Chapter Text
The Christmas party at Sirus’ work never ends well. He has no idea what actually goes on there, and he has no desire to find out, but Harry has learnt from experience that most employees head home at two in the morning, utterly wasted, and they probably don’t feel normal again for another three days. Every year without fail, Harry gets a call in the early hours from a drunk and disorderly Sirius, asking for a lift home because he can’t figure out how to uncross his eyes.
But not this year. This year, Harry has the house to himself, because this year is The Year Without Booze - otherwise known as the Year of the Riddle. Harry is pretty sure he’s heard Sirius complain more about his new boss this past year than he’s ever complained about anything before. He’s rich. He’s an asshole. He’s overbearing and demanding and just plain rude.
Most importantly, he’s a killjoy, and there will absolutely not be any getting wasted at this year’s Christmas party.
Harry has never been so relieved. He’s had an awful day, and he never wants to leave the house again.
He’s going to have a lot more awful days these next couple of weeks, because the lead up to Christmas is always their busiest time. Their Christmas display is pretty awesome, and it attracts even the Scrooges of the town, but it’s a bitch to organise and an even bigger bitch to run. If he has to sweep up one more broken bauble he’s going to burst into tears on the spot.
Which is why he’s so looking forward to his night alone. He loves living with Sirius, and he’ll always be grateful that the man opened his home to an unruly teenager he barely knew all those years ago, but it’s nice to have some privacy every now and then. Harry is excited to have a night to himself - he’s got Netflix set up in front of him, a hot chocolate cooling down on the coffee table and an overflowing bowl of buttery popcorn just calling to him.
And then the phone rings. Harry’s heart sinks. Whoever is on the other line is not going to be the bearer of good news.
“Hello?” Harry says dubiously.
“Harry? Harry, is that you?” Sirius shouts. The buzz of Christmas music in the background is nowhere near loud enough to warrant that kind of volume.
“Who else would it be?”
“Harry?”
Harry rolls his eyes. Clearly, Sirius did not stick to this year’s sobriety pact, so he takes pity on him and says, “Yes, Sirius, this is Harry. What’s wrong?”
“Harry,” Sirius pants. “I’m a little– a little…”
“Drunk?” He guesses.
“That’s the one. Listen, somebody– I think somebody spiked the punch.”
“Oh my god. Are you twelve?”
“Riddle’s really pissed,” Sirius says, and there’s a comically loud ‘shh’ on the other end of the line. It would be just like Sirius to start talking about somebody without even noticing they were in the room with him. “He might kill me, Harry. Can you– listen, I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, but could you please come pick me up? I’ll owe you one, kid.”
“Sirius, you promised,” Harry sighs, fully aware that he sounds like a whining child. He casts a mournful look over his cosy living room set up, which he’ll undoubtedly have to abandon in favour of picking Sirius up and putting him to bed.
“I’m really sorry, kiddo. But I might die. You’d never find my body.”
“You are twelve,” Harry says grumpily. And then, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
*
The Phoenix building is just as intimidating as it’s always been. Harry - and Sirius, and probably everyone else that worked there - had hoped that it might have had a revamp when Riddle took the company over. New management usually means a makeover, and they had been hoping for something a little more homely and a little less depressing-grey-cold.
No such luck. If anything, it’s become more intimidating, because Riddle is an intimidating person. Or so Sirius says. Harry has never actually met the man, but he feels like he knows him intimately what with how often Sirius comes home bitching about him. He isn’t looking forward to going inside - his first foray into the building since Riddle took over - but maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll be in and out without ever having to see the man. That would be a Christmas miracle.
Technically, nobody is allowed past the first level unless they’re an employee. There’s always a bodyguard or two waiting to check people’s ID to make sure no one slips through the cracks, but Harry has been friends with Hagrid for almost as long as he’s been alive and he knows the man will let him through without a fuss.
He pulls his hood up against the wind as he hops out of his car. It’s bitterly cold in December but it stubbornly refuses to snow; sleet and slush gurgle underfoot and Harry winces. He’s wearing canvas shoes, and now his socks are wet.
Finally getting inside is a relief, despite how unfriendly the building is overall. A rush of warm air warms the pink tip of his nose and he shudders, blowing into his hands. At the end of the hallway, Hagrid stands up.
“Harry,” he says, as though it’s been five minutes since they last saw each other and not almost a year. “Thank god you’re here. Sirius has been calling every two minutes, asking if you’ve arrived yet.”
“Typical.” Harry rolls his eyes. “I bet he was the one that spiked the punch in the first place.”
“He’s going to have a killer hangover when he wakes up tomorrow,” Hagrid says, and Harry snorts.
“Serves him right. I better go on up, then. It was nice to see you, Hagrid.”
He pauses for a brief hug - Hagrid always gives the best hugs, even if they are a little bone crushing - and then hurries towards the elevator. The doors are open and there’s a man already inside; when he sees Harry hurtling towards him, he merely frowns and sticks a hand out to stop the doors from closing.
“Thanks,” Harry offers, although the man doesn’t look at him. Harry bristles a little and his shoulders stiffen. Alright then. He can be rude if he wants to be, Christmas spirit be damned.
It’s an awkward elevator ride. Harry fidgets the whole way to the top floor, painfully aware of how still and silent the man next to him is. By the time the lift finally comes to a stop, he’s thoroughly uncomfortable and brimming with irritation at the evening’s turn of events. Sirius is really going to owe him one now.
He doesn’t bother saying goodbye to the man as he goes to leave. He’s drawn to the telltale sounds of laughter and distant Christmas music, but before he can get very far a hand latches around his wrist, gentle but firm, and Harry freezes.
The man is looking right at him, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed. He’s attractive, Harry thinks absently, and hates the way his face heats at the observation. Neatly coiffed hair and an expensive suit almost make up for the derisive sneer on his face.
“What?” Harry says. He tugs on his wrist a little and the man blinks, let’s go as if he hadn’t even realised he was still holding on. His touch leaves a burning circle around Harry’s wrist like a brand.
“Did Hagrid let you in?” He asks suddenly, and Harry blanches. It’s against company policy to let in random strangers off the street, probably even more so at two in the morning, and the man could be in serious trouble if this prick reported back to Riddle. Harry presses his lips into a thin line and crosses his arms stubbornly.
“I’m just here to pick someone up,” he explains. His skin prickles with the way this man is looking at him and he rubs the back of his neck to calm down. He looks ridiculously out of place here, in tracksuits and a hoodie and a pair of tatty blue sneakers that he got when he was fifteen. Next to Harry, the man seems positively regal and clearly he’s thinking the same thing.
“You don’t work here,” he says, dragging his eyes up and down Harry’s body in a slow once-over. “I’d remember you.” Harry shuffles his feet and, for some reason, the movement makes the man smirk. Harry’s cheeks flame. Fuck this guy.
“I’ll just be in and out,” Harry says quietly. “I won’t cause any problems, alright?”
“I’m sure you won’t,” the man mutters. He seems to be weighing something up, and Harry knows when he comes to a decision because his eyes snap back into sharp focus and he holds out his arm, a bizarre offering. “I’ll accompany you. I was heading that way myself.”
Harry considers objecting, telling the man that he already knows his way around the building, but it probably wouldn’t do to tell him that this is not Hagrid’s first transgression so he keeps his mouth shut. He lays his hand over the back of the man’s wrist and feels a little pretentious doing so.
“A shame you’ve had to come all the way out, Mr…”
It takes an embarrassingly long moment for Harry to realise that the man is waiting for his name.
“Potter,” he blurts out, far more information than he’d been planning to give. “Harry.”
“Harry Potter.” He says it slowly, purposefully, tasting the words on his tongue and testing the way they feel in his mouth. Harry feels a swoop of something warm and enticing in his belly and very firmly pushes all bad-thoughts away. He’s just here to collect Sirius, after all.
“And you?” Harry asks, tone vaguely challenging. He tilts his chin up and sees Tom’s eyes flash with barely contained glee. He hasn’t expected such a visceral reaction.
“Tom,” he says, and offers nothing else.
“Right. Okay.”
They walk in silence some more. Harry should probably jerk away from Tom’s arm, but he likes the way the silky material feels under his fingertips. He’s aware of Tom watching him through narrowed eyes, assessing him. It’s unsettling, but he won’t allow himself to cringe away or falter. He keeps his jaw set tight and stares straight ahead.
“Who are you here to collect?” Tom asks, suspiciously casual. “Anyone I’d know?”
“I don’t know who you know,” Harry snaps, barely concealing his panic. He’s pissed at Sirius, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to him and get him in trouble. They’ve been struggling with rent enough as it is - Harry leaving school had helped; he’s managed to get a few odd shifts at cafes and bars but nothing steady enough to make a comfortable difference - and the last thing they need is Sirius wallowing in dismal unemployment.
But Tom only laughs, a deep, rich laugh like melted chocolate. Harry scowls, because it should not be so arousing just listening to someone laugh.
“Are you always this prickly?”
Harry’s mouth falls open. He’s used to being insulted to his face, what with his childhood being what it was, but he thought fancy businessmen like this might have more restraint. Maybe it’s only worth being polite to other people in suits.
“I’m not prickly.” Harry glowers, and then turns away sharply when he realises that he might be proving Tom’s point. “It’s just late, and I’m tired and pissed off that I have to play babysitter for a grown man. Alright?”
Tom is silent for a moment, eyes narrowed and calculating. Then he asks, with a laughable faux nonchalance, “Trouble in paradise?”
Harry is so horrified by the implication that his head whips around to glare at Tom, and in a rare display of clumsiness, bashes his shoulder into the doorframe. He had been paying so little attention to his surroundings, caught up in Tom and his infuriatingly handsome face, that he had tried to fit through the doorway at the same time as Tom. He hisses through his teeth and grabs his arm, where he’s sure he’ll have a bruise tomorrow.
“Are you alright?” Tom asks, body turned to face him completely. He’s suddenly very intense, eyes focused, mouth set in a determined line. Harry startles when something brushes his hand, but Tom’s fingers are so surprisingly gentle that he doesn’t mind showing the man his arm.
“I’m fine,” he says softly, overwhelmed. “It’s just a bruise.”
“Hmm,” Tom says, which isn’t an answer but still somehow reeks of finality. His hand slips down further to cup Harry’s elbow, and he isn’t can’t keep up the excuse of checking for injuries anymore but Harry still lets it happen. He doesn’t know why. He’s too breathless to complain - Tom’s touch is heady and a fog of arousal clouds his mind. It comes so unexpectedly that Harry inhales sharply and jerks backwards, out of Tom’s grip.
“I’m fine,” he says again, and feels a flush creep up his neck.
Tom takes half a step backwards like he knows his close proximity makes Harry nervous. He doesn’t look flustered at all, his suit isn’t rumpled and his hair is still held perfectly in place. He’s a gorgeous prick and Harry hates him instantly.
Except that, clearly, he doesn’t.
“Harry?”
Sirius’ voice takes them both by surprise, and Harry jumps. He probably looks like he did when he was a kid, and Sirius caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. Harry wonders if the guilt is written clearly on his face, or if Tom won’t be able to tell. God, he hopes Tom can’t tell. It’s not like Harry cares.
“Mr Black,” Tom says before Harry can think of an appropriate response, and there is a definite curl to his lip that has both Harry and Sirius bristling.
“Mr Riddle,” Sirius says back.
Riddle, Harry thinks. Tom Riddle. As in, CEO-of-the-company Tom Riddle. Holy fuck.
“We’re leaving,” Harry blurts out, the panic in his voice verging on hysterical. “Sirius, come on. We have to go.”
Tom turns to Harry again with an arched eyebrow and, okay, that is definitely a sneer. “Sirius Black?” He says, and whilst Harry doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking, he can tell it’s something offensive.
“Nice to have met you,” he says icily, secretly proud he was able to keep his composure long enough to get the words out. “But we have to go. Sirius, come on.”
Sirius stumbles forward a few feet and Harry rushes forward to catch him so he doesn’t faceplant at Tom’s feet. A cocktail of guilt and irritation churns in his stomach - he’d feel pretty bad if Sirius ended up hurting himself, but he’s still annoyed that he had to come out in the first place, and now he’s annoyed that he’s got a crush on Insufferable Tom Riddle, the boss from hell. All in all, he is not having a good evening.
“Goodnight, Mr Black,” Tom sniffs. “I trust you’ll be in bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“Sir, yes sir.” Sirius couples the words with a mocking salute, and Harry elbows him in the side. Harry doesn’t want the idiot to get himself fired on his watch.
A muscle in Tom’s jaw tics, the only indication of his bad temper, but for whatever reason his whole face changes when his gaze slides to Harry. His eyes soften and his lips twist into a smile.
“Enchanted to meet you,” he says, and even inclines his head in some ridiculous bow. “Until next time, Harry.”
Then he brushes past Sirius without another word, his heels clicking against the floor as he walks. Harry doesn’t mean to, but he strains to hear anything else, to see if the music will dim or if Tom will break up the party.
But Sirius is already starting to droop in his arms and Harry doesn’t want to get home too late, so he heaves a sigh and trudges back towards the elevator.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you home. And tomorrow we can have a serious talk about the importance of keeping your promises.”
Sirius hiccups. Harry rolls his eyes.
“What’d he want?” Sirius asks suddenly, way too loud in Harry’s ear.
“What?”
“What did Riddle want?”
Harry bites his lip. What did Tom want? He hadn’t asked for anything, except to know who Harry was there for, and he hadn’t flown into a rage when Harry had avoided answering. At the end, it seemed like he was seconds away from kissing Harry’s hand. It was almost like he just wanted to talk…
But that doesn’t make any sense. Everything Sirius says about Riddle makes him sound like the world’s biggest asshole, and Harry doesn’t think some corporate yuppie like him would hang around at gone two in the morning for a friendly chat.
No, he probably had an evil plan, and Harry probably escaped it by getting out of there early. He’ll just have to stay away from Tom, from the building, from the entire street if necessary, because he is Harry Potter, and men in suits don’t frighten him.
No matter how handsome they are.
*
“Harry?”
“Kitchen!” He calls back, not turning away from the oven. He’s not going to risk burning tonight’s dinner when he’s worked on it all afternoon.
Sirius appears a moment later, smiling fondly at the sight of Harry in a hoodie and jeans. He probably looks just like his father, Harry thinks, and the thought warms him. Sirius leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Bad day?” Harry asks.
“Average day,” Sirius answers, giving a half hearted shrug. Then his mouth twists unpleasantly and he eyes Harry sidelong. “Do my memories deceive me, or were you talking to Riddle the other day?”
Harry blanches. Trying his very best not to show his discomfort on his face he turns back to the hob and stirs the soup. “You mean at your Christmas party?” He asks casually.
“Mhm. Unless you’ve been sneaking in during my lunch break to speak to him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry scoffs. “I had– a very brief conversation with him, before I knew who he was. I thought he was very rude.”
Sirius relaxes. “He is,” he agrees, eager to jump on any Riddle-bashing opportunity.
Harry should let him, should be thankful for the distraction and push Tom out from his mind, but he can’t. Curiosity burns in his chest and ties knots in his stomach. “Why do you ask?” He says, very casually.
Sirius pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply. “He cornered me this morning,” Sirius explains, and Harry looks round, alarmed. “Came and sat by my cubicle. He… asked about you.”
Harry forces himself to act natural. Sirius would feel so betrayed if he knew about Harry’s pathetic schoolboy crush, so he does his best to seem unaffected. Tom asked about him? What did he want to know? And why?
“What did you tell him?” Harry asks eventually.
“Not much, don’t worry.” Sirius flashes him a grin, completely misunderstanding. “Only that you live with me, and where you’re working. He seemed very interested. I wouldn’t have told him anything if I could have gotten away with it, but…” he spreads his hands helplessly, and Harry smiles.
“It’s alright, Sirius. What harm can he do with that, anyway? Now, come sit down. I made soup.”
Sirius’ eyes flick down to the saucepan, and then back up to Harry with a wary caution. “Right…” he says slowly. “Should I order pizza?”
*
As it turns out, Riddle can do a lot of damage with not much information. Harry finds this out the next day.
He is balancing precariously on a small stool, stretched onto his tiptoes to try and hang a straggly piece of tinsel over the door to the men’s bathroom, when somebody sneaks up behind him. He doesn’t hear them coming, nor does he sense the looming presence at his back.
“Excuse me,” somebody says, voice sinfully low and rumbly, right into his ear. Harry shrieks and completely loses his balance. His foot slips and he topples forward. He would have smacked his nose into the wall as well, if it wasn’t for the sneak-attacker catching him around the waist with two strong arms.
Harry holds his breath. He finds his footing and, when the customer still doesn’t let go, he turns around in their arms.
Of course, Tom Riddle is staring back at him. And, of course, he looks stupidly attractive. He’s wearing a deep green sweater and black slacks. A stray curl hangs over his forehead and the watch he’s wearing - the one Harry can feel pressing into his lower back, where his spine dips - probably costs more than Harry makes a year. He smells fantastic, Harry is distressed to note, like spices and cinnamon and Christmas. Double fuck this guy.
“Harry,” Tom murmurs. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Harry gulps and shoves Tom’s hands off him. One had been curled around his waist, the other firmly covering his back, his little finger settled over the curve of his ass. Harry’s whole face is on fire. He takes a steadying breath and hops down from the stool, even though it makes him even shorter than Tom.
“What do you want?” Harry says rudely.
Tom blinks. He gestures around the shop. “I was just… enjoying the display. I didn’t know you worked here.”
Harry scowls. “Sirius told you,” he says. “You asked him.”
Tom is quiet for a moment, and Harry begins to worry that he’s made a terrible mistake. Riddle isn’t crazy enough to fire Sirius for something like this, is he? Maybe Harry should have kept his mouth shut.
Then a gleeful smile spreads across his face and he inclines his head, just a little, in acquiescence. “Alright,” he says. “Maybe I’m here to see you. Is that so terrible?”
Harry crosses his arms, and then just as quickly drops them to his sides, looking around to make sure his supervisor didn’t see that. The last thing he needs is Tom getting him in trouble for having an attitude with a customer.
“That depends,” he says. “Why do you want to see me?”
Tom smiles again, all teeth and dripping charm and predatory. “To get your recommendation, of course.” He holds up two painted baubles. “Red or green?”
Harry sighs. “What colour are your other decorations?”
“I don’t have any.”
Harry stops. “What?”
“I don’t celebrate Christmas. It’s a pointless holiday.”
Harry splutters. “A pointless– it’s fun. Fun doesn’t have to have a point!”
Tom frowns, puzzled. “What’s fun about it?” He asks.
“You get to spend time with family and friends. You get to eat cool food. Giving gifts is fun. It’s just… it’s a nice time of year, alright?”
Tom tilts his head. “Are you a religious person, Harry?”
Harry tries not to choke on his own tongue at the way his name sounds in Tom’s mouth. “Well, no,” he says. And then, “Are you?”
Tom shakes his head. “So really, you could do all those things any time of the year. There’s nothing inherently special about Christmas. It’s just a lot of hype for one meaningless day.”
Harry grits his teeth and narrows his eyes. “Why are you buying Christmas decorations if you don’t celebrate Christmas?” He asks. “Did you just come to bully me for being silly and sentimental?”
Tom laughs, and it’s such an unexpected reaction that a sliver of pride lodges itself in Harry’s chest. He does his best to ignore it.
“Not exactly,” he says. And then, bizarrely, “Mr Black is forty one. I checked. How old are you?”
“Twenty.” Now that he knows Tom doesn’t actually want to buy anything, he turns his back on him. His supervisor won’t mind so much if he ignores time wasters, and he has to get this stool back into the supply cupboard before the afternoon rush hits. He bends down to pick it up, and freezes when he feels the solid warmth of Tom’s body pressed to his back. Tom’s hand curls around the edge of the stool, his thumb brushing Harry’s little finger, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to let go of it and allow Tom to carry it for him.
Of course, once he’s done it, a wave of humiliation crashes over him. What is he doing? He’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself, doing his own work. Riddle can fuck right off if he thinks otherwise.
“What are you doing here?” Tom asks, and Harry glowers at him.
“What does it look like? I’m working.”
Tom smirks and gives him a once over so obvious that it makes Harry shiver. “I meant in general,” he says. “Why aren’t you in university?”
“Not everyone wants to go to uni, Riddle.” Harry tilts his chin up challengingly. “Sorry we can’t all be rich and snobby.”
“It is a terrible shame, isn’t it?” Tom laughs at Harry’s furious expression, and then looks down at the stool in his hand. “Where shall I put this?” He asks.
“Right back where you found it. I can do my own work.”
“I know you can,” Tom says, and rounds on Harry with a stare that is frightening in its intensity. He looks ravenous . “But you shouldn’t have to. In fact, I’d like it if you let me do something for you.”
Harry stares. His cheeks are flushed warm, eyes wide. He’s sure he looks like an idiot, standing there with his mouth open, so turned on he can barely think straight. Tom, for one, looks thrilled at Harry’s reaction. He brings his free hand up to Harry’s face and strokes his cheek with his knuckles, tucks his hair behind his ear and legs his hand linger for far longer than necessary. Much to his shame, Harry’s eyes flutter closed.
It’s only for a second, but it’s long enough for Tom to know what he wants to know. He steps back, and Harry sucks in a gasping breath.
“Do you like older men, Harry?” Tom asks, low and probing. It’s a physical struggle, not to fall into his chest and breathe his scent in deep.
“What the fuck?” Harry hisses, tearing himself away. “I don’t– you can’t just– if you aren't going to buy something, Riddle, you can fuck off.”
Tom stands back, thankfully giving Harry’s head some time to clear, and shrugs. “Alright,” he says, and picks up the red bauble. “Walk with me?”
Harry’s shoulders droop. He does his best to look miserable at the arrangement, whilst inside he’s jumping up and down at the prospect of spending some more time with Tom. It’s addictive, having the man’s attention on him and him alone. He wonders what it would be like, to have someone take care of him the way Tom is saying someone should, is saying he should.
“Wait,” Harry blurts out before he can stop himself. Tom stills. He doesn’t turn, but he watches Harry curiously over his shoulder. Harry clears his throat. “You should– you should get the green one. Suits you more.”
Slowly, Tom picks up the green one as well. “You’re the boss,” he says with an easy shrug.
They walk in silence towards the tills. Harry keeps his head down, half because he’s too embarrassed to even look at Tom and half so that he doesn’t attract any difficult customers. Tom is close enough at his side to warn away trouble anyway, and his looming frame is threatening enough to have most people shying out of their way. If Harry had known all he had to do to be unapproachable was bulk up, he would have started working out years ago.
But that’s not really true either. It isn’t just that Tom is tall or muscular. There’s something else to him, some terrifying quality, a dangerous glint to his eye. That’s what gives him power, Harry thinks, and he would be just as menacing if he was a foot shorter.
Harry has to get back to work, and now that Tom is in the queue there really is no excuse for Harry to still be hanging around. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and hopes he doesn’t look too awkward when he shuffles backwards.
“Okay,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I should–”
“Wait.”
It’s one short word. It really shouldn’t have the effect it has, but Harry freezes. Instantly, his face flushes warm and his hands curl into fists. Why should Riddle be able to command him like he’s some dog? Harry doesn’t work for Tom, and he doesn’t have to do what he wants, just because Tom is rich and powerful and thinks he deserves that reaction. So why did Harry just stop without thinking?
Maybe Tom can see the budding outrage in Harry’s features, in the way his forehead creases, the way he pushes his glasses up his nose with a white knuckle, because he smiles gently. He doesn’t even look at Harry’s coworker as he pays, just hands over a ten pound note and accepts the change with an open palm.
He hands the red bauble to Harry, and keeps the green one for himself. “Here,” he says. “I bought it for you. Now we can share something special.”
Harry is too dumbstruck to move, and too speechless to say anything. Tom smirks, far too self satisfied for Harry’s liking, and reaches out. One hand curls carefully around Harry’s wrist and, with a gentle touch, he closes Harry’s fingers one by one around the red bauble.
“I thought you didn’t celebrate Christmas,” Harry says, and cringes when his voice breaks. He peers down at the bauble now in his hand and wonders idly if he has the willpower to reject it.
“I don’t. Christmas isn’t the only special thing, you know.” He pushes Harry’s glasses up his nose and then has the audacity to boop Harry’s nose as he pulls away. Harry would snap at him if it hadn’t been so fucking cute.
“I’ll see you soon, Harry,” Tom says like a promise. He leans down, kisses Harry’s cheek, and then leaves.
Harry is left with one thought only: what the fuck just happened?