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Tom drags the hairbrush through the thick curls of his hair. Madam Pomfrey had given it to him to smooth the tangles. Several rough strokes result in a brush full of snagged strands and static build-up that makes Tom's hair poof outward like a cloud.
"This is humiliating," Tom says, likely because Harry is the only one around to hear it. "I am going to feed Longbottom to the Devil's Snare in Greenhouse Six."
"You will not do that," Harry says half-heartedly.
Tom looks up from his grooming to glower. "None of this makes a difference," he says sharply, tossing the brush onto the side table. "This brush is garbage."
"It's just that your hair is thick. Hermione has the same problem."
Tom's stormy expression fails to lighten, so Harry tries again. "If you like, I'll help you cut it."
"It's fine," Tom snaps. He straightens in the bed and half-folds his arms over his chest before he stiffens.
Harry is filled with fond exasperation at the sight. Really, he doesn't think Tom looks much different. His face is slimmer, the angles softened by femininity, his lips are fuller and his brow is less severe than before. Under Tom’s rumpled dress shirt, his shoulders fall short, the new line of them delicate and sloped with grace rather than brawn.
And then, of course, the main subject of Tom’s ire—the breasts. Harry doesn’t quite understand what the issue is, other than it being weird and maybe a bit uncomfortable. The breasts aren’t even that big, if Harry’s being honest, but he’s not stupid enough to say it aloud. Tom would probably get offended even though Harry doesn’t care about that sort of thing.
The point is, Tom remains objectively good-looking, and Harry still finds him ridiculously attractive.
“Do you want me to get you another brush?” Harry asks mildly.
“No.” Tom scowls. Compared to his usual scowl, it looks more like a pout. Harry thinks it’s cute.
The botched potion is supposed to wear off some time in the next twenty-four hours.
Tom doesn’t have to stay in the Hospital Wing for that entire time, but Madam Pomfrey had given him the option to spare him the embarrassment of having to go to the Great Hall for lunch and dinner. What is surprising is that they’re letting Harry stay with him, but Harry supposes that they think Tom needs the extra comfort.
Their entire potions class has already witnessed Tom in all his sopping wet, girl-like glory. Tom may or may not have broken down in a fit of terrified hysterics after catching sight of himself in a mirror. But if he and Tom don’t go to meals, people will talk about them anyway, and Tom hates being talked about behind his back almost as much as he hates being seen as a coward.
Still, Harry convinces Tom to take lunch in the Hospital Wing. The quiet atmosphere will help soothe his nerves, hopefully. The space will give him time to calm down.
After classes end for the day, Hermione comes to visit with a vial of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, which she silently leaves on the side table after asking Tom how he’s feeling. Harry pours a few drops into his hands and rubs them into Tom’s scalp, running his hands through the tangles until Tom’s curls transform into thick, neat waves.
Tom is silent throughout the process of massaging out the mess, though Harry catches his eyes slipping shut a few times here and there. When Madam Pomfrey comes by to check on them, she nods in approval and summons a mirror for Tom to examine himself.
“It’s better,” he says reluctantly, twisting his head this way and that to scrutinize his new look at every angle.
Harry pecks him on the cheek. “Well, I think you’re beautiful.”
Tom scowls again, but his cheeks flush pink, something Harry hasn’t seen very often, if at all. “We’ll go to supper,” Tom decides, setting the mirror aside. “I don’t want to stay in this bed all day.”
When they enter the Great Hall, Tom freezes up. It’s the tiniest pause; it lasts barely a fraction of a second. But Harry knows. He understands. They usually sit their meals at their separate house tables, but tonight is a little different. Tom is a little different.
So Harry makes the choice for them and guides Tom by the hand to the Gryffindor table.
“Nice girlfriend, Potter!”
That is Cormac McLaggen. Harry is going to punch his lights out and dump him in the Great Lake for the Giant Squid to feast on.
“Shut up,” Hermione hisses.
“What?” McLaggen shrugs. “Riddle’s got to be better as a girl, right?” He turns to wink at Harry. “Bet you two got up to all sorts of things when Pomfrey wasn’t looking—”
“Twenty points from Gryffindor,” Tom says flatly. “For disrespecting a Prefect.”
McLaggen’s face twists with irritation. “That’s not fair! Potter, are you going to let her do that?”
“I’m not letting him do anything,” Harry says. “You should be lucky it’s not fifty.” He tugs on Tom’s hand. “Let’s sit down.”
Tom is seething with rage, but he sits down and mechanically scoops food onto his plate. The motions are stiff and Tom’s hands are white-knuckled when they finally settle on the table.
“I’m going to murder him,” Tom says a minute later, his plate untouched while Harry chews through stuffed turkey and string beans.
“Good,” Harry says, without missing a beat.
“Good?”
Harry swallows his mouthful then nods. “Yeah. He’s an asshole. Go for it. Maybe he’ll be nicer once his leg’s broken or something.”
Tom blinks once. Then he exhales slowly and finally picks up his fork to eat. Harry drops his head and pretends to be busy with eating, but really he’s just hiding his smile.
When he nudges Tom’s knee under the table, Tom nudges him back. Overall, it’s a not a bad meal.
They spend the evening studying at the library. No one else tries to bother them, and afterwards, Harry walks with Tom back to the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey wants Tom to stay overnight so that when the potion finally wears off, she can check him over. Unfortunately, Harry is not allowed to stay overnight with him.
Tom has kept a respectable distance all evening. Harry hasn’t commented on it, but he has wondered how Tom’s arm—now slender and softer—would feel draped over his shoulders.
“What do you think?” Tom asks abruptly. His gaze remains piercing even from underneath dark, feathered lashes. “Tell me honestly.”
“About what?”
“About how I look.”
It’s Harry’s turn to blush. “You look fine,” he says quickly. Then he takes a moment to think of a proper answer. “It doesn’t… change anything, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Tom rolls his eyes. He honest-to-god rolls his eyes at Harry, like Harry is the one being weird. “I know you also find women attractive,” Tom says.
“And?”
“Are you telling me that—” Tom’s face scrunches up as he lifts his hands and curves them crudely around his chest. “These don’t matter to you?”
“I’m not sure what gave you the impression I’ve spent time thinking specifically about your tits,” Harry says dryly, “but if it helps, I’m very sure I miss your dick more.”
Tom is not amused by Harry’s joke, if his utterly impassive expression is anything to go by.
“You’d let me kiss you like this?” Tom presses. The ends of his hair are beginning to break free from the effects of the Sleekeazy, dark locks curling back into corkscrews.
“Yes,” Harry says, barely refraining from tacking on a ‘you idiot’ at the end of his sentence.
Tom seizes Harry’s face with both hands and kisses him.
Harry kisses back. It's different but also not. Tom’s lips are softer than usual and his longer hair tickles Harry’s cheeks. But the way that Tom kisses—firm, demanding—has not changed. The way Tom sighs when he draws back to breathe, his nose bumping softly against Harry’s, has not changed.
When Tom presses him against the wall next to the door and snogs the daylights out of him, that is also nothing new.
When Tom’s hands wander lower, Harry is the one who pulls back and says, “You should probably head in.”
Tom’s face is a lovely shade of rosy pink. He looks gorgeously dishevelled. Harry would love nothing more than to drag Tom into an empty broom cupboard somewhere, but the last thing he wants is the Hogwarts matron catching them with their pants around their ankles.
“Tomorrow,” Harry promises roughly.
Tom is also breathing hard. His body shifts and wiggles slightly against Harry’s. “Sneak in,” he mutters. His eyes flicker down to Harry’s mouth. “Go fetch your cloak and come back.”
Harry would be lying if he said that thought didn’t excite him. “Okay,” he agrees.
Tom drags the tip of his finger along Harry’s jaw. He plants a final kiss on Harry’s lips, then pulls away and straightens his clothes. “I‘ll see if Madam Pomfrey has a nightgown that’ll fit,” Tom says primly. “If not… I’ll just remove everything except my shirt.”
“Yeah,” Harry says, his own voice sounding a bit strangled to his own ears. “Sounds great.”
Tom raises a brow at him. “Better get going, then.”
Harry gets going.
The next day, Cormac McLaggen trips on the Grand Staircase and fractures his pelvis. Harry sends him flowers.
END.
