandeur and attempts to be so much more; he was so small. Young and haggard and caught out, as if Harry had finally managed to scrape back all the hulking plaster that he covered himself with and underneath there was someone who looked a lot like him. Nothing more than a fool, who had waded far enough into the river that to come back would be just as arduous as to continue.“I am—I’m not one of you,” Harry said quietly, every word threatening to catch on the back of his teeth and ruin the whole effect, “but, uh, you’re not either, not really, are you? We both started as waifs, you’re just a few steps ahead of me.” As he spoke, Harry’s heart was pounding in his chest and squeezing between his ribs, he could feel it pressing on his skin and he wondered if Avery could see it too. Perhaps, under all that bravado, Avery was similarly disfigured by his heart as it tried to gouge its way out of him in search of whatever it wanted.“I’m not a—” Avery screwed his mouth up in a curt mix of anger and embarrassment. “I’m not a damn waif,” he said. “I’m just—actually, it doesn’t fucking matter what I am.” He looked down for a moment, trying to pile himself back into the shape he had before, but he kept slopping out. When he raised his head again, he looked like a man still trying to captain a sinking ship. “Look, I can help you, alright? We can help each other,” he said, a new acidity in his smile that didn’t quite match the agitation in his tone. “I can be your friend; I can keep you in the loop and you can keep them off my back. Just a little quid pro quo, huh, what do you say?”He had to give it to him, Avery was quick on his feet and as slimy as any good politician should be. “Alright,” Harry said carefully, trying to balance placating him with not committing to anything drastic, “if you’ll tell me about Mulciber.” Still leaning forward, Avery opened his mouth, the tip of his tongue trying to hook onto the words and his eyes darting about as if he was afraid someone might hear. “Mulciber was… he was… umm… smart, funny; he was easy to like when he wanted to be, you know?” Avery looked down at his hands again, a favourite pastime and he almost smiled. “Sure, he could be a fucking brat sometimes, but he didn’t ever need Riddle to be something special. In the end though, he umm… he just wasn’t like us, was he? He didn’t make the cut,” he said quietly, and he was running his thumb harder across his wrist as if he was trying to work a hole right through it.Avery kept his eyes on the table. “You don’t want to be like him, Potter, trust me.” As if realising that he’d said something he shouldn’t, Avery snapped his mouth shut and tried to take control of himself again, folding every feeling back inside, constructing a façade that didn’t look as strong as before, and when Harry looked up at him, he could see the fractures that divided who Avery was from who he wanted to be. The coldness he schooled himself into wasn’t as natural as Druella and he couldn’t carry the casualness of Rosier; he was a patchwork—an amalgamation of all of them and in his mimicry, he became no one.But Avery raised his gaze and sat back, his hands resting in his lap and peeking out from the lip of his shirt, Harry could see the stretch of skin made raw from where he’d rubbed at it. “Look, if you insist on staying here,” he said with that steeliness under his tongue, “then you need to learn two things. One, who your friends are. Two, keep what’s dead, fucking dead—and decide pretty quick which parts of yourself you’d rather keep intact because something’s going to give, and you don’t want it to be something that matters.”He looked as though he might be about to say more, but before he could, there was the sound of the door opening, and Harry looked up, rather too hopefully, in case it was Tom. It wasn’t, it was just Lestrange. He gave them both a wave as he shrugged off his coat and fixed his hair, the aura that gathered about him was like sandpaper and even from across the room Harry could feel it scraping over his skin. As Lestrange came through the arch, Harry stood up, he wasn’t sure why, it just felt like the right thing to do. Lestrange did not acknowledge the gesture, he was too busy glaring at the back of Avery’s chair. “Care to tell me why the fuck it looks like you’re in my seat?” he said, resting his hands on the lip of it. “And I thought Riddle was supposed to be here?” Avery didn’t look at him. “Does it really matter?” he said, “it’s just a chair.” Lestrange didn’t even deign to answer, he just continued to glare down at him. Avery sighed, apparently able to feel the weight of Lestrange’s eyes on the back of his neck, and he got up without further complaint, moving himself onto a small wooden chair that had been pushed into the corner. “And Riddle?”“He’s running an errand—he’ll be back in a minute,” Avery said with a glance at Harry and Lestrange followed his gaze. Harry nodded. He could rat Avery out, he almost wanted to, but it would have been dishonourable, and Harry did his best not to be a dishonourable man. That, and Avery was still curled in on himself and was still rubbing at his wrist; a rawness affecting his eyes and an emptiness about him that reminded Harry a little too much of himself. Frankly, he just felt sorry for him. Lestrange accepted the excuse but didn’t sit on the seat he cared so much about. Instead, he disappeared back around the wall. “I got these for everyone, Potter,” he said, “but I like you, so I’ll give you first pick.” He returned carrying two flat boxes, one pink and the other a pale green, both were a little larger than a piece of paper. Despite the distance between them, Harry could see that these were the sort of boxes that held a gift so outrageously expensive that it could make any girl swoon.“Uh—thank you,” Harry said as Lestrange got close enough to hand him the pink one. “You didn’t have to.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, “we’re friends, and as I bloody told you, friends buy each other things. Now, go on, open it.”It was thankfully easy enough to open that Harry didn’t have to make a fool of himself. Even so, he tried to go slow, peeling off the lid with an almost religious reverence. Inside, between several layers of crisp packaging were a dozen or so marshmallows, dusted with white and pressed together like little fluffy clouds. “You liked them last time,” Lestrange said with no hint that he was uncertain that Harry would like them again. He probably wasn’t, after all, what did it matter to him? Excess and the waste it entailed was of no matter to those who could afford it, and Lestrange could afford it. It would be nice to be so casual with money, to be so careless, to indulge in the things he wanted rather than receiving them through acts of charity so transparent it made his skin crawl. “You good?” Lestrange said with a pat on his shoulder, and Harry nodded. “Yeah—yeah, I’m fine. Thank you.” Lestrange’s hand lingered for a moment, but it was nothing like the way that Tom had touched him. When Lestrange gripped him with his palm, Harry didn’t get the jitteriness in his stomach or that immense sense of purpose, the urge to have and hold, to touch and be touched. With Lestrange it was nothing more than fraternal and that still made him feel warm inside—wanted in a way he’d never been before. He let go and Harry’s shoulder felt cold without him there. “And don’t worry,” Lestrange said, turning to Avery, “I got this one for you.” He grinned as he tossed the green box onto the table; it rattled and dislodged a stack of books as it skidded over the wood. Harry was just kneeling down to pick up those books that had been unceremoniously scattered by Lestrange’s haphazard throwing, when Malfoy arrived, and he knew it was Malfoy because he was chatting from the moment that he entered the room.“Look, I know this is the room,” Malfoy was saying from behind the wall, “but don’t you think we could relocate to somewhere with less stairs?”Harry glanced up over the table to see Lestrange, now in the chair, twisting around to face the entrance way. “What’s wrong with taking the lift? You don’t trust it?” “It’s not that I don’t trust them, I just don’t like how cramped they are.”Harry expected Lestrange to say something snarky back, but he didn’t, he stayed silent and waited for Malfoy to actually make an appearance. He came through the arch a moment later, looking all sharp and handsome and everything that Harry had ever wanted to be, his hair tucked behind one ear and his stance was so self-assured that it was almost offensive. It would have been offensive on anyone else, but a whole life’s worth of assurance made Malfoy impenetrable. Once he’d appeared though, Lestrange didn’t waste any time with his insults. “Since when were you fucking claustrophobic? Because I distinctly remember you didn’t find them so cramped last year,” he said, “you know, when you had to share with that library assistant?”Malfoy draped himself over the back of Lestrange’s chair—leaning his head on the opposite side to the one that Lestrange had twisted, forcing him to turn again—his hand resting on Lestrange’s shoulder and his cheek nearly level. “I’ll remind you that was a service lift,” he said, “and take it from me, there’s a lot more room in those—needs to be, to fit in such good service.”Lestrange swiped at him—narrowly missing his cheek—and, as usual, Malfoy replied with a grin, his tongue caught between his teeth. He looked good, the type of good that took your breath away, all cool and clean, and Harry felt his heart twinge at the sight, though, it wasn’t the way he felt when Tom smiled at him. When Tom did it, the whole world slowed, and each second played out in an endless moment that stretched further into the distance the longer he stared. When Tom smiled, Harry wanted to reach out and wind his fingers between his own or feel that steady pulse in his neck; he felt covetous around Tom even though he didn’t have any right to him.“By the way, where’s Riddle?” Malfoy said as he meandered across the room, only pausing to pick up a marshmallow from one of the boxes on the table, tossing it up and catching it in his mouth. “On an errand,” Avery said.“I thought you did the errands,” Malfoy said matter-of-factly, before taking a seat on the opposite end of the sofa, his left leg bent, and the right stretched out and Harry watched as he leaned his elbows back on the arm of the chair and managed to look so cool and easy with himself in a way that even Tom couldn’t emulate. When Malfoy lay down like that, his shirt was pulled tight across his chest and the colour of it brought out the faint blue veins at his throat. Unfortunately, Harry had forgotten about being subtle and Malfoy caught him staring directly at him. He grinned again and rolled himself over to lie on his side and watch him, he looked like Rosier’s cat rolling around in a patch of sunlight, entirely unbothered by what was going on around him because he knew his worth. “I take it Riddle didn’t eat you, then?” he said, sounding all too amused about it. “Are you disappointed?”“You don’t have to answer that,” Lestrange said, “in fact, I recommend you fucking don’t.” Harry sat down on the spare seat between Lestrange and the settee, over which Malfoy had spread himself, and he shifted, pulling himself inward as though, if he became small enough, Malfoy wouldn’t see how much he wanted to be rolled over Tom’s tongue. He tugged his sleeve tight across his wrist just to feel how his pulse ached against the fabric—a poor substitute for the tie, but a substitute, nonetheless. That pulsing was what Tom had felt, that was the monstrous thing under Harry’s skin, tangled between his veins, that Tom had touched with his thumb like it was precious.“You’re such a prig, you know that right?” Malfoy said to Lestrange, “all I want is the salacious details, that’s not too much to ask.” Harry didn’t have to turn his head to feel the disapproving look Lestrange was giving him, it radiated across the room and bled into the spaces between the two of them; Malfoy didn’t appear to care. He just rolled back over to lie facing the ceiling, the leather groaned beneath him.“Well, I’m so sorry for potentially saving you from being publicly disembowelled, all because you can’t keep your mouth shut.” “That’s not the only thing he can’t keep shut,” said Avery sullenly, but it earned himself a grin from Lestrange and a marshmallow thrown at him by Malfoy. With surprisingly good reflects, Avery caught it and ate it, much to Malfoy’s exasperation. He recovered soon enough though, and turned onto his stomach, resting his arms of the arm of the chair so that he was facing Avery. “Maybe, if you looked as good as I do, you wouldn’t be able to either,” he said addressing anyone who was still listening. “I think you’ll find that I have standards,” Avery said. Malfoy raised a hand to his chest in a mock scandal. “I do too.” “They don’t count if you found them in the gutter.”With a sympathetic glance over to Harry, Lestrange rolled his eyes, crossed his legs and settled himself deeper into his chair, as if in anticipation that this conversation and all subsequent conversations today were going to be a war of attrition. “I’m not staying if you’re going to be like this all day.”Malfoy was probably going to say something snarky back, but he was interrupted by the sound of the door and the arrival of Rosier and Druella. Rosier came into view first, he’d already taken off his coat and was unwinding a scarf from his neck, despite the heat, his teeth were chattering, and he looked as delicate as frosted glass. With the light haloed behind him, he appeared faintly angelic, all blurred around the edges like he was standing under a spray. The effect was ruined by Druella using her arm to brush past him, as she eased off her coat to show a long dress that matched the colour of her brother’s jumper. “How are we all?” she asked before she was even in the main room. The smattering of replies varied from cheery from Malfoy, to despondent from Avery. Druella replied to all of them at once with a slight nod of her head and one of those hums that the English upper class were so good at, conveying an infinite spectrum of judgement in a single concise note. “What about you?” Malfoy asked, moving his legs to give her some room to sit at the other end of the settee; she didn’t sit. He didn’t spot Rosier’s expression that suggested that question might have been best avoided. “Let’s just say I’ve been better.” “Who was it this time?” Malfoy said, sitting up with his elbows on the arm of the chair; he was looking interested, and Harry suspected the gory details of other people’s linguistic evisceration amused him. Druella looked at Rosier, as if having to have the words in her mouth was even more of an insult as hearing them. “Our priest might have suggested that she would make a good wife—”“Oh, he did more than that,” she said with so derision that her words were dripping with it. “He had the audacity to say that I was made to be a good wife. I mean, how repulsive. I am not made to be a wife any more than any of you are made to be husbands, and yet, he doesn’t suggest that, does he?” “I thought you wanted—” Malfoy started. “Obviously, I do,” she said, “what woman doesn’t? But I want to be something else as well.” She sat down, one leg folded over the other and a perfectly curated frown that would have frozen most people to their chairs. Rosier was unaffected and he followed her like a small and needy animal and sat himself at her feet.“I’m sensing you don’t quite get it, so I’ll try and put this in a way that you might understand,” Druella continued, the frostiness so pronounced Harry half expected to see icicles forming in the air. “Imagine, if when you were a child, you were put into a pretty little box, the kind with a ribbon and bow and crepe paper inside, rather like that one.” She pointed to the pink box on the table. “Now, imagine that, quite naturally, you grow but they don’t replace the box and it stays like that until you’re pressing on the walls, until you can hardly feel yourself breathe because you just don’t fit. That’s what it feels like when a man tells you, you were made to be something.”“That’s a bit dramatic,” Lestrange said, “when the box in your scenario is actually a lot bigger than you’re making it out to be; we’ve given women plenty of rights recently.” “Oh,” Druella said with a cold laugh, “oh, I do apologise, should I be thanking you—my knight in shining armour—for giving me rights, as if they are not already inherent within me? Because that is utterly absurd, and I’d like to think you were more intelligent than that.” She smiled at him, but her mouth was drawn so close to a sneer that it didn’t count. “I’m just saying, there are plenty of opportunities for—” This time, Druella didn’t let him finish. “Are you really so incapable of educating yourself that I have to ask your wife to do it for you?” she said with such a fierceness that Lestrange raised his hands in a surrender. “I thought not.” She turned to look at the rest of them, scanning for weaknesses like a fox surveying rabbits, trying to choose its victim—no one volunteered an opinion. “Where is Riddle, anyway?” she said, “I thought he had a…” she paused and her eyes lingered on Harry, “…an affair to attend to?” “He’s on a fucking errand, alright? Not that you all need to know that.”“My, Avery, don’t go getting your knickers in a twist on my account.” There was going to be a comment, or at least there should have been one, but it was stopped by the sound of the door. For an uncomfortably long moment they all sat in silence, waiting to see who was going to come around the corner as if there was someone else who might have chosen to drag themselves down into the depths of the library. No one else could stand the cloying warmth, or the intensity of their eyes, or the shadows licking at their heels.When he did appear from around the wall, Tom wasn’t smiling, and he went straight to Lestrange’s chair and leant over the back so that he was level with his ear. “There’s something you need to see later,” he said softly, though not softly enough for it to be private, and Lestrange looked up at him. A few more words were exchanged and Lestrange frowned and glanced in the direction of the door. “Are you serious?” he said. “What do you think?” Tom said, already stalking towards Avery with the kind of purpose that would make anyone uneasy. For his part, Avery was alternating between glancing at the Tom—avoiding looking at the door—examining the floor and trying to shrink himself into the chair, all his limbs folded into each other and his thumb still rubbing at his wrist. Tom leant down nice and close and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear not only the threat but the degrading note of disappointment that accompanied it. “You know, you’re really starting to push your luck,” he said. Avery shrunk a bit more, his eyes glued to the floor. He didn’t try to move, and Harry was sure that he must have been anticipating this from the moment he’d got Tom to leave; what Avery perhaps had not been anticipating though was Tom getting nice and close and tugging his head back by his hair, forcing his chin up and exposing the vulnerable arc of his throat. “If it happens again… well, you know what I’m going to do, don’t you?” Harry knew he didn’t have to intervene, perhaps even that it wasn’t his place to get in the way, and maybe even, Avery deserved this, but still, he’d made a deal, and good men didn’t just back out of deals. “I’m sure he just made a mistake,” Harry said, his nerves jangling under his skin and his palms itching; he tried to keep still. His voices sounded too loud and clashed with the simmering of the pipes and the quiet, creeping noise of silence. “It happens.” Tom didn’t turn his head, but he flicked his eyes up to see Harry; he was still looking at him when he spoke again. “Is that so, Avery?” he said, “was all this just a little… mistake?” “Yeah.”“What was that?” “I said, yes,” Avery spat, “now get the hell off me.” “Gladly.” Tom took his seat at the centre of the sofa, with Malfoy on his right and Druella on his left. Opposite him was Avery, still sitting artificially straight in his chair—all prim and proper like he trying to show that he was making an effort, and beside him sat Lestrange. Rosier was at Druella’s feet, and she was sitting on the edge of the sofa, her hand idly stroking his hair like a dog that needed comforting. Harry sat on the chair beside them, his feet pressed into the floor and his spine pressed into the curve of the chair, it was too big for him and the spaces around him felt like great cavernous things, hollow and cold. Part of him wished he’d asserted his claim to the corner of the settee, but the rest knew he was better off just out the way and half-hidden in the shadows. Everyone had apparently found a sudden and intense interest in the floor and an uncomfortable silence wrapped itself around them. Harry joined them, his gaze tracing around the books on the table and outlining the shapes of their shoes. “No offence, but I did not give up my Sunday to climb stairs and sit in silence,” Malfoy said as he swung his legs around to rest them on the floor, complementing the move with a smooth slide right into Tom’s personal space; his head was obscenely close to resting on Tom’s shoulder. “So, why don’t you lighten up a little, huh?” The others continued to look anywhere but at Malfoy, all of them undoubtedly aware they weren’t allowed nearly as close as Malfoy was comfortably getting. “Maybe I like ruining your weekend,” Tom said, not putting any distance between them. “I’m afraid, if you want to ruin it, you’re really going to have up your game.” Malfoy was resting his head in his hand and his elbow on the back of the chair and no one’s side profile should be allowed to look as clear and sharp as crystal. “And why do all that work if you don’t have to?” he was saying, “it’s easier just to enjoy yourself.” “Is this a gratuitous therapy session or are you expecting a reward?” “You know me,” Malfoy said with a precocious flutter of his lashes, “I take payments in just about anything, but marshmallows will do.” Harry was doing his best not to look, or at least, not to look like he was looking, and he squeezed the cuff of his shirt tighter against his wrist as Tom picked up a single marshmallow, a little powder flaking off and peppering the table. With all the delicacy in the world, he held it up to Malfoy’s mouth, his fingers so close to Malfoy’s tongue that he must have been able to feel the warm wetness of someone else’s insides. It was outrageously intimate and obscenely domestic, and Harry was reminded that whilst they might have let him in, he was just another witness and not a participant. But he was still there. He was still watching. And that meant that they’d accepted him into the fold in some unknown and unknowable way; no longer did they feel the need to hide away down labyrinthine corridors and into the deepest depths of the shadows. Now they stayed out in the open, seen, now Harry was allowed to see. “There, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Malfoy said. Tom shoved him, but it was affectionate, and Malfoy just grinned. He sprawled back against the arm of the chair, his legs thrust over Tom’s lap and his shoes nudging at Druella’s hip—she smacked him away like a fly. “Anyone want to guess what I’m dying for right now?” Malfoy said, undeterred with his hand swept out dramatically in front of him, as he gave them a smile that was so conniving that just looking at it made Harry feel like a co-conspirator at a murder trial. “No takers? Well, I’ll just go ahead and tell you, then. I am just dying for a kiss—anyone want to volunteer?” There was a resounding groan and Malfoy had the audacity to act offended. “What?” he said, “you would too if you had to spend an hour every week looking at my vicar.”Whether it was true—and Harry suspected it wasn’t—didn’t matter because it melted the layer of frost across the room and got both Lestrange and Druella tossing the nearest available object in Malfoy’s general direction; a marshmallow from Druella and a book from Lestrange. They both missed. “Oh, come on, you all act,” Malfoy said, “as if one kiss will kill you.” “You know it could, right?” Lestrange said, “Rowle met a woman who killed her husband like that. She put cyanide in a capsule and placed it under her tongue, he swallowed it and by the time he knew what it was—well, he was as good as fucking dead, wasn’t he?” Lestrange grinned and Harry could see too many teeth, each of them a reminder of how Lestrange paired with simmering violence, like venison paired with red wine. “I’ll always be impressed by women’s ingenuity,” Malfoy said, “but that means you—” he said, pointing at Lestrange, “you need to watch out for your wife.” Lestrange crossed his arms and sat back. “You really think she’d poison me?”“Who wouldn’t poison you after enduring three hours of legal philosophy?” Tom said“That’s a low blow, even for you,” Lestrange replied, before turning to Avery. “Lob this cushion at Riddle’s face, would you?” he said, and Avery seemed more than happy to oblige, launching the cushion right at Tom, though he ducked to the side, pushing up against Druella, and the cushion hit Malfoy. The only reason Malfoy didn’t throw it back was the disapproving look he got from the both of them. “Do you think she stayed to watch her husband kick the bucket?” Druella said, “I think I would have done—I would have sat in my favourite chair with a nice glass of chilled pinot grigio and watched him asphyxiate.” As she spoke, she leant forward and nestled her fingers deeper into Rosier’s hair, the nails scraping over his scalp; Rosier leaned into it. Harry had never seen someone quite so contented as Rosier was when he tilted his chin up, his jaw easy and loose, and his eyes closed. He cast his eyes up to Druella, if Rosier was sitting idle with one leg stretched out in front of him and the other bent with his hands wrapped around the knee, then Druella was the opposite, all wound up so tight that Harry could see the tautness in her ribcage. She was sitting right on the edge of the settee with her legs squeezed together under her skirt and her spare hand hooked over the bottom lip of the chair. “I might even have enjoyed it, depending, of course, on the state of our marriage.” Druella said it so naturally, so carelessly that Harry almost found himself instinctively nodding along with the others—swept along in the riptide of cruelty disguised as entertainment. They all acted like Druella had said she’d appreciate a private showing of the latest opera or a privileged performance of her favourite string quartet, and not that she’d like to see a man die. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he thought; with that in mind, he swallowed and tried to imagine the scene with himself in Druella’s place. He couldn’t do it. As soon as he thought of an honest, hopeless man on his knees, choking as his lungs turned to froth, he knew he wouldn’t be able to watch him die like that. The whole scene was too close, too intimate; he’d be able to see the guttering of his lashes and hear the rattling in his throat and he’d know that he’d done that. Perhaps, he would manage to hasten the process—kill a man out of mercy, but he couldn’t just watch a person die no matter the state of his marriage. “So that’s how you’d do it?” Lestrange said, pulling him from his thoughts, “with your mouth?” “Of course,” she said, “we’re not all brutes, are we? Anyway, there’s a certain eroticism to killing a man with your mouth.” She paused to reach for a marshmallow, turning it over between her fingers a few times, before biting through it with her white teeth. Harry watched as she chewed, her lips curved and the muscles in her jaw working. She swallowed, and Harry dipped his eyes away from her throat in case he saw the throb of her pulse and the ache in his stomach became something he couldn’t ignore. “I mean,” Druella continued, as she dabbed the powder from the corner of her mouth, “isn’t that every woman’s fantasy?” The others considered, their expressions suitably neutral, probably contemplating their interactions with every woman they’d ever met. All of them except Avery, that was, he wasn’t trying to hide his disgust. “Are all women this fucked up, or is it just you?” “Oh, it’s good of you to ask,” she said standing up and smoothing out her skirt. It was obvious that she knew she was being watched intently by all of them, if she was anything like Harry, she’d be able to feel their eyes crawling all over her like insects. Unlike Harry, she didn’t flinch. Instead, she took to the floor as a professor might pace about the lecture theatre, every inch of her coiled and venomous like a snake slithering through the undergrowth. Druella stepped carefully and purposefully around the back of the settee, her heels clicking on the wood. “As exceptional as I know I am, Avery, it’s an affliction that affects all women,” she said. “To be socialised as a woman is to embody disunion, one could even say, a disconnection in the self. I do hope you’re following because I shan’t waste my time repeating this.” She continued to meander around the room, and all of them watched, drawn to the slow, determined way that she moved and the unwavering surety of the way she spoke; even Tom had turned his head to listen to her.“It is a man’s privilege to exist as a single self,” she said, “whilst women are divided, shall we say, between the first-self that men find oh so appealing.” She was approaching Avery’s chair now and Avery started to shift uncomfortably. “She’s the one who you all know—the wife, the mother, the daughter—she’s constructed by you.” Druella stood behind Avery’s chair and smiled down at him like she knew exactly what people like him thought about women, especially women like her. “Now, the second-self, the one that is alienated, is a woman on her own terms, untainted and unspoiled by the constructions of men who don’t know her.” With the stealth of any good hunter, her hand wrapped around the ridge of Avery’s chair like the wicked stepmother in every fairy tale. “To return to your oh so eloquent critique though,” she said, “it’s only natural for a woman to have an urge to kill you with her body, after all, it was a woman’s body that birthed you, so to complete the cycle of life, it should be a woman’s body that kills you.”She leant down, stooping low so that the loose strange of her hair dripped forward and brushed at Avery’s temple. “But the eroticism of it, that’s far more primal,” she murmured, right against his ear, “it’s in your biology to find my mouth desirable, to imagine what you could do with it given half the chance—I’m sure you’ve thought about it.” As if to emphasise her point, Druella looked up at them with big, precocious eyes and bit on her lip real slow; Harry averted his eyes, turning his focus to his lap and his sleeve pressed into his pulse—she had a point and knew how to make it. “I’ve thought about it too. I’ve thought about what it would be like, as a woman, to get down onto my knees and give a man—my man—everything he wants, and how it would be so satisfying to have his own weaknesses kill him. Perhaps, it’s a biological compulsion to preserve the diversity of the community, or perhaps it’s the last vestige of sexual cannibalism; I’m inclined towards the latter, yourself?” “You’re sick.” “We’re all sick, Avery,” she said, straightening up, “that’s why we’re friends.” Avery scowled and Druella didn’t even turn and give him the satisfaction of being acknowledged, she just sauntered back to her seat, every click of her heels another strike of victory. Once she was seated, Rosier slid himself back against her leg and her palm was spread flat and heavy on the back of his skull. As if he knew Harry was staring, Rosier raised his head and smiled at him—a weak watery thing that only made Harry’s stomach lift, and not in the way that Tom’s smile did. Everything about Rosier was softer—safer—than Tom, all rounded edges and sugar sweetness, and the way he kept glancing over made Harry’s cheeks hot and his belly flutter. If being around Tom was like being slicked with oil so that every conversation was heady and every look was suffocating, then being around Rosier was being rinsed with water. He was calming to watch; the type of boy any girl would like to take home to her parents—if Druella would let her, that was. “Doesn’t it make you worried though?” Malfoy was saying, repeating it until Rosier gave him the attention he was looking for. “I mean, I’d be worried to have a praying mantis in so close.” “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Rosier replied, barely giving it a thought as he ate another marshmallow. “Oh, you know exactly what I mean.” “Then, you know my feelings about it.” “Yes, but he doesn’t,” Malfoy said, with a casual tilt of his head in Harry’s direction, “maybe you should tell him how much of a kept boy you really are.” He laughed to himself and shifted up to see Rosier better. “The kept boy and the praying mantis—it sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.” There was the tittering of amusement from the others; the kind of snickering behind palms that were endemic to the upper classes and far more insulting than any outright laughter would have been. Anyone could see that from the way Druella’s shoulder’s tightened, and her lips thinned. Tastelessness, Harry was learning, was considered a greater crime than murder, at least in Druella’s book.He quickly became aware that they had all turned their attention toward him, like having a child stumbling in on his parent’s argument, they were trying to assess the damage, and how to tell him that despite their differences, mummy and daddy loved each other very much. Too much in this case. Harry let his gaze wander back to Rosier splayed out on the floor and back to Druella’s hand clenched roughly against his skull; back to the way they looked at each other and touched each other. It was obvious when it was pointed out. So obvious that Harry couldn’t say he was surprised, perhaps he should have been, but it made sense. Druella and Rosier were one and the same, two halves of the same whole, and separating them out, defining them as individuals would have taken surgery far beyond the current skill of any doctor. It certainly wasn’t right for siblings to do that together, but he couldn’t quite say that it was wrong either. Druella must have seen that his opinion wasn’t hostile because she turned back towards Malfoy, this time with the tight strung frostiness she’d worn earlier wrapped around her like a shield. “Must you be so vulgar?” she said. “Must you?” As if intuiting the sparks of an argument beginning to flicker between them, Lestrange waded in. “You, of all people, might not want to start a discussion on skeletons, Malfoy,” he said with the same careful lawyerly measurement that he said everything. “After all, if I remember…”As Lestrange continued to speak, Rosier lifted himself off the floor, heavy and distant like all his limbs were filled with sand and drifted across the room with his usual lethargy. None of the others paid him much attention, in fact, none of them even turned their head—they were too busy listening to Malfoy and Druella exchange increasingly sharp insults disguised as witticisms. Harry watched him, though. He watched as Rosier took the same meandering route that his sister had, but where she stood out, he blended with the shadows and glided by with the ease of a ghost. By the time Rosier made it into the adjacent room and Harry could barely see him over the chairs, but he could see his shadow splayed across the floor, and he could hear as he searched through one of the desk drawers. Rosier must have known Harry had been watching though because as soon as he came into view, he smiled at him again, all open and easy like he didn’t care if other people saw. Slower than before, he wandered back towards the circle of chairs, gliding his fingers over the cabinets and the backs of chairs that were being licked up by the shadows. He didn’t go to Druella’s feet though, rather he slowed right down to stand behind Malfoy’s corner of the settee.From there, the seat obscured Harry’s view, but he must have been staring because Tom was now looking between him and Rosier as if he was trying to work out whatever it was that Rosier was planning. He needn’t have bothered because, only a moment later, Rosier knelt to be level with the arm of the chair, where he rested his hands on the leather and his chin on top like a nice-as-pie actress on her first big break. Around them, the conversation stopped with a jolt and the silence that followed was cold and uncomfortable. “Lestrange is right,” Rosier said, slow and lazy as he stroked at the little cracks that ran across the surface of the leather, on the far side of Malfoy’s neck, “people with skeletons in the cupboards shouldn’t give a tour of the house.” Malfoy turned his head a few degrees to look at him, face to face. “Perhaps not,” he said, “but what are you going to do? Tell me off?” The way he said it was calm—casual—almost teasing and for reasons that Harry didn’t want to examine too closely, he squeezed his hand into a fist, his nails clenched into his palm, and huddled himself further into the crook of the seat.“Something like that, I guess,” Rosier said. Harry swallowed; something was going to happen. There was too much expectation in the room for it to dissipate naturally as if everything inside was covered in a film of glass and the slightest pressure would shatter the artificial calm. All of them were glancing about; their eyes darting into each other like pinpricks, none of them quite daring to move as they tried to assess the situation. Malfoy was the one to break it. He tried to duck forward, but Rosier was quicker and the thing that he’d got from the drawer was looped around Malfoy’s neck before anyone could say anything. Now that it was out in the light, Harry could see that it was a long strip of fabric, a ribbon used for marking books or tying up a girl’s hair—he had to wonder if Rosier just got lucky there was one in the drawer, or whether that was where he kept his own personal supply. Either way, it was now circled around Malfoy’s throat, fitting as if it was made for it. A red ribbon that, from where Harry was sitting, looked like a bloody Ripper-esque slash across Malfoy’s pale skin, and one that was as grisly as it was beguiling under the lights. The sort of scene that some ancient civilisation would have spent months committing to stone and carved so tenderly that people would have thought that it could breathe. But here and now, it was just violence masquerading as something meaningful—something artistic. “Come on, Rosier,” Malfoy said, only the slightest strain detectable in his tone, “if you wanted to tie me up, you could have just asked.” “That’s real funny.” As Rosier spoke, he must have pulled the ribbon that bit tighter because Malfoy’s smile flagged, and his hand jerked involuntarily towards his neck before he caught himself and lowered it. He didn’t quite look scared of Rosier, but he was certainly uncomfortable with the way that things were playing out. The rest of them were uncomfortable too; all of them watching intently as Rosier leaned in close and slid the ribbon along the crest of Malfoy’s throat, bumping it over every ridge. It must have been smooth on his skin and Harry imagined it would be cool as it eased upward, pulled just tight enough across Malfoy’s jugular to put a dent in his neck. He’d like to know whether a strip of fabric could have the same personal touch as the press of someone’s hands against his pulse, or whether it was the human connection—fingers to throat—that was what made it so tantalising.Harry wasn’t the only one watching a little too closely, Tom was as well. His head turned and rested on the lip of the settee as if it was an intimate moment to be savoured and not a violent threat to someone’s life. It was a gorgeous angle, the shadows creeping up under his throat and carving a sharpness into his face; Harry could look at him forever, especially when his lips were parted and there was a calm control around him that made his skin prickle. Tom continued to soothe his thumb over Malfoy’s thigh and just kept his eyes steady on his throat, but he remained entirely unmoved by questionable things that his friends did to each one another like animals.That was all they were, animals wrapped up in wealth and lineage, wearing clothes to hide what they were in their hearts. And as much as he hated himself for it, Harry was enamoured with the sight of animals doing what animals did best, taking chunks out of one another; eating each other until there was blood between their pointed teeth and that glassy look in their eyes. That was all they were, beautiful, bloody animals.“Don’t look at him,” Druella said, and Harry snapped his head up; his face was hot, and he was painfully aware that he’d been staring at Tom. He wasn’t the only one: Malfoy had tilted his head back and was looking at Tom from under his lashes, almost with a pout. “You’re wasting your time—”Rosier interrupted his sister. “And, because we both know you can be a little slow, I’ll spell outwhy this happened for you,” he said. “It’s not people knowing that’s the problem, it’s how they find out.” “Maybe you’re just a control freak, Rosier, all that blackmail must be hard work—” With a heartless efficiency, Rosier tightened his grip again, not with a yank, but with several slow twists of the ribbon around his fingers, reeling it in until it was tight enough that Malfoy was having to breathe slow and deep, his hands balled into fists. Harry suspected that it was mostly his pride that prevented him from trying to get Rosier off of him by more physical means, his pride and the weight of Tom’s gaze. He hadn’t stopped watching. Druella seemed to understand where Malfoy’s mind was drifting, though because she looked at him with that disgusted expression like he was nothing more than a mushed up dead thing she found smeared along the sole of her shoe. “Don’t make this worse for yourself,” she said, “and remember, you got into this mess and no one’s going to help you get out of it, are they?” Malfoy didn’t say anything, but his hands continued to twitch; he looked like he was weighing up whether Rosier could, or indeed would, kill him before he committed a violent act of his own.“His father could help him,” Rosier said, “couldn’t he?” This time, Malfoy stiffened. His shoulders were set firm against the curve of the settee and there was a tautness to the length of his spine like someone had shoved a metal rod down it as hard and as fast as they could. And if Harry looked very closely, he could see the slight hollow just below his cheekbone like he was biting at his cheek from the inside.“Oh no, but he can’t, remember?” Druella said, “he can’t call daddy because daddy doesn’t like him—daddy can’t even stand him anymore, can he?” Her tone was nasty and it was unnerving to see two people so in sync with each other that they didn’t even have to meet the other’s gaze to know what to say. “How bad does it hurt, knowing that when he looks at you, he’s imagining—no, wishing—someone else…” she paused, her gaze drifting to Riddle, “…was his son?” Malfoy tried to wriggle out of it, but Rosier pulled the ribbon again, sharper this time, and for a very long moment it was clear that Malfoy couldn’t breathe at all. Before Harry’s eyes, time stretched out, reaching its fingers as far as it could, and he felt like he could hear every second of it, from the flutter of Malfoy’s lashes to the groan of the leather beneath him. Harry could hear every note, every variation, every flicker of sound was elevated, and it stayed, hovering like a ghost—that room was full of ghosts; just momentary hauntings that documented its history better than any chronicle could. The weight of things done before must have been weighing on Rosier too because he loosened his grip just enough to have it kiss roughly at Malfoy’s throat, a threat of what he could do to him if he was so inclined. Malfoy got the message and settled again, and even from across the room, Harry could see that he was itching to pull at the ribbon, his fingers rubbing together as he tried not to yank at it. The others continued to be silent, each of them alternating their gaze between Malfoy’s throat and Tom as if they were waiting in the docks for a judge to pass his sentence. Tom didn’t, or perhaps more accurately, he wouldn’t, he just continued to watch the intermingling of life and death. “This is getting absurd,” Lestrange said as he leaned forward. “Rosier, stop it—”“I don’t think it’s your place to tell people to stop,” Tom said, calm and cool and not even raising his head off the chair to look at him. “And I don’t think it’s yours to condemn a man without a fucking trial,” Lestrange said, each word tainted with an acidity Harry hadn’t heard him use before. “I won’t watch that again, Riddle.”Harry swallowed. Lestrange’s eyes were steely, and his mouth was set hard; he wasn’t messing about, and that made him careless with his words. Again. I won’t watch that again. Normally, Harry wouldn’t have noticed such a tiny little slip-up, but he was still thinking about the door and Avery and Tom’s hands against his own and the everything that was in this room and everything that was somehow not in it as well.“If that’s what you think,” Tom said, still not deigning to turn and face Lestrange, even as he clenched his jaw and looked in half the mind to intervene himself, “say it again.”There was a callous undertone to every letter and hearing it made a chill prickle across Harry’s neck like the wind picking up across the heathland. In the smallness of the room, where even heartbeats could be heard, there was a beat of silence and then two, and Harry watched Lestrange fight with himself on the issue. It was clear that he wanted to say it, but he wouldn’t.“Next time, don’t pick a fight that you have no intention of following through,” Tom said. Despite the minimal degrees that it would take to turn his head and dignify Lestrange’s simmering frustration with a look, Tom didn’t. For that, Harry couldn’t help how his stomach turned over itself, churning at the thought of someone so enamoured with violence that they couldn’t look away. That was until he realised, Tom wasn’t looking at how the ribbon pushed into Malfoy’s neck—he wasn’t besotted by brutality or hooked on the tantalising face of savagery—instead, he was looking at Malfoy’s hands and the slight tapping on his finger against his side. He was looking at life, or more accurately he was looking to keep someone alive, even if he was letting them marinate in their own discomfort. The whole room was quiet, caught up in watching a not-death. Around them, pipes rattled, and Malfoy’s breathing was sharp, cutting into everyone. It made Lestrange agitated, Harry could see him shift, his shoes scraping over the floorboards, but Tom remained composed; it was both sickening and enviable for a man to remain so detached from it all. Harry wanted to move, he wanted to squirm; he wanted to feel some pressure on his pulse; have someone hold him in the liminal spaces that existed between being alive and being dead. Perhaps what he actually wanted was the trust and the impending calm that came with putting your life in someone else’s hands. But that wasn’t what this was. What he was thinking of was an act of sharing—dare he say, of love—this was just violence spilling out everywhere and making a mess. He should intervene. Harry knew he should, but his tongue was limp in his mouth and his cheeks were hot, even his chest was tight, and he could practically feel the blood gushing through his body, going everywhere except where he wanted it. But nothing could erase the immense sense of wrongness that was growing under his skin, spreading thick heavy through his veins until his entire body was sick with it. People shouldn’t treat each other like this. He shouldn’t let them. “I think he should stop,” Harry said, the words scratching over his tongue as he spoke. They were quieter than he’d intended. “You should make him stop,” he added, though his tone failed him on the final syllable and the whole sentence wobbled. He could feel the others turn towards him, their eyes scurrying between him and Tom, and even Tom paused, his thumb coming to a stop on Malfoy’s thigh. “And why is that?” Tom said. “Because it’s not right,” Harry said, “I don’t think it’s right.” His heart was pounding, and Harry leant into the feeling of his pulse working through him, steadying him; he swallowed and held Tom’s gaze. Druella had said opinions were important, but opinions could only matter if people were prepared to listen to them and he wanted—desperately wanted—Tom to listen to him.The slow turn of Tom’s head towards him was everything he’d ever needed and maybe it was just the thrill of being so close to injustice and standing up for what was right, but Harry didn’t feel like something small and ready to eat—he didn’t feel like prey. He could look Tom in the eye and hold his gaze as the shadows gnawed at the corners of the room and swallowed up the others until it was just the two of them sitting alone in the abyss. “Persuade me.”“No.” If Tom wanted arguments on the legality or the morality of what he was doing, then he had plenty of people who were more qualified than Harry that he could ask and he knew it. This wasn’t a matter of persuasion, it was a matter of wills, and a gage to see what Tom thought of his. Tom must have liked it because he smiled at Harry like he was everything, and it was a dangerous thing to be looked at like that. The kind of thing that took his breath away and made him forget that someone could die.
Do you want it? Do you need it? Do you crave it?
That was what Tom had asked him with his hand on his neck and his fingers pressed deep into the pulse—deeper than anyone else had ever been. Harry knew that whatever it was, he wanted it and he could feel that want swelling up inside him. He could feel the insistent curve of it pressing on his spine and the barbs digging into his skin and making him itch; there was something inside him, stretching his skin, something hideous that he’d never noticed before. A creature that had tastes and needs, a creature that hungered for things it didn’t have a name for. He had always been wanting, but it had never been this desperate or insidious; a need that ate into him, a need to be heard, to be listened to, to be noticed.“I want you to tell him to stop,” he said again, more certain this time. The silence that followed was excruciating and for a horrid second, Harry thought Tom might not react, or even worse that he might spurn him—might laugh at him and his naïve assumption that Tom would listen to someone like him. But Tom just looked faintly surprised, his brow raised and the corner of his mouth threatening a smile. “Rosier,” he said, not taking his eyes off of Harry, “get off him.”“Whatever you say,” he said, sliding the ribbon from Malfoy’s throat with a slow drag that would leave a burn behind; Malfoy jerked forward gulping at the air and grabbing his throat. Rosier just slunk back, keeping enough distance that any physical retribution would be difficult to manage. “You know, I wouldn’t have let him…” He didn’t say it, perhaps he couldn’t, perhaps the magnitude of what could have happened was only just starting to weigh heavy on his tongue. “That’s easy enough to say,” Lestrange snapped, “most people don’t intend it, but it still happens. So have a nice long think before you do something that fucking stupid again, got it?” Rosier didn’t say anything, but he had the decency to look at the floor. Tom had turned his attention back to Malfoy and made him sit forward so that he could chuck his chin with the pad of his thumb. Malfoy dutifully leant his head back to show off his neck in much the same way that a trained dog might show off its tricks. Harry knew it shouldn’t matter, but he couldn’t help the warmth that filled his chest as Tom touched Malfoy with clinical detachment, turning his head with none of the delicacy that he’d felt Harry’s throat. “There, you’re fine,” Tom said and then quieter, “I know how much you can take.” “That doesn’t give you the right—” “I’ll make it up to you however you want.”That was a promise enough to wipe the glare off his face. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, though he only let Tom hear what it was. “You’ll do that for me, won’t you?” Malfoy said and there was an edge to it that Harry had never heard him use on Tom before, the tone of a man who knew he had someone cornered. A man who knew that, in the end, his money would get him anything he wanted. Tom agreed with him, but it still took a moment and a silent conversation played out in a series of looks, for Malfoy to lie back down again, and this time, he settled lower on the arm so that his neck wasn’t nearly as exposed. Lestrange interrupted them. “Go to a doctor.”“Why?” Malfoy said, “I’ve enjoyed worse.” He might have been acting careless, but there was an ugly mark, red and raw just above his collar, that ran the circumference of his neck like he’d endured a failed execution; maybe he had. For the next couple of days, it would need a scarf to hide it. “You’re a good one, Potter, you know that right?” he said, before glaring at Rosier, who was still hovering on the edge of the shadows. “Unlike some people, that I won’t name, who can’t take a joke and insist on behaving like a toddler throwing a tantrum.”It wasn’t an especially cutting insult, but feelings were still fragile and both Rosier and Druella snapped their heads up, both of them looking at Tom like they expected him to rebuke Malfoy. He didn’t.I’m not here to play babysitter,” he said, “and as you’re both adults, I’m sure you can manage.” That appeared to be the final straw in some competition that only Druella and Rosier knew they were playing, and because of it, Rosier didn’t go to sit back down. Instead, he wandered over to Harry’s chair and sat casually on the arm as he rested his own along the lip of the chair and the other placed on his thigh. Harry wouldn’t quite say that he felt cornered by the move, but with Rosier’s body covering him in a thin shadow, he certainly felt a little hemmed in.He looked up as Rosier smoothed a crease out with his thumb and turned his head at just the right angle that the light skittered down his cheek and shadows pooled under his jaw. Up close, he was even more lovely to look at—all light and airy and delicate, and so much like his sister; people had probably kissed him just to imagine it was her. “Potter, sweetheart,” Druella said with enough faux sweetness to rot her teeth, “you can help us with a little issue, can’t you?” He nodded, faintly aware that he was… on display. “I guess.” “Good. Now, if I’m not mistaken, an oft-cited justification for the law is that it's an institutional mechanism for the production of justice, is that a fair assessment?” It sounded overly complicated, but Harry didn’t want to interrupt, not when Druella clearly had a destination in mind for this conversation. “Ideally,” he said, as neutrally as he could. Druella smiled at him and leant forward, her wrists crossed over each other. “Can it be said, then, that the point of the justice system, in an ideal world, would be to be the dispenser of this justice?” “Uh—Yeah.” “And to dispense justice, the actors in the system must do their best to reach just judgements.” She smiled. “Would you say the actors in our scenario reach just judgement?” Ever the voice of reason, Lestrange intervened. “Is this all strictly necessary, or are you just being petty?” he said in the bored, dismissive tone of a parent regretting having children. “Oh, it’s necessary,” Druella replied. “Now, Potter,” she said, turning to him with that gleaming smile that could make anyone nervous, “do we have a just judgement here?” It was the time for Harry to make a decision and he found himself glancing between Tom and Lestrange, the latter of whom wasn’t trying to disguise that the answer should be ‘no,’ and Druella who clearly thought he should say ‘yes.’ He wanted to sit on the fence, but he couldn’t do that, or they’d all be irritated. So, he swallowed hard and tried not to look at Tom. “No,” he said quietly, “a just outcome would have been… fairer.” Druella reacted first with a self-satisfied smile and the slight lift of her brow—the type of expression that had to be honed by years of being right, or at least, thinking she was right. “Oh now, that is a shame,” she said, “shall we fix it?” “Druella, you had better know what you’re doing,” Tom said, and Harry suspected the only reason this entire whole charade was being allowed to reach a conclusion was that Tom was intrigued by it, which meant Druella knew he’d be intrigued enough to allow it, and that could only mean that she was every inch as smart as she acted. “I always know what I’m doing, it’s a talent.” She smiled, sickly sweet, at Tom and waved her fingers at her brother. Rosier slid down into the seat—it was a tight fit and they were crammed together between the leather. He was a hot mess of elbows and knees, all of which were poking into Harry. When he was this close, Harry could appreciate the paleness of Rosier’s lashes and the barely-there mark right at the corner of his mouth and his chapped lips. He looked so delicate—almost fragile—but at the same time, Harry could feel the press of Rosier’s nails into his thigh, and he could see the points of his teeth and he was reminded that for all his smoothed edges, Rosier was as sharp as an ice-pick. Harry glanced across the room, searching for the eyes that watched him from the void. Lestrange had already dropped his head back into his chair and was staring at the ceiling as if he knew exactly where this entire charade was headed and wasn’t looking forward to the terminus. Avery was more interested in watching the other three. But, as much as he tried to look elsewhere, Harry always found his eyes dragged back to Rosier, back to the warm press of limbs and back to those “Potter, darling, for retributivism’s sake, I want Rosier to kiss you.” She continued to smile. “You can manage that, right?” Oh. Harry swallowed. He could… manage that. Though manage made it sound like a chore and kissing someone as pretty as Rosier, was anything but a chore. The others must have taken his silence as a resounding assent because around him, several nervous glances were exchanged. Avery looked over at Tom, before shrinking back in his chair, sharing a look with Lestrange, though whilst Lestrange looked like he was getting tired of it, Avery was clearly loving it. He had slid forward on his seat like he was in the front row of the Royal Ascot. “I think you’ve proved your point,” ventured Lestrange. “Oh, I disagree,” Druella said, her legs crossed neatly and her body straight. “Retributivism is really all the rage, I would hate to think we were missing out, wouldn’t you say, Riddle?” It was obvious to anyone that Tom was restraining himself from saying what he wanted to say. But, instead of causing a scene, he slid into one of those skins Harry had seen him wear in the dining room and in lecture halls, the type embellished with easy confidence as if he knew everything that anyone could say and so there was no need to discuss it further. He leaned back into the sofa, not objecting to Malfoy’s legs splayed across his own, and offered a smile to Druella. “I have to say, I’m impressed,” he said, “and even a little surprised, I never thought I’d see the day that you became an adherent of Kantian justice.”“I was rather thinking of ‘an eye for an eye,’” “Whatever you say.” Tom turned away from Druella and towards her brother. “Go on, then,” he said, “we don’t have all day, do we?” There was a brusqueness to the way he spoke as if grains of glass were sprinkled between the letters, but now they all but had his blessing, and Harry frankly couldn’t work out who was supposed to have won that round. Perhaps, though, that had more to do with the weight of Rosier’s fingertips on his knee. He was watching Harry with those blue eyes as clear as a winter sky and the same apathetic expression he always wore. “Only if you want to, of course,” he murmured, “don’t let them make you think you have to do anything.” “But… I want to,” Harry swallowed. He wanted to do something with all the buzzing under his skin and the slippery thing squeezing at his stomach. He was buzzed up, nervous, anxious as if there was an electric wire strung through his blood vessels and lighting him up from the inside and he just needed to do something with all… this inside him.“Well, in that case,” he said, reaching and guiding Harry’s face towards his own with the slightest touch of his fingers, “let me take care of you.” At first, Rosier barely brushed his lips, and the kiss was a light, airy thing that melted into Harry’s skin and had him feeling weightless, nothing more than a wisp of smoke. It was the chaste kisses of teenagers just discovering what they could do with their mouths and those that had been married for half a century and who knew every mark on their lover’s lips. Perhaps most striking was its simplicity; there was no insistence, no demands behind it, much like Rosier himself there was no past or future charted out, only a moment of meeting. It wasn’t Harry’s first kiss, but it might just have been the first one that mattered. He had never given weight to what was inside him, even when Druella had outlined every corner of it, he had still thought that maybe it was something he could keep within himself; something that other people didn’t have to know. But now, with the taste of a man’s lips on his own and the weight of a man’s hand on his skin, Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to bury this. The smallest speck inside him had grown wide and heavy, choking his lungs and making him so, so aware of the shape of his heart, the weight of it in his chest, and the way that it thudded ever onwards inside him. He could feel it pushing on his bones and pressing hard against his skin, distorting his body with want. Just as he was getting used to it, Rosier pulled back, his hand falling to hook into Harry’s collar and a little colour dusted across his pale cheek like blossom just coming into flower. He looked more alive than he’d ever done before, less like one of those marble statues found on mausoleums and more like a person who could live and breathe and laugh. With that realisation, there swelled a pride; Harry had made him look alive. “You want to do that again?” he said. “Rosier, you don’t have to—” Lestrange tried to interject, but he hadn’t even finished before Harry was nodding and Rosier was pulling him into another kiss. In the distance, Harry heard a sigh and he suspected Lestrange was rolling his eyes. He was soft and careful and unbearably tender, even when it felt like he might swallow him whole like a snake, and cupped Harry’s jaw and eased open his mouth, kissing into him until all Harry could taste was him. It was the sort of kiss that took his breath away and got his heart beating twice pace. He hardly noticed as Rosier’s hand slid higher on his leg, rubbing over his thigh and squeezing at the crest, but when he’d noticed, it was all he could feel. There was scarcely a place now that none of them had touched and he could feel their fingerprints, big and bold, on his wrists and his neck and his thigh, marking him out as something worth touching. With that thought in mind, Harry reached out to touch at Rosier and found his fingers working over the hem of his jumper. He twisted it around and gripped it tight—something to hold him steady and keep him tethered to the material world, even when he felt entirely untethered—just drifting out into the void that had closed in around them, swallowing up the walls and the world until nothing else mattered. He was hot under his shirt, so hot that Rosier must have been able to feel it, and his skin felt tight on his bones, and there was a frantic, desperate thing inside him that wanted to hold Rosier tighter and take him deeper until they were meshing into each other, assimilating. He wanted to show them that he wanted this, that he deserved it and that he could take the things he wanted. He kissed him back, at first, trying to match what Rosier did, and then slowly starting to find his own way. For what Rosier did was nice, he touched him with a tenderness and cradled him between his palms, tasting him as you might sample good wine, but it wasn’t quite what Harry wanted. For reasons he couldn’t explain, it was too soft, too gentle, too domestic, and all it served to do was pull the knot in his stomach tighter, one incremental inch at a time. Now that it was tight enough to be distracting, and all he could feel was the weight in the pit of his stomach being slowly caressed by kind kisses that were smooth and plush, and all he wanted—really wanted—was to be wrung out. To have this feeling yanked out of him, to feel every ragged edge and every point, to know how painful it could be and to revel in it. What Rosier did was so nice and yet not enough. Not when he wanted his throat slotted into the juncture between someone’s thumb and forefinger, their fingers squeezing his pulse and keeping him more tethered than he could ever keep himself. He wanted to feel nails digging into his skin and to know the sharpness of another person’s teeth; he needed something to squeeze the swelling feeling inside him, he needed someone to take control, to tell him what he wanted—what he needed. He needed something nasty and horrid, something that could match the horridness that he could feel crawling and burrowing and growing under his skin. Without thinking, Harry bit him. He couldn’t even say that he didn’t mean to do it. He just bit down as hard as he could because it felt good—it felt right. Rosier jerked back, his hand automatically going to his lip, it came back with blood dabbled across his fingertips like the back of some embroidery, all tangled and messy. Harry’s heart was in his throat and beating hard enough that it nearly broke the skin because he’d just bitten someone. He had bitten someone. It was like there was something horrid inside him, not even an animal because they were purely instinctive; animals didn’t choose to do things, but monsters did. Rosier touched his lip and Harry watched as blood smeared over the pads of his fingers. In the dull light, the blood was fresh and lurid, and it slicked up Rosier’s fingers, oozing under his nails and down the lines scored into his lips. “Uh—oh god, I’m sorry, I—” Harry couldn’t finish his sentence, not when the blood was drooling down Rosier’s fingers as he pushed at the thick split in his lip. It was a crack right in the centre and Harry almost thought he could see the teeth marks—his teeth marks etched into the flesh. He swallowed. It shouldn’t have felt so thrilling to leave behind a permanent print of himself in someone else’s body—a mark of his own lack of self-control—but the way that Rosier touched it was so reverent, so careful that it made him dizzy. A feeling that he couldn’t quite name, but which prickled all over his skin and welled up, full and heavy, in his chest. Harry was aware of everyone’s eyes on him, and he reached up, mirroring Rosier, as he felt his own lip; there was a film of blood coating it. He licked his lip and the tang of blood eased over his tongue. The room was motionless and so quiet that the only thing that could be heard was the humming of the pipes and the claustrophobic sound of silence. He felt like a monster. He looked like one too with blood streaked across his tongue and running between his teeth. “I’m sorry,” Harry repeated, though this time it was quieter, the words barely touching the walls of his mouth as he spoke, and they dissolved as soon as they touched the air. The others continued to watch him, and he could imagine their horror, their disgust, their distaste at the ferality of the lower classes, and that just made his stomach burn. Rosier was the only one who dared to show how he felt and somehow that was worse. He grinned, wide and toothy, and licked at the blood with the tip of his tongue; he didn’t catch it all and it continued to dribble down his chin and splatter on the jumble of limbs. A fat drop landed with an almost audible thud on Harry’s shirt, and he stared, wide-eyed, as it spread thick and red across the fabric. “I should—I should probably go,” he mumbled, his hands shaking as he tried to lift himself out of the chair. Rosier didn’t move, other than to raise his fingers to his mouth, they were slick with spit and blood and Harry couldn’t stop himself from staring. “Why?” Rosier said, as he pushed into the bitemark, the blood oozing further under his nails, “it’s just a bit of blood.” He might have said that it was just a bit, but from where Harry was sitting it looked so much just leaching into the creases of his fingers and right down his palm; the colour so livid against his skin that it could only have come from something painfully alive. And he could feel five pairs of eyes still staring at him, digging under his flesh until he could feel them crawling under his skin, judging him.“I hurt you.” “And I liked it.” The words rested on Rosier’s lips for a while and as they smudged the air, it was clear that he didn’t see them as climatic and confessional, but just a factual articulation of his feelings. There was no justification or judgement for himself, he merely was. He existed, comfortably, in his skin, sitting in the present, never drawn, as Harry was, to the past for explanation or to the future for the verdict. “Really, Rosier?” said Lestrange, dragging him out of his thoughts. “This isn’t a haunted house attraction, there’s no need to freak him out like that.” Rosier sat back as far as the space would allow, both his elbows resting on the arm of the chair and a thin dribble of blood oozing down his chin. He kept the usual lazy tilt of his head, and his eyes were soft and hazy. Harry would say he looked pleased with himself like a puppy that had just learnt a new trick. “I was just being honest,” he said with a pout, “you know, so that he can make an informed decision.” “I had no idea you were decent,” said Avery. Rosier turned himself around so that he was facing Malfoy, his hand resting in the jumble of limbs between them, or, more specifically, it pressed into Harry’s thigh. Rosier didn’t notice. “Well, someone’s got to be,” he said, “and it’s not going to be any of you.” Harry passed his gaze over them again, taking his time now to look at each one of them. They looked like carrion birds hopping towards a carcass, their eyes shining, and their mouths wet with want and Harry was more aware of himself than he’d ever been before. He was conscious of the space he inhabited and of each bone in his spine, and he could almost feel the pulsing of blood through his veins, filling him with an irrepressible warmth. Druella was sitting back with her legs crossed and her head tilted to the side like she was studying laboratory mice, the only indication that she had any attachment at all was the way she shifted and pulled at her the hem of her skirt. Malfoy was still lying across Tom, and he had one arm back behind his head and the other rubbing at the thin red line around his throat, all gaudy and horrid.Lestrange and Avery had had a similar reaction and were both partway through an extended eye-roll that concluded with them exchanging a look that Harry didn’t understand. He suspected, Lestrange was checking his watch and looking for something else to do, whilst Avery was hanging on the edge of his seat, trying to catch every gory moment of the drama that was unfolding in front of him. The last person Harry dared to look at was Tom. He hadn’t moved and the only indication that something was off, was how he breathed, taking long swallows of air, and Harry watched as his shirt pulled against his chest and the collar shifted on his neck. From here, it looked like was trying just a little too hard not to care, and in his feigned indifference, he revealed just how much he cared. It was fascinating to see, and even more to know that Harry could do that, that he had done it. Tom couldn’t take his eyes off him, and Harry had never been so jittery in his life, it was as if his heart had grown wings and was fluttering about his chest like a baby bird. “Don’t feel the need to stop on my account,” he said, “I’m happy to watch.” The baby bird in his chest flapped harder and Harry could feel it drumming against his ribs. He swallowed and tried not to think about how much he wanted Tom to watch him. Harry was still looking at Tom when he let Rosier guide him into another kiss, though this time, he could feel the slick of blood on his lips and against his chin and it was so hot and wet and horrible. The nasty thing inside him—the part that wanted to be a monster—bubbled up and sloshed between his ribs, spilling over the bones and staining the skinThe nasty thing inside him, the part that wanted to be a monster, fizzed beneath his skin and he clenched his teeth against Rosier’s lip and the sound he made was disgusting and heavenly. A sound that Harry had never heard before but would now always have buried between the folds of his brain, a secret all for him. A secret he’d been given, that they had given him; something that drew them together and kept them close. It made him want it more—the bright, nebulous thing that surrounded them all and melded them together—he wanted to have it, he wanted to feel it, he wanted to be a part of it. Rosier’s hand dipped from the crest of his thigh, down the curve of it, his nails pinching at Harry’s skin as if to show him that this was happening—that it was real. Harry found himself twisting at Rosier’s jumper, tying the material around his hand so that he could feel his pulse thudding through him and so that he could forget how much he wanted to push his fingers inside him, to ease through the squelch and muck of the human body and yank out that thing that made Rosier so special. Harry stiffened, not enough to stop, but enough to give him clarity. Was that what he wanted? Was that the type of person he was? And with clarity came self-consciousness; he could feel the blood as it dried on his chin and the press of Rosier’s nails into his thigh and the satin of the ribbon still wrapped around Rosier’s wrist. He could feel the nastiness of it all crawling under his skin, burrowing down to settle in his veins like spores waiting to grow, and he knew he was making excuses for it. Good people didn’t treat each other like they did; good people didn’t strangle their friends, they didn’t use them as pawns, and they certainly didn’t kiss them just to get a rise out of each other.He should hate them. He should despise them for all that they were and yet, when the moment came for hate, he couldn’t do it. And that scared him. Harry pushed Rosier back. “I should—I have to go,” he said again, this time fumbling to stand up; the room swooped from under him, and he had to steady himself against the arm of the chair as he disentangled himself from Rosier. The air was heavy about his shoulders, pushing him down until his spine was bending with the weight, and he thought Lestrange might be saying something, but he could scarcely hear him over the pounding of his heart.The room felt as if it was filled with treacle, his lungs filled with sludge and his body weighted down, always pulling him back to the centre of the room—back to them. He just had to get out. He just had to clear his brain and wash out his mouth; he just needed to work out how he felt about it all. Harry didn’t even grab his bag before he was pulling the door open and stumbling back through the dark corridors in search of air to breathe.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Harry was sitting in the dining hall, alone in an ocean of bodies. Despite tucking himself into the corner, people were looking at him, staring at him even; he could feel their eyes crawling over his shoulder and down his side, hungry for the scandal they thought they saw. He clasped tighter at his tea and kept his eyes on the library book. He wasn’t reading it, but he turned the page every now and then so that people wouldn’t pity him; so that they wouldn’t come over here offering their sympathies. No doubt, they all thought he’d been thrown out into the cold and left to fend for himself.Perhaps he had been. This was the first time in a while that he’d been forced into the indignity of being alone, and he felt oddly exposed without the six of them flanking his sides, surrounding him like a feasting swarm. He was used to feeling the jumble of their legs under the table and their hands wandering over his shoulders; he was used to being blanketed by smiles and suffocated under the sheer weight of personality. He was used to being part of something, and now that he wasn’t, he could see just how tight dependence had wound itself through his veins.Their absence had left a gaping wound in his life, but that was his fault. He was the one who’d left them down in the basement, gnawing on the shadows and each other; he was the one who’d lost his nerve. It had been a long, silent week now without the slightest glimpse of them, and Harry had spent it stumbling around the corridors like a little minnow caught in the drifting tides, always glancing around, waiting for one of them to grab him by the arm and set off a static in his spine. He’d spent longer than he cared to admit tracing the edges of his teeth in the bathroom mirror and wrapping his hand around his pulse late at night; in the dark, it was easy to imagine that it was Tom’s fingers hooking over the row of teeth and nestling into the cushion of his tongue, or curling around his wrist and counting out the beats. It was easy to lie, coiled up, under the covers, and feel like he was a single lung, exposed and bloody, functional but incomplete.Harry swallowed, he was still staring down at his book and his tea—so coppery that it looked like blood—when he heard the thunk of something being dumped onto the table. Before he had a chance to say anything, Tom had slid into the seat beside him and Lestrange had pulled up another chair to sit across the table like he’d been there for hours.“You forgot your bag,” Lestrange said casually, as if all the days between them hadn’t happened, as if the last time he saw him there hadn’t been blood between his teeth, “here it is.” With that, Lestrange slowly pushed it across the table, as if this was a Mafia payout and not a friend returning some property.He looked at it and forced himself not to touch it. Instead, Harry wrapped his hands around his teacup, pushing the pads of his fingers into the burning ceramic, it was too hot to drink but that didn’t stop him from raising it to his lips just to feel them tingle. He didn’t look at them, but he could feel them looking at him. Lestrange’s sharp eyes cutting into the soft skin at his throat and Tom’s much steadier, more deliberate gaze lapping at his cheek.Harry would not pretend to have enjoyed being abandoned, but it had given him time to think away from the theatre with its facades and dramatics, its demands and schemes; it was the opportunity he needed to assess what exactly it was that he wanted, and how he might get it, and he was going to get it. He had subjected himself to too much humiliation and degradation and pity at their hands, not to get what he wanted—what he deserved. He had played the pawn and the co-conspirator, the moral compass and the latest curiosity and they owed him for indulging them, but he was well aware that the rich rarely paid their dues, at least, not without encouragement.Carefully, he met Lestrange’s eyes over his teacup and with his lips still scalding, he spoke. “Maybe, I didn’t forget it,” he said, “maybe, I left it behind.”“Maybe you wanted us to give it back,” Tom said smoothly. “Do you mind?” he added, nodding to the sliver of space between them even as he nudged himself into it.They were still on separate chairs, but Tom was now closer than he needed to be, just spilling into Harry’s space until he could feel him prickling all over his skin. Despite his heart knocking insistently against his ribs, urging him to go fast, Harry turned as slow as he could to face Tom, before letting his eyes dip over him as if he was seeing him anew.Tom looked good in this light, all sharp edges and glittering surfaces like the precious stones they found embedded in rocks; it was hard to look away from him, especially when he gazed back like that. No one had ever seen him the way Tom did and, after a week of being starved of such sight, Harry was hungry for it. He wanted to look and, in turn, be looked at, but more than that, Harry wanted to touch him and taste him and tear him apart, and he wanted the same for himself—he just wanted someone to know him, innards and all. And if that meant he had to dig his nails into Tom, push them under the skin and into the squishy parts of human, if he had to crack open the bones to get to the marrow, then so be it.“Were you waiting for us to make the first move?” Tom said softly as he rested his arm on the table, closer than it needed to be, but Harry slid his own arm forward to meet it—offering himself up like a tender sacrifice.“Maybe I was,” he said, trying his best to sound as firm and authoritative as he felt inside; it was just an act, playing the part of the man he wanted to be. “You took your time.”There was movement from across the table and, as much as it pained him, Harry dragged his eyes away to look over at Lestrange. He was staring, purposeful and irritated, at Tom. “Perhaps you forgot, Potter, but you were in a pretty bad way when you left. You needed space,” he said, as clinical as a terminal diagnosis, “we gave it to you.”He made it sound benevolent; like it was a precious sort of gift that he had been kind enough to bestow upon the needy. And yet, for all that, here they were, closing up that space—in more ways than one if the creeping proximity of Tom’s hand was anything to go by. They could have left him. They could have let him languish in his humiliating dependence, but they hadn’t.“Why?” Harry asked, “I mean, uh, what changed?”Lestrange sat back, arms folded, his gaze dipping into a glare. “Ask Riddle,” he said coldly, “though before you do, I want to make it clear, that I wanted to wait—give you another week to think about things.”“He didn’t need another week,” Tom said, sealing the last of the gaps that had lay between them, and shutting their little table off from the rest of the world. “Did you, Harry?”He already knew the answer to that. Another week would have been uncomfortable, but that was probably the point—he was learning that, despite his principles, Lestrange could be casually cruel for no reason beyond the fact that it took his fancy. He didn’t flaunt it as Avery did, but it sat there, festering just under the surface, and every so often, his fancies and his principles overlapped for long enough to let it out. He wasn’t bold enough to pull a stunt like Druella, but that just made his cruelty more insidious like a wet rot that slowly ate up the walls.So, it was only right that Harry held Lestrange’s gaze as he answered. “Tom’s right,” he said, “I’ve done my thinking.”“Oh, now that’s nice,” Lestrange said, his gaze not shifting and his mouth, tight and unpleasant, “and what has your newfound reflexivity uncovered?”“What I want,” he said, without the hesitation that he might have had a few months ago. Before—even a week ago—he’s still been faintly hoping that the universe would gift him what he wanted by virtue of being a good man. As if, if he tried hard enough then he would have his hard work paid back in kind, but he was tired of waiting. Why should he be made to wait when they could have what they wanted now? And he knew what he wanted and the key to it was sitting beside him, blurring into him, becoming him.So, with a boldness and beating heart that could only come from adrenaline, he let his knee knock to the side and catch Tom’s; it was the slightest thing, the smallest of the rituals of intimacy, but it made Tom smile at him. More than smile, for he abandoned all pretence and gently brushed his knuckles over Harry’s forearm, cool and close and subtle enough that only the three of them could see it. Lestrange was unimpressed. That didn’t stop him and with a carefulness that was almost unnatural from hands that held embryonic death, Tom reached out to rest the very tips of his fingers on Harry’s forearm, easing it over to expose the veins that collected at the wrist; it was an intimate part of himself, but one that Tom treated with tender familiarity. He’d missed this, the simplicity of being touched by another.“That’s good,” Tom murmured. “A man should know what he wants, shouldn’t he?” He addressed the last bit to Lestrange, who shifted, arms still tightly folded.“I’d say that it depends on what exactly it is that he wants.”It didn’t sound like a question, probably because Lestrange already knew what he wanted. Tom knew too; it was in his smile and the reverence of his fingers. They all knew, and yet, to speak it would have made it real; if any of them dared to name it, the careful balance would be upset, and they would all be flung out, in their own little way, into the wilderness. So, they resorted to sniping glares and the taut curl of lips, or at least, Lestrange did.“Still, it’s better to know yourself,” Tom said, ignoring the hostile waves that were emanating from across the table, “what you are and…” he paused as he wrapped his cool fingers right around Harry’s pulse, “what you could become.”They were obscenely close, curved into each other’s space, and it made a little shiver work its way down Harry’s spine, settling, warm and pleasant, at his tailbone. There was an undeniable thrill to holding anyone’s attention quite so completely, but to have Tom’s attention was the kind of intoxicating you could only get from your first glass of wine. He might have been sitting casually, but nothing else about Tom was causal, and if Harry was being generous to himself, he’d say that Tom had missed him. It was in the way he sat close and the way his eyes barely left Harry’s mouth, and the way he was risking all propriety to touch him where the slightest prying eyes could see.Harry was letting him too. He’d let him do almost anything, and more than that, he wanted him to do it. He wanted Tom to loop his fingers in with his own so that he could feel the tender curve of his palm, and he wanted to feel the inside of Tom’s mouth—the warmth of his tongue and the sharp points of his teeth. He just wanted to know him.He was faintly aware that the room was quieter than it had been earlier, and one little peak outside of their circle showed the nearest table had shut up entirely and was watching between fringes and fingers—they weren’t even subtle. Lestrange followed his gaze and gave Tom another poignant look.“We should go somewhere else,” Lestrange said curtly. He stood, without giving anyone else a chance to disagree, and in doing so, he cracked open their little sphere and let in everyone’s gaze like the morning light. Slower than he should, Tom dragged his hand away from Harry’s, leaving nothing visible behind, though Harry could feel both the smeared fingerprints from his wrist all the way to his elbow and the cool air of absence.“If you’d prefer,” Tom said, standing as well, “coming, Harry?”Harry nodded and tried to ignore how everyone was looking at them. It didn’t bother Tom, and he even took the time to smile at someone a few tables over; Lestrange was a little pricklier and he surveyed the room like everyone in it was a bug he wouldn’t mind stepping on. Harry watched them as he gathered his bag, and he saw the brief moment that Lestrange stepped in close to murmur in Tom’s ear.“Getting sloppy there, Riddle,” he said, quiet enough that Harry barely heard it over the baseline chatter.Tom’s head snapped around, and although he kept wearing the winning smile, it flickered at the edges and his whole expression soured. “Excuse me?”“You heard.”“Oh, I know I did,” he said, somehow managing to keep his tone steady, light even, and his expression was almost pleasant, “that doesn’t explain why you felt entitled to say it.” He accompanied it with a sharp nudge and to anyone else, it probably looked like nothing more than someone giving their friend an affable dig in the rib, but from here, the angle was obvious. The point of Tom’s elbow missed Lestrange’s ribs and jabbed into the soft skin just below; it must have hurt, but to his credit, Lestrange kept a straight face.“Good to know that you know I’m fucking right,” he hissed, and before Tom could say anything, Lestrange turned towards Harry and was reaching out to catch his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said.With the same parental firmness as always, Lestrange guided him towards the door whilst Tom followed a couple of steps behind. They had scarcely made it out of the dining hall though, when someone called out Tom’s name and Tom turned to look; Harry went to look too, but Lestrange held firmly onto his shoulder and kept pushing him forward.“He’s an adult,” he said as they continued down the corridor, “he’ll catch us up—anyway, I want a word with you.”Harry doubted there was anyone out there whose stomach didn’t churn a little at those words; Lestrange seemed to be the lecturing type—the sort of person that could make you feel like an immense disappointment if the fancy took him. It took all the self-control in the world not to dig his feet into the floor and be dragged across the wooden floorboards like a dog—he had no doubt that even if Lestrange would try and reason with him first, he wasn’t above getting physical when it suited him.He stayed quiet, so did Lestrange, and no one tried to talk to them. Lestrange didn’t flirt with celebrity like Malfoy did—or Avery tried to—he merely tolerated it and Harry had to respect the commitment it took to be continually contemptuous of everyone he didn’t like. They were walking a little faster than he would have liked, and he had to keep his eyes on the floor to stop himself from tripping over his own feet, so he wasn’t exactly paying much attention to where they were going, and he baulked a little when they came to a dingy, narrow door wedged deep inside the Classics Department.“You can open a door, can’t you, Potter?”He didn’t dignify that with a response. Behind the door was a stairwell that, frankly, Harry didn’t know about—by the state of it, it certainly wasn’t common knowledge—and it must have shown in his face because Lestrange grinned at him.“North Classics stairwell,” he said, “goes all the way to the roof, but don’t worry, we’re not going that far.”Lestrange had a way of saying ‘don’t worry’ that made it sound like you should be very worried indeed, and Harry kept looking over his shoulder, though what threat he was looking for escaped him.The stairwell itself was a tiny little thing that wound around the walls like a snake, climbing higher than Harry could see; there was dust on the metal bannister and a decay in the bare brick walls, and just standing there, Harry felt the damp begin to work its way under his skin. Once the door shut, and the brightness of the corridor was shut away, the only light came through some meagre, grey windows on the far wall, and the whole place was quiet and forgotten as if it had been lost on the blueprints and was now stuck several decades in the past.Harry was still awkwardly looking around the place when the latch clicked, and the faint murmur of the corridor dissipated. Without the sound and without the light, the place was eerie quiet and basked in a mixture of dust and stale air. He swallowed. This wasn’t the sort of place that anybody wanted to be, least of all, the place to ‘have a word’ with someone whose smile was made of razors and whose disposition left a lot to be desired.He turned to face Lestrange and have it out before his stomach churned itself into froth. Despite the limited space, Lestrange was closer than necessary and instead of stepping away, he moved in close enough to loom in that intimidating way that all older siblings must master at such a delicate age.“Now, Potter, I want you to listen to me,” he said, hushed but firm, “when I said Riddle had sharp edges, I fucking meant it.”Harry gritted his teeth and stared back at him. “Yeah. So?”With careful eyes, Lestrange looked him up and down before squashing down that last bit of space, between them, his hand resting on the wall level with Harry’s shoulder. Harry rested the flat of his palm against the wall—it was rough, cool and a little damp, but it grounded him and that gave him the confidence to glare. They weren’t touching and they didn’t need to be.“So,” Lestrange began, and he spoke quietly but it caught in the stairwell and rolled around the walls, “if I were you, I would think about what I was doing and why I was doing it.” The way he was looking at him made Harry feel more exposed than it had any right to—exposed and obvious. “Now, if you want to go ahead and have him anyway,” Lestrange continued, “fine, that’s your prerogative, but don’t expect to come running to me if you end up getting cut on one of those edges, you got that?”The wall was digging into his back and the air between them tasted stale and, really, Harry just wanted a bit of space to breathe. He didn’t need someone to baby him—he could look after himself—he’d proven that. If the worst came to the worst, he always had good old-fashioned violence, this curling, cruel thing just under his tongue and between his teeth.“I said, got that, Potter?”“Yeah, okay. I heard you,” he said, his courage failing at the last moment. Harry dropped his gaze down to the floor, and the weird pattern on the tiles, and the years of grime that worked its way between them. His stomach was still churning and now he felt hot and uncomfortable in his skin. It was the way Lestrange looked at him—disappointed—as if he’d already had to deal with the consequences of Tom’s sharp edges and he was sick of it.“Do you dish out this advice to everyone?” he said, though it wasn’t as defiant as he’d imagined, and it sagged softly in the middle.Lestrange sighed and dropped his hand, opening up the space between them. He moved to stand beside Harry, his back against the wall as he gazed at the brickwork and the shabby windows and the slightest glimpses of the street through the dirt. It was the least intense that Harry had ever seen him, and it was tinged with a kind of regret that usually only plagued older men.“Only my friends,” Lestrange said softly. “You should be mindful of what you want, Potter.”“I’m not—” Harry bit his tongue and dropped his gaze back to the floor. “It’s not wrong to want things,” he said with a grit that only people who had had nothing could possibly possess.“I never said it was,” Lestrange replied, resting his head on the wall too and just staring up at the cobwebs, “I’m telling you that you need to understand that there are always consequences to having what you want, and frankly, I’m not sure that you can handle them yet.”Harry didn’t reply. He didn’t even look at him. It was patronising, condescending, and probably true, and that made the humiliation sting that much sharper at his cheeks. They were quiet for a while, the disturbed dust lying down to rest again, collecting between their fingers and on their shoulders as if the stairwell was trying to consume them and make them part of the walls. Harry chanced a glance over at Lestrange and he looked so calm, almost bored, as if he’d seen all this before and was tired of having to dish out the same advice time and time again.As if sensing that he was watching, Lestrange tilted his head towards him. “Because I’m feeling nice, I’ll give you one more suggestion,” he said, “talk to Malfoy—I know it’s hard to believe, but he knows what he’s fucking doing, and he’s good at… well, let’s just say, he knows more about what you want than I do.”Harry swallowed again; normally he wouldn’t ask, but it felt intimate, in a way, with them both leaning against the wall in the half-dark, only an inch or two between them that was slowly filling with dust. So, Harry asked.“You and Tom never—?”“I love my wife,” Lestrange said sharply.“Yeah, I know. But I mean… before her?”He half expected Lestrange to snap at him and say that his life was none of Harry’s fucking business, but the bite never came, and Lestrange just stayed staring up at those cobwebs like they were the constellations. He looked like a man contemplating how every small act in his life had led him right to this moment, and with it, the hundred other lives he could have lived in its place.When he spoke though, it was just as sharp as always. “I’ve known Riddle for half my life,” he said carefully, “and I’ve done things with him, and for him, that I wouldn’t do with and for anyone else, but that doesn’t mean I’m fucking devoted to him, body and soul.” He turned to face him again, his features blurred by the shadows. “I don’t look at him the way you do—and I recommend that you don’t either, but you don’t strike me as the type to take good advice. You wouldn’t be the first.”“Mulciber?” Harry said, barely above a whisper.Lestrange just smiled at him in that cold way of his, the edges of his teeth still visible in the half-light. “If he was half as smart as he thought he was, he would have taken my advice and kept his fucking mouth shut.”

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If they were building towards something significant, they never made it there because just then the door opened again, and the wedge of light was disturbed by Tom’s silhouette. For a moment, the yellow light curled into their small space, glinting off the railings and grazing over the bare bricks, showing up every notch in the walls and every winding web that sheeted over them in a tangled spider metropolis. They were given just a glimpse of what lay around them though because Tom let the door thunk shut behind him, and as it closed the shadows swarmed their bodies in a feeding frenzy.“Took you a while,” Lestrange said, pushing himself off the wall and heading towards the stairs—Harry followed him like a duckling going after its mother. “Potter and I were just having a little chat.”Tom stayed just in front of the door, keeping his eyes on Lestrange, even as he began up the stairs, Harry still following on behind. “Oh? And what would that be about?”Harry expected Lestrange to shake his head like it didn’t matter or even to lie about it, he did not expect him to stop—pale hands curled around the black railing like a dead thing—and raise his eyes to meet Tom’s with the same combativeness he’d held earlier.“Mulciber, obviously,” he said like it was nothing, and he didn’t even wait for a reply before continuing up the stairs, his footfalls rattling around the stairwell with every step. He didn’t look back. Without quite meaning to, Harry watched intently, his neck craned, as Lestrange disappeared into the gloom above them—his pale hand fading away and even the footsteps dampening. Without him, the pit of the stairwell was smaller and quieter and so much darker.Harry did not follow him. He stayed in the hollow, up on the third step, where the shadows nibbled at his elbows and nipped on his heels—they were trying to eat him, and he was letting them. The metal bannister was cold beneath his hand and he held it so tight just to keep himself buoyant under the weight of the shadows and the crushing intensity of Tom’s gaze. He wasn’t afraid of Tom, of course, he wasn’t—whatever Lestrange might say, Tom didn’t have sharp edges, murky corners maybe, but not sharp edges—even so, his heart had ticked up again and he had to swallow the lump in his throat because the way he was watching him was unlike anything Harry had ever seen before. Where perhaps before, Tom’s gaze had been faintly curious, now it was enraptured, his eyes never leaving Harry’s own, and his lips parted like a man bewitched.Still holding his eyes so tenderly in his own, Tom stepped forward, the heel of his shoe clicking on the stone. The darkness curled in close to him, winding itself around his torso and settling shoulders like a snake—just as some people were made of light and belonged to the summer breeze, Tom was made in the murk of deep shadows, and he belonged to them too. They clung to him, as thick as the clay of Harry’s childhood, oozing through the whites of his eyes and coating his teeth; they leached into every part of him, and Harry was sure that if he were cut open, you’d find it caking his bones and clogging his lungs. A man like that—who wore and was worn by shadows—would unnerve most people, but Harry was entranced.From above, Harry looked below, and from below, Tom looked above. Their eyes holding steady in the middle as if they were strung together—one always able to find the other—and what a thing it was to be held so carefully in another’s gaze. Harry swallowed, loosening his hold on the banister, and opening himself up the shadows.“So, curiosity finally got the better of you then?” Tom said eventually, cool and calm, his voice curling around the stairwell and smoothing over the brick.It had been a secret for so long, and not even one of those open secrets that he hadn’t cottoned onto, but a proper secret kept to furtive whispers and knowing glances, and yet, now, they were acting like it was the most normal thing in the world and it was giving Harry whiplash. But if they were hoping to throw him off, they’d have to try harder than that, so he gathered his words on his tongue and did his best to choose the ones that Tom would like.“How did you know it would?” he said, his own voice rolling around the stairwell and settling on the walls.Tom smiled at him. “Because no one can resist a mystery, Harry. Not even you.”Still gazing up at him, Tom rounded the edge of the stairs and stepped up onto the first one, and while he didn’t touch him, Harry watched those pretty hands of his wrap around the railings. He would like to be allowed to touch him there, to trace his nails over Tom’s palms, leaving behind those itchy trails that would get Tom clasping his hand shut just to keep him for himself—he could do it too. It was only a short distance away and oh, how simple it would be to guide that hand where he wanted it; how simple it would be to do so many forbidden things.Tom paused on that first step and let go of the railing; he stood, open and easy, offering himself up to Harry’s imagination. It would be so easy to push him. He wouldn’t, of course, but he could, and the thought alone filled him with a burning thrill. He could push him and maybe Tom would catch the railings and save himself, then again, maybe he wouldn’t, and maybe there’d be a new stain bleeding onto the wall; a symbol to mark the moment that the immaterial became material. But even if a snapping, impulsive act of violence was the first thought he had, it wasn’t the last, and the next thought warmed him for an entirely different reason. If he could push a man away, then he could pull him closer too. He could dig his fingers into his side and crawl them under his shirt; he could kiss him and bite him and blur with him—no witnesses to their assimilation save the walls.Harry swallowed and reached for the railing again. He needed something to hold, to grip, to squeeze between his fingers; he needed an outlet for the hot, creeping thing inside him that skulked up his throat and settled beneath his tongue.Perhaps Tom could read minds because he smiled, properly now. “It would be so easy, wouldn’t it?” he said, as he stepped up onto the next stair, now only a couple of inches below him and Harry couldn’t have taken his eyes off him, even if he’d wanted to.“I’d let you do it too,” Tom continued. He stepped onto the third stair, and they were crammed together between the wall and the railings with only a sliver of darkness between them—so close they could feel each other breath and practically hear the soft thud of the other’s heart.Softly, carefully, Tom reached out and with the very tips of his fingers, tracked up Harry’s wrist, all the way to the elbow and even across to his waist. His palm was sure and steady, settling just above Harry’s hip, and not for the first time, Harry wished he wasn’t wearing a jumper so he could have Tom’s hand leave ghostly prints right on his skin. Tom was soaked in shadows and his features were fuzzy, but Harry could have found his mouth even in the blackest void in the furthest cosmos, and he would have heard his voice from across any ocean. He would have known him in any time and any place, and even in the shocking mundane of mouldering brick and sheeting cobwebs, this was otherworldly. Harry raised his chin and dared—in the cover of shadows—to lean forward, pressing his leg against Tom’s, and with the hand that wasn’t gripping ferociously to the railing, he dared to grasp at Tom’s jumper, curling it around his fingers and reeling him in until even the darkness couldn’t fit between them.“I’d let you do all kinds of things to me,” Tom murmured, “all you have to do is ask.”Harry might have died. He might have been the one to leave a red stain on the walls, blood leaching over the final stair as hollow eyes gazed down from the darkness above. Yet, his body was so acutely, throbbingly, living; the blood was rushing past his ears and his breath caught on every invisible edge—he was so awash with the humble terror of being alive. He wanted to speak, and he did try, but the words that formed in his throat were soft, spectral things—as thin as spun sugar and just as sweet—but they dissolved in the heat of his mouth.So, with the impulsiveness of a fool, Harry let go of the jumper and grabbed at Tom’s wrist, pressing his fingers into the skin until he felt the steady beat of someone else’s insides. People’s mouths could lie, and even their bodies could be schooled in dishonesty, but their insides were stripped of human complications, and there was something lovely in the simplicity of squirming viscera.“Would you use your teeth?” Tom continued, still soft, still silky smooth, the words swallowing him as his fingers left Harry’s hip and began to coil around his wrist, as tight and cool as a snake. “Would you let me use mine?”He would have said something, the words were so close to slopping out, but before they could leave the hot safety of his mouth, there was a heavy sound above them.Somewhere, up in the dark, a door opened and Lestrange’s voice plunged like a stone thrown into a well. “Are the two of you fucking coming?” he called, each word landing heavily around them, starting large cracks in the shadows and leaving spaces for this thing of theirs to be seen.“We should go,” Tom said, gazing upwards now as if he was trying to spot the shape of Lestrange in the gloom, though—and Harry’s insides squeezed mercilessly tight at the realisation—Tom hadn’t let go of him, and he hadn’t let go of Tom.“You go ahead,” Tom said, “I’ll guide you.”The place to which Tom guided him was an empty study room up on the seventh floor. It was a long room that must have run at least half the length of the building and hidden away at the back where the window looked down on the cobbled-together attempt at a humanities department. The room had high ceilings and six tall windows that began just three feet from the ground and stretched up only a couple of feet from the ceiling. Today those large windows let into the grey clouds; heavy, wet things that hung low across the sky and dampened the already muffled sounds of the city.Inside the room, in front of each of the windows was a low table surrounded by the sort of aesthetically perfected chairs that belonged in chic restaurants—though these had seen better days. Harry would guess that the upholstery had once been a rich mauve but now it was sun-faded and softened at the edges, even the deep green walls were looking worse for wear. On the wall opposite the windows were dark bookshelves, though they were all empty and smothered in dust, the empty shelves wrapped around the far wall as well. The nearside wall—the one by the door—just held neat lines of old photographs; Harry didn’t linger on them. It was quiet up there, eerily so, as if the place had been forgotten, or perhaps just laid to waste: a monument to a better time.Tom eased him forward with a hand to his back—the tips of his fingers resting in the divot of Harry’s spine—towards the other three. Lestrange was hovering by the shelves, tapping his fingers through the dust and glancing at where they stood in the doorway, while Druella and Malfoy sat at one of the low tables. She had her legs crossed at the ankles and her hands in her lap, he was sprawled sideways on the chair, legs hooked over the arm.“Well, would you look at that, you finally turned up,” Druella said, her voice carrying across the room, icing up the walls as it went. “I’ll have you know that I do have better things to do with my life than wait around for the two of you.”“No one forced you to be here,” Tom replied, a cutting dismissal.Their arrival caught Malfoy’s attention and when he looked over, his face split into a grin, he even shifted to sit up a little. “Well, if it isn’t my favourite vampire,” he said, looking at Harry, “you bitten anyone else yet, Potter?”Lestrange headed over to them and walked past Malfoy’s chair for the sole purpose of kicking it. “Don’t,” he warned, offering advice in the same sharp tone he’d just used in the stairwell.“Hey, lighten up, it’s just a joke between friends,” Malfoy said, “and he doesn’t mind. Do you?”It was easier not to mind. Anyway, this particular jibe felt sincere in a way that it wouldn’t have if it was coming from Druella’s mouth, or Lestrange’s or even Avery’s. Harry just shook his head and offered a smoothing smile.“‘Course not,” he said, “how’s the, uh…” he gestured vaguely at his own throat, the words fumbling on his tongue because you couldn’t just ask after the mark of an attempted strangulation, you had to dress it up in polite ambiguity and tasteful mystery.“That old thing? It’s doing great—take a look.” With that Malfoy flipped his hair out of the way to show off his throat. If he hadn’t been so ghastly pale, the mark might not have shown, but he was, and it did. Along the crest was a thick, yellowing line that was darker, almost brown, in the centre and paler at the edge, and there was something quite horrid and quite lovely about it like the pretty mushrooms that could kill you from just a taste. Harry let his gaze drop down to Malfoy’s bag, and sure enough, there was a scarf draped over it; for all his show in private, he was hiding it.Malfoy saw him looking and smiled. “You should see Rosier’s lip,” he said, before quickly adding, “I mean, he sure doesn’t mind—thinks it makes him look interesting.”It probably did. Harry could imagine it healing into a red crag that cut across his mouth, oozing blood and mystery in equal measure, and to think, he did that. No one would suspect him; he scarcely even suspected himself, and it was thrilling to have such a secret under his skin. Tom was right, it was better to know the things that inhabited you, the cultures that shifted under your skin and the horrible things that made space for themselves below your ribs and between your teeth.“I mind though,” Druella said, still cool and unimpressed as she crossed her legs over one another, folding her arms and fixing him a look. “In future, Potter, don’t bite things that aren’t yours; in some circles, it might be considered impolite.”“You’re one to talk,” Tom said, still standing by the door.“If you’ve got something to say, Riddle, please, do us all a favour, and just say it.”Harry found his voice then; it only seemed fair after Tom had done it for him. “You already know what he means,” he said.As soon as he said it, Harry had a twinge of regret in his gut because Druella’s face was like ice and her gaze darted over to Tom before flitting quickly back. Her mouth hardened and her fingers tapped out a little pattern against her arm; Harry could almost see her thoughts moving back and forth on a metronome beat as she decided how to respond. Eventually, though, she quirked her mouth—not quite managing a smile—and granted him a leave of pass into the circle of chairs.“I guess I do. Let’s leave it, shall we?” she said, the latter part she spoke only to Tom. “Now, don’t just stand there, sweetheart, come sit.” She patted at the arm of her chair as one might when summoning a dog, and as if sensing that Harry wasn’t inclined to follow instructions, Tom pushed him gently forward.“Go on,” Tom murmured, clinging close enough behind to be a cool shadow, and he stayed that close even when Harry began to cross the threshold into their little world. At least, he did until Druella caught at his sleeve and held him still.“Finally got the bit between your teeth, then?” she said, making no effort to be quiet in her accusations (and whatever she might say, it was an accusation). “I trust it tastes as good as you hoped?”Harry didn’t turn in time to see Tom’s face when he spoke, though he heard the deceptively soft reply; words that appeared neutral on the surface, but which contained grit and nails hard enough to cut through even the most secure smile.“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”Druella laughed, a cold little thing that bubbled up from her throat and drifted around the room like a swirl of snow—the others stayed quiet. “Don’t treat me like a fool. I’ve seen you ravenous and, believe me, this isn’t it.”This time, Tom leant down until his head was level with Druella’s, his gaze was steady and so was hers, and they stayed like that, each daring the other to blink first. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom said again, heavier now, the tone smothering the room, “and I’ll remind you that it would do you good to take my word as my word.”“Oh, I wouldn’t take it as anything else,” Druella replied, and though she raised her chin in the poise of determination, her gaze was lowered (she was deferring, albeit more quietly than the others). That must have pleased him because he turned back to Harry and gave him a tar pit smile, slick and sticky and pulling him under.At the sight of it, Lestrange rolled his eyes and continued his casual performance of disgust at his friends by easing past them and tossing himself into one of the two free chairs, his feet up on the table like he owned it. He nodded at the other chair and Harry followed the unspoken directive. Facing away from the window, the room took on a muted, haunted visage as if it had been blanketed in pale light and doused in a dream. Perhaps it had because Tom did not turf off one of the others or hitch himself up onto the windowsill as Harry thought he might, instead he took a seat beside him, on the arm of his chair.It was a lovely tension that curled through his stomach and settled upon his skin like a razor blade dragged carelessly. Harry stayed so perfectly still as if the slightest movement would make Tom realise exactly what he’d done and he’d correct himself—and that would leave Harry playing the abandoned child, crying for milk, palpably rejected in front of three people who’d gone their entire lives without tasting that bitter feeling.So, he sat there, back straight and legs pressed together, his bag at his feet and Tom as his shadow, fidgety and tense, he knotted his fingers together and pushed his thumb into his palm over and over as if he was trying to dredge the flesh from the bone. Until he remembered how Avery had done the same, that made him stop.No one said anything and in the quiet, the light curled around their limbs, hazing them out into a soft smudge and blending their bodies with the walls, writing them into the walls. In the quiet, the awkwardness began to chew on Harry.“So, uh, where’s Avery?” he said, trying for casual as he glanced between the corners as if Avery was there, just lurking in the green walls like a hunter stalking the undergrowth. The corners were silent though and the room was empty of allies. Harry shifted and passed his gaze over each of them, searching their blank faces for answers, before finally turning to gaze up at Tom; he didn’t even want Avery here per se. He was cold and slippery with those beady eyes that saw more than he’d ever admit, but he was just trying to tread the water—maybe even swim in the gilded mire that was sucking him down inch by inch—and that connected them in some quiet way.“He doesn’t need to be here,” Tom said, his arm stretched over the back of Harry’s chair, and his eyes drawn elsewhere. He didn’t elaborate.“And Rosier?”This time, it was Lestrange who leant forward. “I told him not to come,” he said, his expression impenetrable; the fissures of fraternal sympathy he’d had only a few minutes ago, filled in until nothing could escape. “I didn’t think he should be here, not after his… display last time.”“Display?”“Don’t give me that, Potter. You know exactly what I mean.”He did know, of course, he knew, but while that had undeniably been many things—a ploy, a provocation, a pastime—it wasn’t a display, and to reduce it to one was frankly demeaning. From even the suggestion, the back of Harry’s neck was hot and so were his palms, he rubbed them over his thighs and met Lestrange’s blunt, relentless gaze with his own. They weren’t the only ones who could do what they liked with the bodies before them; they weren’t the only ones who could bite and maul and tear things apart, and while he would defer to Lestrange in private, in public, he had to stand his ground—just like everyone else.“You were the one—you said he was a good person,” Harry said, tougher than he meant, but not nearly as tough as he could have been.Lestrange narrowed his eyes. “I’ll hasten to remind you that we were talking about idolising, not shoving your tongue down his fucking throat,” he said, each word like a boot grinding further into his chest.“Yeah, well maybe that’s just how I idolise,” Harry snapped back.It was pretty clear that Lestrange was about to say something—probably something cruel if the curl of his mouth was anything to go by—but Malfoy interrupted before he could.“Sheesh, Riddle, you might want to think about putting your dog on a leash. Real rabid little thing, isn’t he?” he said in his usual, half-joking, almost demeaning, casually cruel way.Harry had half the mind to snap at him too, but Tom let his arm slide off the back of the chair and hook down to brush over his thigh; a small, casual gesture—intimacy condensed into something you could carry everywhere—but still, it soothed the gnashing thing inside him. The argument that had been bubbling so fiercely in the back of his throat blew itself out, only to be replaced by a feeling that was equally fierce, but which tugged and twisted down into his gut, pulling, and straining like a hungry dog.“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Tom said, smiling at Malfoy as he leant further into Harry—breathing his air and filling up his space until Harry’s little world was crammed so full of Tom that the seams of it were stretching and the borders were so thin anyone should have been able to see how he felt. And what a thing it was to feel. He was so heavy, his blood thick in his head and his body dragged him down as if his very bones were weighted with sand; he was buoyed only by Tom’s knuckles soothing over his thigh, the boldest move so far and Harry didn’t dare to look up in case he saw lolling eyes and curled lips at such a sight.“A little rabidness,” Tom continued, “well, that’s what makes a man worth knowing, wouldn’t you agree, Harry?” he said, every word a small piece of honeyed horror that Harry nibbled on like it was the last thing he might ever eat.However, he couldn’t stay silent, lest he lose that coveted status of being interesting, on which his entire life was currently staked.“Depends on what makes them rabid, I guess,” he managed, working hard to scrape each mangled syllable off the walls of his mouth. They tasted thick and chalky and didn’t sound as intelligent as he would have liked once they were flopping around the room, just spluttering and ill-thought-out things.“And why is that?”“Well, uh—” Harry swallowed. He knew the reason but knowing it and saying it were two very different things. “No one wants a mad dog, do they?”Tom turned his head towards him, and just like that they were returned to their positions on the stairs, albeit reversed now: Tom gazing down at the fine lines of his shadow and Harry gazing up the silhouette. They were both glazed with a soft grey wash and so close that should he reach a mere inch up or Tom reach down the same distance, they would be reaching into each other, delving into shadows and easing between the lines and who knows what they might find tangled in the other.“Perhaps most people wouldn’t,” he murmured, his fingers straying down the curve to press in that private place between Harry’s thigh and the arm of the chair, “but I’d say that even a mad dog can have its admirers, and carnage brought out with human teeth has a certain… allure, don’t you think?”“Do you?” he replied, trying to ignore the pinprick eyes all over him.“I asked first.”Harry licked his teeth—tracing the flat face of the molars, the point of the canine and the straight edge of the incisors—and imagined slicing open his tongue. The blood leaking into the bowl of his mouth, a hidden vessel into which anyone who dared could dip their fingers and know the capacity for violence that every man held inside him. Tom was looking in that way again like a kid in front of a claw machine, trying to hook the prize that he’d spied in the depths. It was the same expression he’d had down in the basement where the shadows crawled along the walls and awful things could be done without repercussion; such things could not be repeated even in this pseudo-light.“Yeah,” he said quietly, “Yeah, I do.” It was an answer for Tom, and for Tom alone, even if everyone else heard it too. “And you?”As if in reward, Tom’s hand rested fully on his thigh, and the cool outline of it would surely stick in Harry’s mind until the very end of time itself, and he smiled, just as cooly to him.“You know I do,” he said. “And the most alluring part? That’s how the borders blur in our teeth. Everyone has an animal in their mouth, everyone can feel it when they talk, when they smile, when they eat, but most people—well, they keep it shuttered up, don’t they? They loathe it, they starve it, they hope that it will go away, and I don’t know, maybe it does? But you can’t do that once you’ve fed it because now it’s hungry, isn’t it, Harry?”“Oh, give it a rest, Riddle,” Druella said, “he doesn’t need to hear any of that.”“I didn’t know you had a heart,” Lestrange said, opening his eyes for the first time in a while.Druella looked utterly indignant to the suggestion. “It’s purely selfish, I assure you—”“Yeah,” Malfoy said, picking up in her natural pause, “some of us do have places to be tonight.” As he spoke, Malfoy rubbed at his neck, his thumb digging into the yellowing bruise—perhaps he was imagining someone’s teeth there instead.As if finally realising that there were other people present, Tom pulled back his hand and dragged himself out of Harry’s space—the loss was a pain deep in Harry’s chest. The smile Tom gave the rest of them wasn’t exactly nice.“Oh, apologies,” Tom said with an unnecessary edge, “I didn’t realise we were keeping you from your oh-so-busy social calendar. Dinner with your parents, isn’t it?”“If you’re going to be like that, I’ll uninvite you,” Malfoy said, reaching over to grab some old leaflet off the table.That was, apparently, enough for Tom to smooth out his tone, and when he smiled again, it was softer, more genuine. Malfoy was once again the antidote to Tom’s naturally poisonous streak, and Harry squirmed under the weight of a shared history he didn’t even know.“Well then,” Tom said, lighter now, “let’s not make this any longer than it needs to be, shall we? Now, Harry, you don’t want to keep everyone waiting, so why don’t you ask what you’re doing here?”Harry held his eyes. “Why don’t you tell me?” he replied, because he rather liked making Tom do the very things he asked of others; he liked that little flicker of a smile that resistance produced as if he was a snake reassessing the strike.Just as he expected, Tom’s mouth curved into a smile and his eyes darted all over Harry’s face, coating every inch in his gaze. It was quite a thing to be looked at like that, to be cradled in someone’s gaze, and filled with warmth at the mere hint of a smile, and if the others hadn’t been there… well, Harry’s mouth was dry at the prospect.“We thought we’d set the record straight,” Tom began, “after all, you can’t be relying on Avery for your facts—you can’t even rely on him for notes.”He could hardly be surprised that they had worked it out—Avery might have been a schemer, but he was a fledgling one, and it must have been pitifully embarrassing to watch—so Harry didn’t deny, and he didn’t confirm, just like they did. Even so, for all his collected veneer, his heart was beating hard enough to churn up his stomach, all because this resembled an invitation into the winding tunnels of a rabbit warren, though perhaps the burrow of a crocodile was more fitting. The worst part though was that he wanted to go further in; he could see the dangers, the way the four of them looked at each other, the slight sharpness to their smiles and instead of turning in disgust, he got closer. The fact was, they were fascinating things, fascinating ugly things that he was compelled to stare at in the hope of understanding them.“Go on then,” he said, keeping his tone steady even as his world wobbled, “set it straight.”Tom looked over at Druella, an actor prompting their colleague into action, and she took to it like a natural. She sat back, legs crossed over one another and her skirt grazing at her calf, and it was odd to look at her and not have Rosier there by feet—a part of her was missing and it was his fault. Harry could picture the way he’d lean into her knee with that hazy expression that saw everything and just let it happen.“Well, sweetheart, the thing is, we’re rather worried that you might have got an idea into your pretty little head—perhaps the notion that something unsavoury might have happened to him—”Harry interrupted. “Did it?”“Oh, now, we wouldn’t know,” she said with one of those blasé waves of her hand, “people who go missing, well, they don’t tend to write now, do they?”For a moment, his heart seemed to stop and he was suspended between the beats; in the privacy of his own mind, he’d come up with theories ranging from the benign to the truly sinister—perhaps he’d moved abroad, or maybe he’d said something objectionable, and they’d axed him from their lives like it was nothing, or perhaps he’d met some sticky end at the bottom of a cliff like in those lurid novels. A missing man was a question, not an answer. A question none of the four of them appeared to care for as they all sat there, as serene and empty things like the marble busts that lined the halls and Harry forcedly swallowed the distaste that pooled beneath his tongue like a rancid slop.But if they weren’t bothered, he couldn’t be bothered, so even if it felt unnatural to his bones and queasy to his stomach, Harry submitted himself to the contagion of apathy and leaned back into the chair, his fingers scratching at the faded fabric of the chair.“Missing, huh?” he said, keeping his tone muted (just like they did), “has anyone tried, uh… looking for him?”Tom hummed and tilted his head towards the window, gazing up at the fat clouds gathered across the sky—they were grey and full and so low that they scraped over the tops of the buildings, smothering the window.“They did,” he said, speaking to the window rather than any of them, “his father spent a long time and a lot of money, and it didn’t do him any good. Anyway, it’s coming up seven months now, so I think we can safely say they’re not going to find him, not alive at least.”There was a stone in Harry’s stomach, cold and heavy it sat keeping him weighted to his chair, and it wasn’t the absence that got to him, it was the casualness of it. He turned from Tom to the rest of them, and if he was hoping for emotions and outbursts and just reactions, he was sorely disappointed for they all looked so normal. In fact, Malfoy and Druella looked back at him with such an easy air, as if this was nothing more than market day gossip; Lestrange at least appeared bothered, sitting straight and silent, his arms folded and his gaze in pointedly the opposite direction to Tom.“And what—what do you think happened to him?” Harry said, trying to sound just as casual—like this didn’t matter, like this wasn’t a real person with a real life—and though he asked the room, the other three all looked towards Tom for the answer.Tom sighed and finally looked away from the window. His gaze was set in that serious, meticulous mould, just as it had been when he’d presided over the line between life and death. “Do you want my honest opinion?” he said, and Harry had heard him speak enough times to recognise just how carefully he placed that tone into neutral territory.“Obviously.”“Well, then, if I’m being honest, we don’t know what happened, just that something like this was always going to. You see, Harry, if there was one thing that Mulciber was never very good at, it was considering the consequences of his actions.” Tom paused, the grey of the clouds cramming themselves against the window and caking everything in a thick, grey paste that smothered all that it touched. “Sure, he could be interesting, but that didn’t stop him from being volatile, melodramatic and incredibly difficult when he wanted to be, and that… well, frankly that meant his life was a perpetual piece of theatre.”“Urgh, just say it,” Malfoy said from where he was lounging, barely looking up from the leaflet that he was haphazardly folding, “he topped himself—it sure got him the attention he was always begging for, didn’t it?”The room was quiet, palpably so. The silence settled on the furniture and coated his skin in such a weighty layer that Harry felt himself sagging into the chair. It was a cruel thing to say, but if Malfoy recognised that, he did not appear to care for it. He just glanced between the four of them.“Oh, come on,” he said, “we all know that’s what he wanted.”“Try not to be so insensitive,” Tom said, and while he kept the diplomatic tone, his smile wavered at the edges, blurring into that unkind expression that plagued the corners of his mouth. “But whatever happened to him, I have no doubt that he would have loved to be an unsolved, and unsolvable, mystery—very Bella in the Wych Elm. Like I said, he was theatrical at the best of times.”“And at the worst?” Harry said before he could think better of it.This time, Tom smiled at him. Not the broad, confident smile that he wore around university halls, but one that was soft at the edges and so dangerously intimate that just looking at it made Harry’s insides squirm and that stone in his stomach shrink; it was the type of smile that he’d think about later.“Oh, he was insufferable,” he said, and it didn’t sound like it was a veiled compliment.Harry couldn’t help but ask, “Are you glad he’s gone?”“Sometimes.”Tom gazed at him like he was daring him to challenge it. Any words that had formed on Harry’s tongue, curled up and rolled back down his throat and he swallowed. It was one thing to put emotions about a man’s disappearance aside for your sanity, it was quite another to be almost satisfied with it, as if it was a stroke of good fortune. On anyone else, it would have been repulsive, but Tom made it oddly scintillating—an art form, where creator and participant toed the fine line of propriety and came to know what it meant to cross over.“Is that what the rest of you think?” he said with an edge of desperation, as he turned back to the others and searched them for something, anything, that might give him a clue how they felt beneath their shallow caricature of indifference they were each so persistently wearing.“That he’s dead or that he was insufferable?” Druella said as she examined her nails. “To the former, it wouldn’t surprise me, I always imagined him following his mother all the way to the quarry—things like that run in the family, you know. And to the latter, well, personally, sweetheart, I found him rather funny.”Malfoy rolled his eyes; his paper creation was starting to resemble an aeroplane of sorts. “Of course, you did,” he said.Druella lowered her nails and raised her brow in perfect manicured irritation. “I don’t know what you think you’re implying. We all know I wasn’t the one who fooled around with him.”Like everything Druella did, it was designed for a reaction, and she did not attempt to cushion the blow. Malfoy kicked out at her, catching the arm of her chair, but missing her. She briskly brushed away the scuff from the material and gave him a look.“Oh, don’t embarrass yourself,” she warned as if he was some sort of pet that dared to misbehave. Druella turned leant across the table towards Harry, and in a marvellous stage whisper she said, “No prizes for guessing who didn’t like him.”“He was a brat—everyone said it.”“You acknowledge you had something in common then?” Lestrange said, and unlike Malfoy, his cutting remarks didn’t come with a smile.Malfoy made a face and threw his poorly constructed paper aeroplane at him—it hit Lestrange in the knee and fell flat to the ground. Lestrange kicked it vaguely back towards him.“What about you?” Harry said to Lestrange, who had been his distance and his silence—things that Harry had liked about him, but which now made him maddeningly remote.The expression Lestrange offered him was unimpressed. “Excuse me?”"What do you think happened to him?"“I’d rather not—”“Why not?”“Yes, Lestrange,” Tom said coldly, “why not?”Lestrange had the look of a man who wanted to be anywhere else, though it wasn’t the nervous agitation that Avery inhabited, it was deeper than that, an intense, sticky, dislike that mangled his features. But if Harry had learnt anything recently, it was that Lestrange was urged on by higher notions—ideas of duty, obligation and other doctrines that easily translated into the hardness of law, though his exact definitions of those concepts might well have been a little warped. So, it was hardly a surprise that Lestrange did his duty; he sat forward, hands clasped together like a doctor about to deliver bad news. He didn’t twitch or fidget or even glance over at Tom, he just watched Harry with that empty expression and eyes that could have been the eyes of a dead thing."If you’re so desperate to know, I think he’s dead," Lestrange said with a finality that usually only accompanied certainty. "I think he made a fundamental miscalculation and, whether he liked it or not, he had to face the consequences of it.""A miscalculation?” Harry echoed. The word was distasteful in his mouth—too corporate, too impersonal to hold the full weight of a man’s life in its five syllables—and he must have made a face because Lestrange’s expression hardened.“The semantics should be the least of your worries,” he said, “and if you want a discussion on interpreting lexical expressions within the wider practice of semiotics, now is not the time.”Harry swallowed There was still something swelling inside him, a thick, angry feeling growing like a sour weed in his belly, and it wasn’t so much the events as the response to them. He had seen, in that shadowed hollow of the stairwell, someone who was trying, someone who cared enough for his friends to offer them trinkets of advice, someone who was empathetic in their own sharp way, but the in the dull light of the day, Lestrange’s sympathies—if they were even real to begin with—had been smoothed away like the stone statues out the front of the library, the ones with sinking posture and melted expressions. Harry didn’t much like the idea of being so wrong about someone.“Don’t you ever think…” Harry paused, trying to pull the pasted words off his tongue. “Shouldn’t you have done something? Couldn’t—couldn’t you save him?”Well, it got a reaction. For just a moment, a shadow of reluctance passed over Lestrange’s face and he wracked his hands—a man forced to see his actions through another’s eyes, and not liking the image of himself that they made.“I thought I’d made myself clear, Potter,” he said, “the only thing Mulciber ever needed saving from was his own fucking mouth.” He paused only to glance at Malfoy. “I won’t be made responsible for someone else’s free will. He made a choice and so did I, it’s not my fault that mine was the better one. And anyway, there's nothing any of us can do about now." There was that same finality again, as if the truth was not such a malleable thing, as if fact couldn’t be moulded to suit the whims of unscrupulous men. Lestrange spoke of the end like someone who had seen its face and knew what it was to have death splattered all over your hands.“Well, thank you for that contribution to amateur philosophy hour,” Druella said, doing her best to tame the mood of the room, albeit with a meaningful look in Tom’s direction. “Why don’t we take a look at him? How about that, Potter? You want to see?”"What?""He's just over there." She tilted her head towards the opposite wall, the one that was covered in photographs. "It's hard to disappear forever these days—you leave pieces of yourself everywhere."He nodded and watched as she stood up, smoothing her skirt and straightening her sweater. “I wonder what they’re going to do with all of them,” she mused aloud, “they can’t stay here, after all.”“I heard they were going to the library,” said Tom, “and that Logic was taking this floor.”“Urgh, Logic. What do they know?” Druella said, heading over to the far wall. On her way, she paused beside Lestrange’s chair, her hand resting on the back as she gazed down at him, on anyone else, it might have been a familiar, comforting gesture, from Druella, it looked like a warning. Lestrange didn’t even raise his head.“Shouldn’t they stay down with the rest of philosophy, or you know, maths?” Malfoy said.Tom shrugged. “They seem to think they merit an entire department,”The three of them continued to bicker about the value of Logic as a discipline, while Harry sat there, staring at them as they did it. Their chatter was casual and easy, and if Harry had only just arrived, he would never have guessed that the room was filled with the half-remembered ghosts of a man who was, supposedly, their friend. Lestrange didn’t join in, preferring to maintain that aloof detachment that served him well enough. Harry might have leant over and said something to him—he was going to—but as he thought about it, Tom’s hand slid down to brush against his shoulder, and Harry turned to him instead.“Don’t worry about him,” Tom said, leaning forward and speaking low, “you know how he gets around deadlines.”That didn’t really explain the edginess—he’d seen Lestrange when he was stressed, and it usually meant a brooding quiet, not skittish tension—but it was hard to focus on that, or anything at all really, when the tips of Tom’s fingers were tracing the topmost notches of his spine, and working into the divot at the base of his skull. Perhaps, if they were alone, he might just have been bold enough to not merely present himself as an offering, but to take in equal measure to which he was giving. He would deliver and devour in symmetry and Tom would feel just how distracting it was to have someone else’s fingers digging into him. However, they were alone, so Harry just leant back into it, silently suffering the effects of tender obsession.It didn’t help that, even as he chatted with Druella, Malfoy was watching him. His head turned awkwardly just so he could gaze at him, those grey eyes of his, curious, perhaps even a little amused as he watched Harry try not to squirm. He tried to ignore him—to just sink properly into the press of Tom’s nails against soft skin and the quiet, hummed approval that made his heart flutter and his throat hot—but he just couldn’t ignore the way Malfoy was grinning like he knew.“Here he is,” Druella said, sidling up beside his chair, cutting off Malfoy’s view and nudging Tom’s hand away in a single practised sweep. With a momentary glance in Tom’s direction and a thoughtful expression that Harry didn’t quite get, she handed him one of the photos from the wall. “He’s in the middle, beside Malfoy.”Harry held the frame tight and looked over at Malfoy. “I thought you didn’t like him?” he said because people who professed not to like one another rarely took their time to stand that close to each other, arms wrapped so comfortably that it tested the limits of friendship.“This was before—” He grinned like it was nothing. “This was from back in March. Right after the last week of the Dippet lecture series: it’s run annually by the economics department, and they moved to the new East Wing in September—”“Which is why this place is such a mess,” Druella said, using another sweeping hand to gesture across the washed-out room, dampened with dust. “But that’s not important,” she continued, “this, is what’s important.” She stabbed her neat index finger down on the man in the photograph’s chest with such a violent inclination, that Harry was almost surprised the poor image wasn’t bent double, coughing from the force.When Druella finally rose her finger, Harry got a proper look at the man who had left splinters of himself in every one of them—horrid little things that got them playing at being made of marble. He was nestled at the front of a crowd of young men, all of them gathered together in the bowl of a lecture theatre Harry couldn’t place, and had his arm slung around Malfoy’s shoulder, holding him steady. At least half the people there were looking at him, including Malfoy, though his smile was soured at the edges as if someone had said something quite horrible with the intention of forever preserving the reaction on film.Mulciber himself was looking directly at him like he knew that this was all that was left of him. He was handsome in a rough, unpolished kind of way—the stableboy that always, inexplicably, found himself in her ladyship’s bedroom whenever his lordship was away—and he was grinning unkindly for his imagined audience. Even in a mere image, there was a boldness to him, something bright and undeniable like a sparkler on November fifth, and it wasn’t at all what Harry had imagined.The man he’d pictured was small and hollow-eyed, a meek thing that was open and passive and prey-like; in his mind, this man that had stumbled so clumsily out of their lives had worn the sort of innocent naivety that got people into dangerous habits with no way out. Mulciber was none of those things. He might have been smiling, but the angle and the lighting threw it off so that his expression was murky, almost hungering like one of those caged lions that sat on concrete blocks eyeing the insolent children and just imagining them putting their sticky fingers through the bars.“Not what you were expecting, huh?” Lestrange said from his chair, arms folded and his mouth steady. “He wasn’t the man you want him to be.” With that, he turned away again, settling back into his personal silence.“He looks popular,” Harry said.Beside him, Tom shrugged. “I guess he was.”“He had one of those faces,” Druella said, nodding along, “it was nice to look at, and nice-to-look-at people are easy to like.”Harry continued to gaze at the picture; the varying shades of grey and bleaching from even a weak and watery sun made it hard to imagine how Mulciber might have looked in front of him, even so, he could pick out certain features. A lightness to his hair and a casualness to the pose that he couldn’t help but compare to Tom—they weren’t alike. Mulciber was a freshness to Tom’s sticky-sweet decay, a nonchalance to his intensity, a firework to Tom’s bonfire; one might have been fantastic to see—and brilliant in the moment—but it was only for one single moment, while the other lingered, leaving warmth, smoke-sodden clothes and ash all over the grass.Ever so casually, Tom shifted a little closer, his hand resting on the lip of the chair again, daringly near to his neck again, despite Druella’s disapproving look. She didn’t say anything though, just whipped the frame from his hand and placed it down on the table—Mulciber smiled right up at them, forever a single, flawless image. It didn’t last long, for just then Lestrange reached forward and, with his foot, knocked the photo face down. The others didn’t put it back.Tom leant in close. “What going on in there?” he said, his fingers brushing over his skull.There was a lot going on and Harry’s head was so full of thoughts that they were straining against his eye socket. He couldn’t stop thinking how all they had left of their friend was his photo hanging in an empty room, how he could feel like he knew him even when all he’d done was hold a small piece of him, how a man who appeared so alive could possibly be dead.“How he might have died.” Was what he quietly said though. “Who was the last person to see him?” he added before he could think better of it.There was a heavy moment of quiet and when Harry looked up, the three of them were having a silent conversation all around him—the raise of an eyebrow from Druella, countered with a twitch of Lestrange’s hand, which itself was dismissed with a curl of Malfoy’s lip—indignation flared up again from the base of his stomach. The humiliation at being left out combined with that sting he always got when their history was piled up in front of him. As usual, Tom wrangled the final say from them (though, in this case, it was more than happily thrust into his arms).“We were,” Tom said, brushing off their lingering gazes as if they were little more than dust. “The four of us, along with Rosier and Avery.”Without thinking, Harry let his resentment spill over. “And then what? He just walked off the face of the earth?”“We took him to the station,” Lestrange said sharply, “anything that happened after that had nothing to do with us.”“I never said it was.”“Didn’t you?”Around them, a coldness snaked into the room and coiled itself around Harry’s neck. He was still working on his wording—at least trying not to flare tempers any more—when Tom decided to intervene.“He didn’t say anything,” Tom said carefully.With a steady sort of confidence, Lestrange folded his arm and spoke quietly, the hostility simmering between the letters, "he didn’t have to say it.” He paused, his lip curling as he debated continuing, he must have decided it was worth his while because he leant ever so slightly forward. “And you’d appreciate that if you weren’t developing such a blind spot.”Tom’s gaze hardened and the way he flicked his gaze over Lestrange was as disparaging as it was dismissive. “I hope I don’t need to ask you to step outside?” he said in a tone patronising enough to have come from a schoolmaster.“I am not a fucking child, Riddle.”“Really? You could’ve fooled me.”The words were barely out of Tom’s mouth before Lestrange was standing. Harry honestly expected him to just storm out—and frankly, he wouldn’t have blamed him. Instead, Lestrange stepped over the jumble of legs and came to stand a touch too close to Tom, close enough for their legs to touch; Tom just leant back against the chair and looked up at him with that stone gaze, and though there was at least a foot of height difference, Tom didn’t concede even an inch of authority.Using the back of Harry’s chair to steady himself, Lestrange leant down. “It would do you good to remember,” he said quietly and addressing no one other than Tom, “that when this comes back to bite you—and it will—you’re going to want my help because you always do. Don’t burn your bridges while you’re still using them.”Tom tilted his head and gazed at him with flippant cruelty. “Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you?” he said, “you’ve always preferred to burn your bridges with your friends still on them.”Even without the necessary context, it was undeniably spiteful, though Tom just looked pleased with himself, satisfied to have found the chink in Lestrange’s otherwise impeccable façade—that was the most horrible thing about friends, they knew how to make it hurt. If it had been any of the others, Harry didn’t doubt that it would have been the start of something vicious, an excuse to sharpen tongues and poison words, but Lestrange just shook his head in disbelief.He turned his gaze towards Harry and let his gaze linger. “What did I tell you? Sharp fucking edges,” he said like that was supposed to be some great observation, before turning and heading towards the door.“At least I’ll admit it,” Tom called after him, apparently not content to merely let the wound fester but determined to agitate it himself. “That sense of moral superiority must be wearing pretty thin these days.”Lestrange stopped and turned, the distance giving him a bravery he hadn’t had in the basement. “I know where my morals are,” he said with the determination who had decided the facts without checking if they were true. “I actually care about the implications of what you’ve done.”“You care? Oh please. Everything I’ve done, you’ve done too, and I’d say the only thing in this world that you actually care about, is yourself.”It wasn’t so much a reply as an attempt at having the final word, and it worked. Lestrange stalked out, the door slamming behind him, leaving the four of them in a stinging silence. Three of them gazed at the door and the smudged ghost of Lestrange that still haunted its frame, Tom didn’t even give him that dignity.“Well,” Malfoy said, clasping his hands together and arching his neck to see Tom better, “you could’ve handled that one better.”The sniping look that Tom gave him was enough to shut Malfoy’s mouth, but not enough to hide that irritating smile of his. Malfoy was the only one who could look like that and not end up on the wrong side of Tom’s tongue, and for reasons Harry didn’t particularly want to examine, it was infuriating. There were, of course, connections between them all that he could hardly see, threads strung like garrot wire that only revealed their secrets when Harry had the misfortune of stepping into them; some cut deeper than others, and those little threads between Tom and Malfoy cut the deepest.Druella just looked between them; she kept her features neutral though, and the only indication she gave that something had happened was the way she rested her elbow on the arm of the chair—a cool repose that would have looked better if she’d had Rosier by her side. “You’d better go after him,” she said, playing both sides by offering neither appreciation nor condemnation. “Or he’ll call Rowle, and you know how she gets when you’ve been catty to her husband.”Tom just leaned back, draping himself over the chair like a cat getting comfortable, and Harry could hear the smile when he spoke. “I’m sure she’ll get over it.”“Oh, of course, she will, eventually,” Druella replied, tilting her head back as she twirled a loose strand of hair around her fingers—both of them playing at being casual to disguise just how serious the discussion was. “But you know her just as well as I do, and it’ll take a while for her to drop this one. Are you really going to endure all that, just to prove a point?”“It’s tempting.”Harry shifted and squirmed at the effortlessness they had with each other; that ease that bordered on teasing but never quite crossed over. Tom dropped his hand down onto Harry’s shoulder, soothing over the bone like a carver working at his craft, and Harry was irritated to admit that it was nice to not only be acknowledged but appreciated too.Druella raised her brow but held her tongue. “Obstinance isn’t impressive, Riddle.”“And who am I supposed to be impressing?” he said, tightening his grip on Harry’s shoulder as he spoke. Not enough to hurt, but enough to show he recognised exactly what Druella was talking about.“I’ll leave that up to you.”She might have said it was his decision, but she’d also planted the small seed of doubt, and Tom wasn’t one to leave a loose end flapping in the wind, and Harry could feel the agitation starting in Tom’s foot and working its way upward. A moment later, he was pushing himself up and the hand that had been on Harry’s shoulder, slid slowly around the back of his neck, toying with the notches of his spine before disappearing completely.“She’s right, unfortunately,” he said quietly, giving Harry one of those soft smiles that just made his stomach burn and his insides curl up like a small thing gone to die. Though this one was more obvious than any he’d ever given Harry before, and Tom even leant in again, and ran a hand over Harry’s wrist, before tucking his thumb into the palm of his hand, leaving his prints in the most precious of places. For just one second, Harry closed his fist and kept Tom right there—held by him, cocooned by him, loved by him—then it was over, and Tom had dragged himself away and was already heading towards the door.He did look back one more time, glancing between Malfoy and Druella, unsubtly trying to decide which of them was the more responsible. He decided on Malfoy. “Look after him.”“If I have to,” Malfoy said with a shrug that did not fill Harry with confidence, and if they’d been anywhere remotely unsafe, he would have taken his chances on his own.The three of them watched Tom go and continued to watch the door until it clicked shut. Malfoy even made an effort to raise his head like he was checking that it really had been closed properly, having decided that it had, he flopped back down and gazed at the ceiling.“Sheesh. I knew he was going to kick up a fuss, but that was something else,” Malfoy said, simultaneously speaking to no one and everyone. “I mean, come on, he’s got to get over it.” Apparently remembering that there was someone else there, Malfoy turned his head towards Harry. “They were real close, in case you hadn’t guessed—Lestrange and Mulciber that is.” He sighed. “You know, Lestrange was the one who introduced him; he was the one who dragged him and Riddle to that stupid lecture series. Really, he was the one who made them friends—he should’ve known.”“Should’ve known what?”“That it doesn’t matter who you are, when Riddle’s in the room, everyone looks.” Malfoy’s voice caught on the last words, and he turned his gaze back to the ceiling, perhaps imagining just how much of his life had been spent looking at someone else. Though Harry wouldn’t—couldn’t—condemn him for it because he would be condemning himself in the same breath, and he would not rebuke himself for something as simple as a look.That still didn’t answer the biggest question though, the one that still hung over the room, heavy and horrid, pushing them all down into their chairs. Why was Lestrange so determined to make a point? And not just any old point, a vivid, almost violent point that had unsettled him for reasons that Harry couldn’t really explain. He knew something wasn’t right—it was in their tense glances and careful phrasing and those awful moments of silence—but he didn’t what exactly it was and whether it was even real, after all, they were odd, disconnected creatures whose habits couldn’t always be explained, and he… he trusted them, or at least, he trusted Tom.“So what?” he said, gently probing, “Lestrange was… jealous?”“Jealous is the wrong word,” Druella said, her eyes darting over at Malfoy. “I told you, sweetheart, Riddle mauls things, and sometimes he forgets we’re not individuated subjects, and when he bites one, he’s inadvertently biting another.” She said it a little dismissively as if she would never be so careless as to be imprecise with her cruelty, even though the evidence of her imprecision was right there, a fading yellow line across Malfoy’s neck.“Anyway,” she continued, “there’s really no need to pick at scabs.”This wasn’t so much a scab as an open, infected wound still oozing something thick and horrid between them. Perhaps that was to be expected though, seven months would only put it back to May, maybe late April, and when Harry thought about it like that, it seemed awfully close behind them. He knew better than anyone that there was no precedent to grief, especially not such open-ended grief as this, but even so, if you didn’t investigate a wound, you’d never know how bad it really was.“What if I’m curious?” he said.It was Malfoy’s turn to chide him. “Oh now, don’t be doing that,” he said, rolling off the chair and coming over. If he was trying for Lestrange’s fraternalism, he didn’t quite manage it, hitting instead on an easy-going candour—the type that slimy politicians with oil-slick smiles used on the campaign trail.Malfoy perched on the opposite arm to the one Tom had taken, and although it was probably the closest that they’d ever been, Harry didn’t feel that same hum under his skin and his insides didn’t fizz with anticipation. Harry didn’t pull away though and he didn’t interrupt, he just watched that mark on Malfoy’s neck; how it dipped and curved, how it moved as he flexed his throat, how astonishingly pretty it was to carry something like that with him.“Look, Potter, it’s old news,” he said in his usual way that was light and creamy, and easy to listen to, “like Lestrange said, we can’t do anything about it now. Destiny isn’t exactly easy to change at the best of times, let alone retrospectively, so just, you know, forget about it.”Harry swallowed and glanced between them. “Forget about it?”“What he is trying to say,” Druella said, sharper than strictly necessary, “is that if you can’t let it alone, then you should reconsider what you’re doing here. If you want chat and idle gossip, go waste your time with someone like Black.”He might not be as sharp as Druella, but he could spot a precipice when he was on one: he could step forward with one more question and go plunging right off the edge, or he could reel it back, keep quiet and keep his place. Harry knew which one he was going to pick. He had not endured the humiliation of being seen, being used, and being ignored to lose everything now—especially not for the sake of a man who was nothing more than a photograph and a waning memory.“Okay.”Druella smiled sweetly at him, or as sweet as she could manage, and when she sat like that, with her elbow resting on her hip and her wrist elegantly posed to show off her hand, Harry could see how her nails matched the colour of her lipstick. “That’s better, sweetheart,” she said. “You should just be grateful that you don’t have to listen to the same darn argument every week because, believe me, that’s all they did. And I’ll tell you, when you’ve had to sit through as many petty, malicious and frankly rather stupid fights as I have, you get pretty sick of them.”“I thought they were friends?” he said, keeping his tone as light and casual as he could.Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Not by the end” he said, before realising how it sounded because he gave him another plastered-over grin. “I mean, obviously, they were still friends, but the thing you’ve got to know about Mulciber was that he was always pushing his luck, trying to have what wasn’t his, and sometimes he pushed too much.”“Please,” Druella said, “we all know Mulciber wasn’t the one who started it.”“He sure was enthusiastic though, wasn’t he?” Malfoy snapped back.“Oh, do be careful now,” she said with a brand of faux sympathy that was so distinctly hers that she might as well have trademarked it, “or I might start to think you’re bitter about being everyone’s second choice.”Apparently, that was a gateway insult because Malfoy glared, before shooting back, “You mean like you’re bitter than your brother’s got a scar from someone else’s teeth?” Then with the confidence of someone in their element, he draped himself over the back of the chair, (just as Tom had done) and grinned at her. “I’d say to keep him on a leash, but I’m pretty sure you do that already.”Harry swallowed; there were plenty of places that he’d like to be, but between Malfoy’s droll tongue and Druella’s malicious one was not one of them. He shifted awkwardly, toeing his bag towards the chair Malfoy had vacated with the vague hope that he might be able to join it, and so be out of the direct line of fire. Unfortunately, he only succeeded at sinking low in the chair like a rabbit hunkering down while the buzzards circled overhead.Druella smiled tightly back at him—only the faintest pink splotch dared to show itself on her cheek—and sat back, uncrossing and recrossing her legs just so. “You’re just jealous that’s it not you at my feet,” she said as if everyone should consider it a privilege to even be offered the chance to prostrate themselves for her pleasure. “Everyone knows you like it down on your knees.”Malfoy replied with a tilt of his head and a condescending smile. “Darling, do I look like a guy who gets on his knees?”“Yeah,” Harry said without taking a single moment to actually think what he was saying—actually, that was a lie, he knew exactly what he was saying, and he said it anyway. “You kind of do. You kind of did. I saw you.”It was sloppily executed and perhaps unkind, but Tom would’ve liked it. Harry could image Tom beside him, his hand sneaking down to rest on his shoulder, squeezing it in shared delight—proud of him for taking initiative. Frankly, he was proud of himself. And whilst it was wrong to say that seeing Malfoy struck down silent gave him pleasure, even Harry couldn’t help the warm stone of satisfaction resting deep in his stomach; perhaps it was wit, dignity, or another more malicious motivation, either way, it was soft and pleasing.Druella must have thought so too because she clapped her hands together. “Oh, Potter, sweetheart,” she said, a genuine smile struck across her face, “that was perfectly horrid, and I simply must reward it.” Immediately, she stood up, smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles from her skirt again and running a hand through her hair.“Well, come on, get up,” she said, “I’m taking you out.”Harry was going to stand, but he caught Malfoy’s eye, and it made him pause. He was still staring at him with an uneasy smile still coiled on his mouth—a default expression no doubt—and his brows drawn together as he tried to piece it all together. Evidently, it had been Tom’s little ploy, and Malfoy was only just realising he’d been used, and what a mortifying thing it must have been to lose favour so publicly, and to realise that wealth couldn’t insulate someone from being abandoned. The last look that Malfoy gave him before he turned away was cold—that painted-on smile cracking at the edges and his eyes awash with a North Sea storm.“Don’t look like that,” Druella said sternly. “You can come too. I’ll even buy you something to nurse your ego.”“I have a prior engagement, remember,” he said flatly.“Oh, that’s not for ages,” she said, gazing over at the window, at the dull grey sky that was still more ash, than charcoal—it couldn’t have been much later than four. “Anyway, we both know, you can’t face mummy and daddy without having a drink first. This way, I’m paying,”“How generous of you,” Malfoy replied, but he was already getting up, grabbing his scarf and hiding the evidence of what he did in his spare time. Harry wondered how well Malfoy had managed to hide it from his parents—from what little Harry had overheard from snippets of conversations left lying carelessly around, they weren’t the sort of people who appreciated their only son getting himself into childish scrapes. They didn’t really appreciate their son deviating from any of the perfectly respectable norms that had over a hundred years of precedent.While Malfoy walked past him without even offering a glance, Druella held out her arm to him, and Harry hurriedly stood—practically flinging himself out of the chair—before she could reconsider the offer. As soon as she had him close, she pulled him in, not unlike a spider dragging in a hapless fly, and smiled such a lovely smile with those straight, white teeth.“A little advice,” she said imitating intimacy, “if you bite a chunk out of a man’s pride, be prepared for him to whine about it. Isn’t that right, Malfoy?”“You’re just horrible, you know that, right?” he said, and Harry was quite sure he was talking to Druella.“I think you’ll find that horrible company makes horrible people,” she said as if unpleasantness was just a learned habit and not some innate condition because horror was innate, wasn’t it? It had to be because that kept the horror behind closed doors; if horror was a wandering disease, then any man could be infected, it could burrow into him and eat him from the inside out, perhaps without him even knowing. Harry shook the thought from his head and leant his weight towards Druella just pleased to have found a space between the six of them to fit himself.When they reached the door, Harry glanced back one more time to see the photograph, still lying face down on the table, swallowed by the greyness of time. He doubted that he’d ever forget Mulciber’s face, but he didn’t have to linger on it because the truth was Mulciber had had his chance, and maybe Lestrange was right, maybe he’d wasted every choice, and maybe Tom was right too, maybe some people were always destined to fizzle out before they even reached twenty-five. Harry wouldn’t be the next one, he’d make sure of it.