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The Horntail's tail lashed out—a blur of spiked bone and muscle—and Harry's heart stopped.

Tom dove left. The tail smashed into the rock where he'd been standing half a second before, sending shards of stone exploding outward like shrapnel. The crowd screamed—half terror, half exhilaration—but Harry couldn't breathe. His hands locked around the railing so hard his knuckles went white, wood biting into his palms.

Move, Harry thought desperately, as if Tom could hear him. Move, move, move—

The dragon reared back, chest expanding, and Harry knew what was coming. Fire. He'd seen it consume the rocks, melt steel, turn sand to glass. And Tom was just standing there, wand raised, lips moving in some spell Harry couldn't hear over the roar of the crowd.

The flames erupted.

Harry's stomach lurched violently. Cold sweat broke across his skin, his vision narrowing to a tunnel. For one horrible, endless moment, Tom disappeared entirely into a column of fire—gold and red and blinding white—and Harry thought he might be sick right there in the stands.

Then the flames parted.

Tom stood in the center of the inferno, looking confident as ever. The crowd exploded. Chants of “RIDDLE! RIDDLE! RIDDLE!" shook the stadium, fists pumping, voices raw with awe.

Harry couldn't join them. He could barely stand.

---

The November air bit against his skin as the world was still roaring when Harry slipped away from the stands.

Chants of “RIDDLE! RIDDLE! RIDDLE!" rose like thunder behind him, loud enough to rattle the sky. The crowd had never sounded like that for him—and he tried, truly tried, not to care. But the noise pressed on him from all sides, vibrating in his ribs, following him even as he ducked into the dark passage beneath the arena.

He pushed through clusters of students still celebrating, their faces flushed with excitement. Someone clapped him on the shoulder—a Ravenclaw boy whose name Harry didn't know.

"Your friend's mental," the boy said, grinning wildly. "Absolutely brilliant! You must be so proud!"

Harry forced something like a smile and kept walking. His legs felt unsteady, like the ground wasn't quite solid beneath him. The air still tasted of dragon smoke—acrid and hot, clinging to the back of his throat. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

The stadium's magic flickered along the stone walls in waves of gold and red, shadows stretching and contracting with every lingering cheer. Harry's heartbeat synced with the thrum, too fast, too hot. He'd been holding his breath through the entire task, muscles knotted so tight they ached now.

He wasn't jealous.

He wasn't.

But when he'd watched a Hungarian Horntail snap its jaws five inches from Tom Riddle's face, Harry had felt something raw and helpless tear through him—fear, anger, something jagged that tasted like panic. And when the fire had burst across the arena, blazing around Tom like a golden halo, Harry thought he might throw up from terror.

Everyone else saw brilliance.

Harry saw recklessness.

Though he himself knows a bit too much about recklessness.

What can he say? He’s a Gryffindor, it’s in his nature.

Certainly, most definitely not in Tom’s.

He found the champions' recovery room easily—it was where Fleur had gone after the task. But now it felt different, charged somehow, like the magic in the air had been rewired to expect only one person.

Harry stepped inside.

And there he was.

Tom Riddle sat on the cot like a king on a ruined throne, thick legs spread, back straight, shirt sliced open and hanging loose from his broad shoulders. Sweat clung to the hollow of his throat. Blood—dried now, dark against pale skin—traced a line from his collarbone down across his ribs where the dragon's claw had caught him. The burn snaking down his side looked angry and raw, the edges still faintly smoking. Firelight from the wall sconces played across the planes of his face, catching in his dark eyes, making him look both beautiful and untouchable.

The healer dabbed at the burn with trembling hands—not because she feared hurting him, but because being near him was like standing too close to lightning.

Tom looked bored.

Utterly, devastatingly bored.

Harry stared at him, breath caught halfway in his chest. Tom had that effect on him—like gravity changed direction when their eyes met.

And when Tom's gaze finally lifted to find Harry in the doorway, the rest of the world emptied out.

"Harry." Tom's voice lowered, purred, warm enough to be dangerous. "I wondered when you'd come."

Harry felt his chest twist. Something in Tom's tone suggested the world made sense again now that Harry had arrived—and Harry hated how much that mattered to him.

He walked closer without meaning to, his eyes catching on the angry red burn that curved along Tom's ribs. The skin was blistered, raw. Harry's fingers twitched at his side. "You could've told me what you were doing."

Tom blinked, the healer stepping aside as she finished a charm. "Why?" he asked plainly. "You would have worried, darling."

The silence stretched between them, taut, like a string pulled too tight. Tom’s eyes flickered over Harry’s face, not meeting his, but not entirely avoiding him either. Harry caught the faint shift in Tom’s posture, the way he straightened slightly but couldn’t quite seem to relax. They both knew what it meant when Tom called him "darling"—it was something that slipped too easily between them, a word that didn’t fit the line they’d drawn between friends and something more.

But right now, in this quiet, it felt too much like a mistake.

Shivers ran down Harry’s spine, but not from the cold. He’d heard Tom say it a hundred times, always with that cool detachment, always too casual, too flippant. But tonight it lingered in the air, too heavy, too charged.

You didn’t call someone "darling" if they were just your best friend.

"I was worried anyway." Harry's voice cracked on the last word. He took another step forward, close enough now to see the fine tremor in Tom's jaw, the way his knuckles were white where they gripped the edge of the cot. "You nearly got burned alive out there."

Tom examined the slash across his chest like it was interesting—but not concerning. "A miscalculation."

"A miscalculation," Harry repeated, anger flooding through him. His gaze snagged on a smaller burn near Tom's collarbone, and without thinking, he reached out—

Then stopped. His hand hovered in the air between them, fingers inches from Tom's skin.

Tom's breathing changed. Just slightly. A hitch, barely audible.

Harry pulled his hand back, curling it into a fist. "You faced a Horntail without telling anyone your plan! You could've died!"

Tom gave him a long, patient look—one Harry recognized too well. It was the same look Tom used in conversation when Harry got emotional, or honest, or close. A look that said: You feel too much.

The healer cleared her throat softly. Neither of them looked at her.

"Sit," Tom said, nodding to the edge of the bed.

"No."

Tom's eyebrows lifted. "Defiant today."

"I'm not here to play your games," Harry snapped. He realized too late how familiar the words sounded—too close to the kinds of things he used to whisper to Tom at night when they argued quietly in hidden corridors.

Tom noticed. His eyes darkened. His hand moved—just a fraction, like he might reach for Harry—then stilled.

The healer gathered her supplies with exaggerated care, her movements suddenly very loud in the silence. "I'll—I'll just give you two a moment," she murmured, practically fleeing toward the door.

It clicked shut behind her.

The room felt smaller now. Closer.

Harry forced himself to continue. "Why didn't you tell me your plan?"

Tom stayed silent. A muscle worked in his jaw.

"That's not like you," Harry whispered, moving around the cot, unable to stay still. The space was too small for the size of what was between them. "You tell me everything."

Tom's eyes tracked his movement. "I don't tell you everything."

"It felt like you shut me out."

Finally—finally—something flickered across Tom's expression. Not guilt. Something colder, more guarded. His fingers flexed against the cot.

"Harry," Tom said slowly, "I didn't shut you out."

"Yes, you did."

"I focused."

"That's not the same thing." Harry stopped moving, standing at the foot of the bed now, close enough to see the way Tom's chest rose and fell, slightly too fast.

Tom leaned forward slightly, bracing an elbow on his knee, looking at Harry with infuriating intensity. The movement made him wince—just barely—and Harry's stomach clenched. "I needed clarity. The tasks demand it. If I let myself get distracted—"

Harry's stomach dropped. "Distracted?"

Tom didn't flinch. "Yes."

Harry swallowed hard. "By what?"

No answer.

Harry's voice turned quiet, dangerous. "By me."

Still nothing.

Tom didn't deny it.

He didn't say Harry was wrong.

He didn't say Harry was right.

He just stared at him with those dark, calculating eyes, like the world existed only to feed his control.

But Harry saw it—the way Tom's throat worked when he swallowed. The way his shoulders had gone rigid.

A flash of memory hit Harry suddenly: Tom's hand in his hair three weeks ago, pressed against the wall of an empty classroom, Tom's voice rough and honest in a way it never was anywhere else. ‘You undo me,’he'd whispered. ‘You know that, don't you?’

Harry had thought it was a good thing.

Now he wasn't sure.

Harry felt heat rise in his throat—angry, humiliated heat. "So that's what I am to you?" Harry whispered. "A distraction."

Tom's jaw tightened. His hand moved again—reached—then dropped back to his knee like it had been burned worse than his ribs.

Harry let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Wow. Okay."

"You're twisting my meaning," Tom said, finally sounding rattled. His breathing had gone uneven. "That's not—Harry, you're taking it personally."

"How else am I supposed to take it?" Harry demanded, stepping closer despite himself. Close enough now that he could see the sweat still clinging to Tom's temple, the way his pupils had dilated. "You ignored me all morning. You avoided me after the task. You didn't even look for me when you walked off the field."

Tom stood. The air between them thickened.

Harry took a step back instinctively, then hated himself for it. Tom noticed—of course he noticed—and something flickered across his face before vanishing.

"Don't," Harry said, his voice sharper now. "Don't try to fix this by… by doing that intense stare thing you always do."

Tom moved closer, not touching, but close enough that Harry could feel the heat radiating off him. "The intense stare thing?"

"You know exactly what I mean!" Harry's hands clenched at his sides. "You look at people like you're dissecting them. Like they're puzzles to solve instead of—"

"Instead of what?"

"Instead of people!" Harry's voice cracked. "Instead of someone who's been worried sick about you!"

Tom circled around him slowly, and Harry turned to keep him in view, their positions shifting like they were in some kind of dance neither of them knew the steps to.

"Tom—stop pretending this is nothing. That I'm nothing."

Tom stopped moving. His expression shattered for the briefest second. Just a fracture—a crack in that perfect mask.

"Harry," he said quietly, and the way he said it made Harry's breath catch, "you mattered."

The words hit Harry like a physical blow. His knees went weak—actually weak—and he had to lock them to stay upright. His hand shot out, gripping the back of the chair Tom had been sitting in moments before.

"What?" Harry whispered.

But then Tom finished:

"Too much."

Harry froze. The room tilted.

Tom forced a breath, like the admission cost him something vital. "I needed distance."

"Distance?" Harry's voice was hollow. He released the chair, steadying himself. "You could've talked to me."

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

Tom didn't answer. He turned away, shoulders rigid.

Harry's chest felt hot and cold all at once. "Say something. Tom, say anything other than that I'm a distraction. Please."

And Tom—so controlled, so composed—looked away.

Looked. Away.

Harry felt something inside him break.

"You know what?" Harry whispered. "I'm done."

Tom's head snapped back toward him. "Done?"

"Yes. Done being confused. Done being pushed aside whenever it's convenient for you. Done feeling stupid for caring while you—" Harry's voice cracked. "—while you do whatever this is."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "This is irrational."

"And you're a coward," Harry shot back before he could stop himself.

Silence detonated in the room.

Tom's entire posture changed—straightening, sharpening, like a blade being drawn.

Harry swallowed but didn't take it back. "You heard me. You run when things get real. You pull away when someone gets close." His voice gained strength, fueled by weeks of confusion and hurt. "Remember the library where we first met and had our first kiss? When I asked you about your family and you disappeared for three days? Or after Yule last year when we—when we almost—and then you acted like I didn't exist for a week?" Harry took a step forward. "You can face a dragon, but you can't face your own feelings."

"Harry," Tom said, dangerously calm, "you're upset."

"Of course I'm upset!" Harry yelled. "You made me feel like I meant nothing!"

Something flickered across Tom's face—pain? anger? frustration? All three at once, warring for dominance. His hand twitched at his side, rising slightly as if to reach for Harry. His lips parted. For one breathless second, Harry thought he might actually say it—whatever it was. Might actually explain. Might actually let Harry in.

Tom's hand dropped.

His expression smoothed over, that impenetrable mask sliding back into place.

But Tom didn't reach for him.  

Didn't call him back.  

Didn't soften.

He stood there like a statue.

Fine.

Harry turned toward the door, his vision blurring. "Good luck on the next task."

Tom's voice was quiet, too quiet. "Harry—"

"No," Harry whispered, not looking back. "You don't get to say my name like that anymore."

Silence.

"I'm done with this conversation." Tom said blankly.

Harry heard movement behind him—footsteps, measured and deliberate. Tom walked past him toward the door, and Harry's head snapped up, eyes wide with shock. He'd expected—what? For Tom to stay? To fight harder?

Tom paused at the threshold. Just for a second. His hand rested on the doorframe, knuckles white with pressure. His shoulders rose and fell with a single, controlled breath.

Then he walked out.

Harry stood frozen in the empty room, staring at the space where Tom had been. Slowly, mechanically, he moved to the chair—Tom's chair—and sank into it. The cushion was still warm. Harry's hand pressed against the fabric, feeling the residual heat seep into his palm.

It was already fading.

Harry could only watch with wide eyes as Tom walked out the tent.

---

Harry didn't follow.

He stood there in the tent for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, staring at the canvas flap still swaying from Tom's exit. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking, actually, adrenaline draining out of him and leaving nothing but a hollow, scraped-out feeling in his chest.

He couldn't go back to Gryffindor Tower. Not yet. Not with his eyes burning and his throat tight and the humiliating certainty that if anyone asked him if he was okay, he'd fall apart completely.

So he walked.

Through the castle's empty corridors, past classrooms dark and silent, down staircases that led nowhere in particular. He didn't have a destination. He just needed to move, needed to put distance between himself and that tent, that conversation, Tom's face when he'd looked away.

Eventually, Harry found himself in an abandoned classroom on the fourth floor, dust motes floating in the moonlight streaming through grimy windows. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall and pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.

He didn't cry. He wanted to, but he couldn't. The feeling was stuck somewhere behind his ribs, too big to get out.

When he finally made his way back to the tower, it was past midnight. He climbed into bed fully clothed and lay there staring at the canopy, replaying every word, every look, every moment he'd been stupid enough to think Tom might actually care.

---

Harry woke early the next morning with the disorienting feeling that something enormous had happened overnight, something that had altered the shape of his insides. For a few seconds—just a few—he lay there in the dim Gryffindor dorm room, staring up at the canopy above his bed, feeling strangely suspended in stillness.

Then memory hit him like a Bludger to the ribs.

Tom walking away.  

Tom leaving without turning back.  

Tom's voice—quiet, final, cutting in a way no one else seemed able to cut him.

"I'm done with this conversation."

He'd dreamed about it. Fragments, really—Tom's face, the dragon's roar, the tent canvas rippling. In the dream, Harry had been the one walking away, and Tom had called after him, but when Harry turned around, Tom was already gone. He'd woken with his heart racing and his sheets tangled around his legs.

Harry pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, breathing out sharply. He wasn't going to think about it. He refused to let his brain replay it. It was embarrassing enough that he'd snapped at Tom; he didn't need to relive the humiliation on loop.

But he still felt hollow. Like something had been taken out of him.

He got dressed slowly, his movements mechanical. His hands fumbled with his tie twice before he got it right. When he finally looked in the mirror, he winced—his eyes were ringed with shadows, dark enough that no amount of splashing cold water on his face would hide them. His hair was worse than usual, sticking up at odd angles like he'd been pulling at it in his sleep. Which he probably had.

He looked exactly like someone who'd spent half the night wandering the castle and the other half having nightmares.

Perfect.

When he went downstairs, the common room was unusually empty for a weekday morning. Hermione was there, curled up on the couch with her Arithmancy textbook open on her lap, and Ron was poking at the fire with one of the tongs, clearly bored out of his mind.

They both looked up when Harry appeared, and he saw it immediately—the way Hermione's expression shifted from neutral to concerned, the way Ron's eyes widened slightly before he tried to cover it with a casual greeting.

"Morning," Ron said, though it didn't sound like he meant it. His gaze lingered on Harry's face a beat too long. "You look like you didn't sleep."

"Thanks," Harry muttered, rubbing at his eyes. "That's helpful."

Hermione set her book aside, her brow furrowed. "Harry, are you—"

"I'm fine," he said quickly.

She exchanged a look with Ron. The kind of look that said they'd definitely been talking about him before he came down.

Hermione snapped her book shut. "You didn't sleep because you were up all night worrying about Riddle."

Ron perked up. "We talking about Riddle again? Because honestly, mate, I've been waiting for you to admit he's—"

"No," Harry muttered too quickly, too defensive. "We're not talking about him."

Ron and Hermione gave him incredulous looks.

Harry turned away, cheeks heating. "Shut up."

Ron lifted both hands. "I'm not judging. I'm just saying you've gone weird about him."

Hermione gave Harry a look—soft, assessing, too perceptive. "You two were close," she said. "It makes sense you're upset."

Harry swallowed. That word—close—felt too raw. Too exposing.

He opened his mouth to snap back, to say we weren't anything, but the denial felt childish even in his head.

So he just muttered, "Breakfast," and headed for the portrait hole.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look but followed.

The walk to the Great Hall felt longer than usual. Harry was hyperaware of every student they passed, every pair of eyes that seemed to linger on him a second too long. A group of third-years whispered as he walked by. Two Hufflepuff girls stopped talking abruptly when they saw him, then resumed in hushed tones once he'd passed.

By the time they reached the Great Hall, Harry's shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched.

Harry had barely sat down at the Gryffindor table when Seamus leaned across the bench.

"Oy, didn't realise you were famous now for screaming at Riddle," he said cheerfully.

Harry's stomach dropped. "What?"

"Half the castle heard," Dean added from beside him. "You and Riddle having it out in the Champions' Recovery Tent? Sounded intense."

Harry felt his face flame. "It wasn't shouting."  

(It absolutely had been.)  

"And it wasn't in front of the whole—"

He stopped.

Because his eyes flickered—traitorously, automatically—to the center of the Great Hall, where the Triwizard champions had been seated since the beginning of the Tournament.

Tom was there.

Surrounded.

Laughing.

The sight punched Harry in the stomach.

Tom had his usual group around him—seventh-year Slytherins, a few ambitious Ravenclaws, and a cluster of students who wanted to be near him simply because he was Tom Riddle. Beautiful, brilliant, mysterious Tom Riddle, who had the entire castle wrapped around his little finger without even trying.

He looked the same as always—glossy black hair perfectly in place, uniform crisp even first thing in the morning, posture so straight it made everyone else look slouched. He was smiling at something a Ravenclaw girl said, and she was blushing so hard she looked like she might faint.

Tom looked completely unbothered. Untouched. Like last night had never happened, like Harry had never existed at all.

The girl said something else, leaning in close, and Tom's smile widened—that devastating smile that made people forget how to breathe. His hand rested casually on the table, long fingers drumming an idle rhythm. He looked relaxed. At ease. Happy, even.

Harry's chest constricted so violently he thought he might be sick.

How could Tom just sit there like that? How could he laugh and smile and charm everyone around him when Harry felt like he was being torn apart from the inside?

Tom tilted his head, listening to something a Slytherin boy was saying, and the morning light caught his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the elegant slope of his nose, the dark sweep of his lashes. He was beautiful. He'd always been beautiful. And Harry had been stupid enough to think that beauty might have room in it for him.

Tom's gaze swept across the Hall—casual, disinterested—and for one heart-stopping moment, Harry thought their eyes might meet.

But Tom's gaze slid right past him. Didn't even pause. Didn't even flicker with recognition.

Like Harry was invisible.

Like Harry was nothing.

---

Quidditch practice that afternoon was a disaster.

Harry mounted his broom with the rest of the team, the cold November air biting at his cheeks. The sky was grey, threatening rain. Normally he loved this—the rush of wind, the freedom of flight, the way everything else fell away when he was chasing the Snitch.

But today, his mind wouldn't quiet.

He kept losing focus mid-drill. Missing passes. Drifting off course.

"Potter!" Angelina shouted from across the pitch. "Where's your head?"

"Sorry!" Harry called back, shaking himself.

He tried harder. Pushed himself into a steep dive, reaching for the practice Snitch Wood had released. But halfway down, his concentration slipped—Tom's voice echoing in his head, distracted—and he didn't see the Bludger until it was nearly on him.

"HARRY!"

He swerved at the last second. The Bludger whistled past his ear, so close he felt the displaced air against his skin.

His heart hammered. His hands shook on the broom handle.

Wood blew the whistle, sharp and angry. "Everyone down! NOW!"

They landed in a cluster. Wood stormed over, face red. "Potter, what the hell was that? You nearly got your skull cracked open!"

"I'm fine," Harry said quickly. "Just—lost focus for a second."

"A second?" Angelina crossed her arms, eyes narrowed with concern. "Harry, you've been off all practice. What's going on?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Wood said flatly. "You're distracted. And distracted Seekers get hurt."

Harry's jaw tightened. "I said I'm fine."

Wood studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Go. Cool off. We'll finish without you."

Shame burned hot in Harry's chest, but he didn't argue. He grabbed his broom and walked off the pitch, boots squelching in the damp grass.

The path back to the castle curved past the lake. Harry kept his head down, exhaustion settling into his bones. The smell of water and earth filled his lungs. Cold. Clean. Empty.

And then he saw them.

Tom. Standing near the lake's edge with a group of Slytherins—Nott, Malfoy, a few others. Tom's head was tilted back, laughing at something Nott said. Relaxed. Easy. Like nothing in the world could touch him.

Like Harry had never existed.

Harry stopped walking. Frozen. Staring.

His chest ached.

"Harry?"

He turned, startled. Cedric Diggory was approaching from the opposite direction, still in his Hufflepuff Quidditch robes, broom slung over his shoulder. His hair was windswept, cheeks flushed from flying.

"You alright?" Cedric asked gently. His grey eyes flicked toward the lake, then back to Harry. "You look… rough."

Harry swallowed hard. "Just tired."

Cedric didn't push. He just nodded, shifting his broom. "Heading back to the castle?"

"Yeah."

"Mind if I walk with you?"

Harry hesitated, then nodded. "Sure."

They fell into step together. Cedric filled the silence with easy conversation—something about a new Chaser on his team, a joke about the weather. His voice was steady. Kind. Uncomplicated.

Harry focused on it. Let it wash over him like cool water.

He didn't look back toward the lake.

But as they walked away, Harry felt it—sharp and sudden along his spine.

Tom's eyes.

Watching.

---

In Charms, Harry couldn't concentrate. He kept glancing at the doorway, expecting Tom to walk in—even though Tom didn't take Charms at this hour.

Still, Harry found himself rehearsing what he'd say if Tom appeared. I'm sorry. Can we talk? I didn't mean—But the words felt hollow even in his head. What was he apologizing for? For caring? For being a distraction?

Professor Flitwick waved his wand in front of Harry's face.  

"Mr. Potter, are you with us?"

"Sorry," Harry muttered, cheeks hot.

Across the classroom, Lavender whispered to Parvati, "He's probably thinking about Riddle," and Harry wanted to sink through the floor. He stared at his wand, at the feather that was supposed to be levitating, and felt the weight of everyone's eyes on him. Even here, Tom's absence was a presence.

In Defense Against the Dark Arts, he sat through Moody's lecture only halfway hearing it. The topic was recognizing when someone was under another person's influence—how to spot the signs of emotional manipulation, the subtle ways people could control you without magic.

"The victim often doesn't realize it's happening," Moody growled, his magical eye swiveling. "They make excuses. They change their behavior to please the other person. They lose themselves bit by bit."

Harry's quill stilled on the parchment.

Every time the door creaked, his heart jumped—pathetic. He hated that instinctive reaction, hated how it made him feel like he had no control over himself. Was that what this was? Had Tom somehow gotten under his skin so deeply that Harry couldn't function without him?

The thought made him feel sick.

At lunch, Harry didn't even look toward the Slytherin table.  

He couldn't bear to.

But he could feel Tom.

He always could.

That subtle awareness along his spine, like static electricity before a storm. He'd learned to recognize it—Tom watching him, even when Harry didn't look to confirm it. The sensation was so familiar now, so ingrained, that Harry's body responded before his mind could catch up. His shoulders tensed. His breathing changed. The back of his neck prickled with heat.

But the moment he dared a glance over—

Tom wasn't looking.

He was speaking to his friends, elbows rested on the table in that elegant way of his, head tilted as he listened attentively to something Abraxas was saying. He looked… happy. Relaxed. Like nothing had changed. Like Harry had never existed at all.

Harry's heart twisted unpleasantly. He'd been so certain—so absolutely sure—that Tom was watching him. But he'd been wrong. It was just his own desperate imagination, conjuring phantom sensations where there was nothing.

At first, Harry told himself he was imagining it.

Tom wasn't actually ignoring him—Tom was busy. Tom was a Triwizard champion. Tom was popular, brilliant, in-demand. Tom was—

Avoiding him.

Harry noticed it in the small things first.

In the corridor outside Charms, where Harry accidentally brushed Tom's arm and Tom didn't look up from his conversation.

Harry had been walking toward the staircase when he saw Tom ahead, surrounded by his usual group. His heart had lurched. Before he could think better of it, Harry quickened his pace, angling himself so their paths would intersect.

The moment of contact was brief—Harry's sleeve against Tom's robes, the warmth of another body so close Harry caught the scent of Tom's cologne, something dark and cedar-like that Harry had memorized without meaning to.

Tom didn't flinch. Didn't pause. Didn't even glance down.

He continued speaking to Nott as though nothing had happened, his voice smooth and unbothered: "—the theoretical application is sound, but the practical execution requires—"

Harry stood frozen in the middle of the corridor as Tom walked away, his words fading into the general noise of students. The spot where they'd touched felt cold now.

In the courtyard by the fountain—Harry sat on a bench with Ron and Hermione, and Tom walked past with two Ravenclaws, gaze fixed ahead, expression unreadable. Harry had looked up at exactly the wrong moment, hope flaring stupidly in his chest, but Tom's eyes slid past him like Harry was part of the scenery.

After Transfiguration, Harry tried again. He waited by the door as the class emptied, pretending to search through his bag for something. Tom emerged with Lestrange, discussing something about the essay McGonagall had assigned.

Harry straightened. "Tom—"

But Tom had already turned down the opposite corridor, his stride purposeful and quick. Not running. Not fleeing. Just… moving with the kind of efficiency that suggested he had somewhere important to be.

Somewhere that wasn't here.

Somewhere that wasn't Harry.

In the library, where Harry moved toward the table they used to share.

The table by the window, where afternoon sunlight cut across the desk in warm strips and turned the dust motes into tiny galaxies. They'd spent hours there—Tom reading while Harry pretended to study, stealing glances when he thought Tom wasn't looking. Sometimes their feet would touch under the table, and neither of them would move away.

Harry had memorized that table. The scratch on the left corner where someone had carved initials decades ago. The way the third chair creaked if you leaned back too far. The view of the grounds through the window, the lake glittering in the distance.

Tom was already there when Harry arrived, books spread before him, quill moving steadily across parchment. Harry's heart lifted despite himself. This was familiar. This was theirs.

He approached slowly, carefully, like Tom was a wild creature that might bolt.

Tom's quill paused.

For a moment—just a moment—Harry thought he saw Tom's shoulders tense.

Then Tom picked up his books without looking at him and left.

Not a word.  

Not a glance.  

Not even the slightest indication Harry existed.

Tom stacked his books with the same careful precision he did everything, tucked his quill away, pushed his chair in neatly. Every movement was controlled, deliberate, calm.

And then he was gone.

Harry stood beside the empty chair, staring at the space where Tom had been. The parchment Tom had been writing on was gone too—he'd taken everything, left no trace of himself behind.

Madam Pince looked up from her desk, her sharp eyes softening with something that looked uncomfortably like pity. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then seemed to think better of it and returned to her cataloging.

This one hurt the most.

Harry sank into the chair Tom had vacated. It was still warm.

---

Harry approached Tom outside the locker rooms, still in his practice robes, hair sweaty and wild. Tom was speaking with Professor Slughorn, who beamed at both boys like they were prized jewels in his collection.

"Oh! Potter!" Slughorn chuckled, his walrus mustache twitching with delight. "Splendid flying today. Simply splendid. That Wronski Feint—absolutely textbook!"

Harry barely heard him. His pulse was hammering in his ears, his hands clenched at his sides.

Tom's eyes flicked to Harry.

For a second—just a second—Harry saw something there. Something that made his breath catch, made his chest tighten with a desperate, foolish hope. It was the way Tom's gaze sharpened, the way his jaw tensed almost imperceptibly. The way his pupils dilated just slightly before his expression smoothed over like glass over water. It was the ghost of recognition. The ghost of caring. The ghost of the way Tom used to look at him when they were alone—like Harry was the only person in the world who mattered.

Hope flared so bright it hurt.

Harry stepped forward, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. "Tom, I—can we—"

Tom cut him off.

"Professor," he said smoothly, his voice perfectly modulated, perfectly polite, "I'll bring the essay to your office tonight."

He didn't look at Harry again.

Not once.

Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Not even the courtesy of a dismissal. Just—nothing.

Harry felt something in his chest splinter. Felt it crack down the middle like ice breaking under weight.

Slughorn glanced between them, his jovial expression faltering slightly. "Ah—well—yes, Tom, excellent. I look forward to reading it."

Tom inclined his head graciously and walked away.

Harry stood there, rooted to the spot, watching Tom's retreating back disappear around the corner. His throat felt tight. His eyes burned.

Slughorn cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well then, Potter. Keep up the good work."

Harry nodded numbly and walked away before anyone could see his face.

---

The next day in Potions, Professor Slughorn announced a partner project.

"Pair up, pair up!" he called cheerfully. "I want you working with someone you don't normally collaborate with. Broaden those horizons!"

Harry's stomach dropped.

He looked across the room. Tom was already standing, gathering his things with that infuriatingly calm efficiency.

For one wild, stupid moment, Harry thought—maybe. Maybe Tom would—

"Professor," Tom said, his voice carrying easily across the classroom, "may I work with Abraxas? We've been discussing advanced brewing techniques, and I think this would be an excellent opportunity to apply them."

Slughorn beamed. "Of course, of course! Initiative, my boy. That's what I like to see."

Tom didn't even glance in Harry's direction.

Harry felt Ron's hand on his shoulder. "Mate," Ron said quietly. "Come on. We'll partner up."

Harry nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

He spent the entire class staring at his cauldron, watching the potion turn the wrong color because he couldn't focus, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except feel the weight of Tom's deliberate absence pressing down on him like a physical thing.

---

Five days of Tom ignoring him in hallways.

Five days of Tom walking past him as though Harry were invisible.

Five days of Harry catching glimpses of Tom surrounded by friends and admirers, always looking perfectly composed, perfectly untouched, while Harry felt like he was unraveling.

Hermione began dragging him to the library just to keep him distracted.

Ron started insisting Harry join him for Gobstones matches he clearly didn't care about just to keep Harry's mind occupied.

And then Cedric started joining them.

It happened on the fifth day. Harry was hunched over a Transfiguration essay in the library, Hermione beside him with her color-coded notes, Ron across from them doodling in the margins of his Herbology homework.

"Mind if I sit?"

Harry looked up. Cedric stood there with an armful of books, his expression open and friendly. Not pitying. Not curious. Just—kind.

"Sure," Hermione said, gesturing to the empty chair.

Cedric sat down with a grateful sigh. "Thanks. Everywhere else is packed."

He pulled out his own work, and for a while, they all studied in comfortable silence. It was—easy. Cedric didn't ask questions. Didn't pry. Didn't look at Harry like he was something broken that needed fixing.

After about twenty minutes, Cedric glanced at Harry's essay and said, "You know, if you're stuck on the Animagus transformation theory, there's a really good chapter in Intermediate Transfiguration that breaks it down better than the textbook."

Harry blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah. Want me to grab it?"

"That'd be great, actually."

Cedric smiled—warm and genuine—and got up to find the book.

Ron leaned over and whispered, "He's nice."

"Yeah," Harry said quietly. "He is."

And he was. Cedric was gentle where Tom was sharp. Patient where Tom was demanding. He treated Harry like a person, not a puzzle to solve or a distraction to manage.

Harry felt guilty for noticing. Guilty for the way his chest loosened slightly when Cedric came back with the book and sat down beside him, pointing out passages that might help. Guilty for using Cedric's presence as a buffer against the ache that wouldn't stop spreading through his ribs.

But he also felt—grateful. Because Cedric didn't ask for anything. Didn't expect anything. He was just—there. Steady and uncomplicated and real.

Harry didn't know what that meant.

Or why it made something burn behind his ribs when he caught himself comparing Cedric's easy warmth to Tom's calculated coldness.

But Cedric kept showing up. Kept sitting with them. Kept treating Harry like he mattered.

And Harry—desperate, pathetic, falling apart—let him.

---

On the second week, Tom walked past Harry in the hallway.

Close enough that their shoulders almost brushed.

Close enough that Harry could smell that clean, warm scent Tom always carried.

Close enough that Harry felt every nerve in his body tighten—

But Tom didn't look at him.

Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

Harry stopped walking entirely, staring after him with his chest aching. He felt Ron and Hermione stop beside him, their expressions tightening.

Hermione whispered, "Harry…"

But Harry shook his head. "It's fine."

It wasn't fine.

It felt like drowning.

By the fourth week, Harry snapped.

He didn't mean to.

He genuinely tried to hold it together. He tried to bury himself in homework, in Quidditch practice, in anything that wasn't Tom-shaped. He really did.

But during lunch, when a group of fourth-year girls started whispering loudly at the Gryffindor table—

"I heard Riddle said he doesn't even like Potter—"

Harry's fork froze halfway to his mouth.

"Apparently he told Daphne Greengrass that Potter was childish. Can you imagine?"

Harry's fingers tightened around the fork.

"I mean, it makes sense. Potter's always so—emotional. And Riddle's so composed. They never really fit, did they?"

The fork bent slightly under the pressure of Harry's grip.

"Maybe Riddle's finally done with him. I heard he's been spending loads of time with the seventh-years now. He hasn’t talked to Potter in about a month now. You know, people on his level—"

"God, Potter must be devastated. He was so obviously obsessed—"

"Do you think Riddle's moving on? Like, properly? Because honestly, he could do so much better—"

Harry felt something sharp and ugly twist inside him. His vision blurred at the edges. His throat closed up.

Childish.  

Done with him.  

Moving on.  

So much better.

Ron's hand landed on his arm. "Mate, ignore them—"

But Harry couldn't. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything except sit there and feel every word carve itself into his skin.

And then, because the universe hated him, because fate had a sick sense of humor, because he wasn't allowed one moment of dignity, someone at the Slytherin table laughed loudly enough to draw every eye in the room.

Harry looked.

Of course he looked.

And there was Tom—head tilted back slightly, eyes bright, laughing at something one of the Slytherin seventh-years said.

He looked happy.

Brilliantly, beautifully, effortlessly happy.

His dark hair caught the light from the enchanted ceiling. His smile was genuine—not the careful, controlled expression he usually wore, but something real and unguarded. His shoulders were relaxed. His posture was easy. He looked like someone who had never been weighed down by anything in his life.

Not a trace of the tension he used to have around Harry.  

Not a single glance toward him.  

Not a single sign Harry had ever mattered to him.

Not a single indication that Tom was suffering even a fraction of what Harry was going through.

Harry's chest cracked open.

He felt it happen. Felt something inside him shatter completely.

Tom looked fine. Better than fine. He looked like he'd been set free.

And Harry—Harry was drowning. Suffocating. Falling apart at the seams while Tom laughed with his friends like nothing had ever happened between them.

Like Harry had never happened to him at all.

Harry stood abruptly. The bench scraped loudly against the stone floor.

"Harry—" Hermione started.

But Harry was already walking. Moving on autopilot. He didn't know where he was going. Didn't care. He just needed to get out.—

He made it to the entrance hall before his vision blurred completely. Before his breath came in short, painful gasps. Before his hands started shaking so badly he had to press them against the cold stone wall to steady himself.

"Harry?"

He looked up. Cedric was standing there, concern etched across his face.

"Are you okay?"

Harry tried to speak. Couldn't. Just shook his head.

Cedric stepped closer, his voice gentle. "Come on. Let's get you somewhere quiet."

He guided Harry to an empty classroom, shut the door behind them, and just—waited. Didn't push. Didn't demand explanations. Just stood there, steady and patient, while Harry tried to remember how to breathe.

"I'm sorry," Harry finally managed, his voice rough. "I'm—I don't know what—"

"You don't have to explain," Cedric said quietly. "But if you want to talk, I'm here."

Harry looked at him—at his kind eyes, his open expression, the way he stood there like he had all the time in the world.

And something in Harry's chest loosened just slightly.

"He doesn't care," Harry whispered. "He just—he doesn't care at all."

Cedric's expression softened. "I'm sorry."

And he sounded like he meant it.

Harry closed his eyes, leaning back against the desk. "I don't know how to stop caring."

"You don't have to stop," Cedric said gently. "You just have to keep going anyway."

Harry opened his eyes. Looked at Cedric. At this boy who barely knew him but was still here, still offering kindness without asking for anything in return.

"Thank you," Harry said quietly.

Cedric smiled. "Anytime."

And for the first time in four weeks, Harry felt like maybe—just maybe—he could survive this.

---

The past month that followed was quieter. The cold month of mid December was softer, somehow. Harry found himself sinking into the rhythms of Gryffindor Tower—the crackle of the common room fire, the familiar bickering between Ron and Hermione, the scratch of quills on parchment late into the evening. He was trying. Really trying.

On Tuesday, he'd spent the entire afternoon helping Ron with his Potions essay, laughing when Ron dramatically declared that Snape was "personally victimizing" him. On Wednesday, Hermione had dragged them both to the library, and Harry had actually managed to focus on his Transfiguration homework for a solid hour without his thoughts drifting. On Thursday evening, the three of them had played Exploding Snap by the fire until Ron's eyebrows were singed and Hermione was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe.

Small moments. Normal moments. The kind Harry had forgotten he needed.

He didn't think about Tom. Or—he tried not to. There were still flashes, of course. The way his gaze would drift toward the Slytherin table at meals, only to jerk away when he caught himself. The hollow ache that settled in his chest when he passed the corridor where they'd fought. But he was getting better at pushing it down, at letting Ron's jokes and Hermione's steady presence fill the spaces where the longing used to live.

It was Friday morning when everything shifted.

Harry had been sitting with Ron and Hermione at breakfast, half-listening to Ron complain about the latest Divination assignment, when the Great Hall suddenly erupted into chaos.

"LOOK!" someone shrieked from the Ravenclaw table. "The notice board!"

Within seconds, students were shoving back their chairs, scrambling toward the entrance where Professor McGonagall's official notice board stood. The noise was deafening—excited shouts, squeals, the thunder of footsteps on stone. Harry exchanged a confused glance with Ron.

"What's going on?" Ron asked, craning his neck.

Hermione was already on her feet, eyes bright with curiosity. "Let's go see."

They pushed through the crowd, Harry's heart inexplicably picking up speed. When they finally reached the board, he saw it: McGonagall's neat, precise handwriting on official Hogwarts parchment.

Attention Students: The Triwizard Tournament Committee is pleased to announce that the annual Yule Ball will take place on the evening of December 25th. All students of age are invited to attend. Formal attire required. Partners encouraged.

The reaction was immediate and overwhelming. A group of sixth-year Hufflepuffs started squealing so loudly that Harry winced. Two Ravenclaws were already debating dress robes. A cluster of Slytherin girls swept past, giggling and whispering names. Everywhere Harry looked, people were grinning, gasping, grabbing their friends' arms in excitement.

"A BALL!" someone shouted.

"I have to find a date—"

"Do you think he'll ask me?"

"I need new robes, oh Merlin, I need—"

The noise pressed in on Harry from all sides, suffocating. His stomach twisted sharply. A ball. A dance. With partners. With... dates.

Ron had gone pale beside him. "A ball," he repeated faintly. "A... we have to... Harry, we have to go with someone.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though she was smiling. "It's not mandatory, Ron. You can go alone if you want."

"Alone?!" Ron's voice cracked. "Hermione, you can't just—everyone will have someone! I'll look like a complete—"

But Harry wasn't listening anymore. His mind had gone somewhere else entirely, somewhere dark and spiraling. He'd have to ask someone. He'd have to find a date. He'd have to stand in that ballroom and watch everyone else dancing, laughing, happy, while he—

His thoughts snagged on a terrible image: Tom, standing across the room in elegant dress robes, his arm around someone else. Someone beautiful. Someone who wasn't Harry. Tom would be asked—of course he would. Everyone wanted Tom Riddle. And Tom would say yes to someone, and Harry would have to watch.

His chest tightened painfully.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice cut through the spiral. "Are you alright?"

He blinked, forcing himself back to the present. "Yeah. Fine."

Ron was still spiraling beside him. "I don't even know who I'd ask! Who would even want to go with me? I'm not—I'm not exactly—" He gestured helplessly at himself.

"Ron, stop," Hermione said firmly. "You're being ridiculous."

"I'm being realistic!” Ron shot back. "This is a disaster. A complete disaster. Harry, back me up here—you're worried too, right?"

Harry's throat felt tight. "I... yeah. A bit."

Ron threw his hands up. "See?! Even Harry's worried, and everyone wants to go with Harry!"

"That's not—" Harry started, but Ron was already pacing.

"I need a plan. A strategy. I can't just walk up to someone and—oh God, what if I get rejected? What if everyone says no? What if I have to go alone and everyone knows I couldn't get a date—"

Despite everything, Harry felt a flicker of sympathy. Ron's panic was absurd, but it was also... relatable. The anxiety of asking someone, of being rejected, of standing alone while everyone else was paired off—Harry understood that more than he wanted to admit.

The common room that evening was absolute chaos. Everyone was talking about the Ball—who they wanted to ask, who they hoped would ask them, what they'd wear. The noise was constant, overwhelming. Harry sat by the fire with Ron and Hermione, trying to focus on his homework and failing miserably.

Ron was still spiraling. "I've been thinking about it all day, and I've got nothing. No options. Zero. I'm doomed."

"You're not doomed," Hermione said patiently, not looking up from her book.

"I am! I'm completely—wait." Ron's eyes suddenly widened. "Hermione. You'll go with me, won't you? I mean, we're friends, and you probably don't have anyone else, so—"

Hermione's quill stopped moving. She looked up slowly, her expression unreadable.

"Actually," she said carefully, "I already have a date."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Ron's mouth fell open. "You—what? You have a—who? WHO? HOW? We just found out today—!”

Hermione's cheeks flushed slightly. "Viktor Krum asked me. The contestants get the notice a week earlier. I said yes."

"KRUM?!" Ron exploded, leaping to his feet. "Viktor Krum?! The Viktor Krum?! The Seeker?! Hermione, he's—he's famous! He's—and you—you said YES?!"

"Yes, Ron, I said yes," Hermione replied, her voice tight. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"No! I mean—yes! I mean—" Ron was flailing now, his face bright red. "You're going with Krum?! But he's—and you're—Hermione!"

Harry watched the exchange with a strange, hollow feeling in his chest. He was happy for Hermione. Of course he was. She deserved this—deserved to be asked by someone who saw how brilliant she was. But watching Ron's theatrical meltdown, watching Hermione's pleased smile, Harry felt suddenly, acutely alone.

Everyone had someone. Or they would. Ron would figure it out eventually. Hermione had Krum. And Harry...

Harry had no one.

Later, after Ron had finally exhausted himself and Hermione had retreated to her dormitory, Harry sat alone by the dying fire. The common room was empty now, quiet except for the soft crackle of embers.

He stared into the flames and tried to picture it: walking up to someone and asking them to the Ball. Cho Chang, maybe. Or one of the Patil twins. Someone nice. Someone who'd say yes.

But every time he tried to imagine it, the image dissolved. Because the only person he could picture asking—the only person he wanted to ask—was Tom.

And Tom wouldn't even look at him.

Harry's chest ached with the weight of it. The Ball wasn't just a dance. It was a reminder of everything he'd lost. Every time he thought about it, he'd have to face the fact that Tom had moved on. That Tom would be there with someone else. That Harry had meant so little that he'd been erased completely.

‘The contestants get the notice a week earlier.’

Does Tom already have someone he’s taking? Who would it be?

He pressed his palms against his eyes, willing himself not to feel this. Not to care this much.

But he did. God, he did.

The Yule Ball loomed ahead like a specter, and Harry had never felt more alone.

---

The corridors of Hogwarts were unusually quiet that afternoon. Most students had already dispersed to their common rooms or to classes, leaving only the faint echo of footsteps bouncing off the stone walls. Harry walked beside the lake window near the entrance hall, feeling the soft hum of sunlight filtering through the tall, narrow panes. The winter air outside pressed against the glass, misting it faintly, and he shivered at the chill.

He wasn't thinking about the Yule Ball—not really. He wasn't thinking about anyone. He was trying to just… exist.

And then Cedric appeared.

Harry froze, unsure if he had imagined the golden hair and carefully poised posture. Cedric Diggory, standing a few feet away under the soft light of the corridor, looked… uncertain. Not shy in the usual way—he always carried that quiet confidence—but careful, hesitant, as though choosing his words with care.

"Harry," Cedric said softly, his voice carrying just enough to reach him without drawing attention from the distant corridor. "Can I… walk with you for a moment?"

Harry's heart stuttered. "Uh… yeah," he managed, his voice quieter than he'd intended.

Cedric fell into step beside him, hands clasped loosely in front of him, gaze flickering now and then to the stone floor. They walked in silence for a moment, their footsteps echoing softly. Finally, Cedric exhaled.

"I've been wanting to talk to you," he said quietly. "About the Ball."

Harry's stomach twisted. "Oh."

"I know you probably have people asking you," Cedric continued, glancing at him with something like concern. "You're… well, you're Harry Potter. But I wanted to ask anyway, because…" He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. "Because I've noticed you've seemed… different lately. Quieter. Like something's weighing on you."

Harry's throat tightened. He hadn't realized anyone had noticed.

"I don't know what's going on," Cedric said gently. "And you don't have to tell me. But I thought… maybe you could use a night where you don't have to think about whatever it is. Where you can just… enjoy yourself. Have fun. Be seventeen."

The kindness in his voice made Harry's chest ache. He swallowed hard, not trusting himself to speak.

"So I wanted to ask," Cedric said, stopping and turning to face him fully. The golden light caught his face, highlighting the careful set of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow. "Would you go to the Yule Ball with me? Not because you have to, or because anyone expects you to. Just… because I'd like to spend the evening with you. And maybe help you forget about whatever's been hurting you."

The words landed softly, tentatively, but somehow fully. Harry felt his stomach twist, a strange mixture of surprise, disbelief, and flattery. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Cedric's eyes met his, steady, patient. "I understand if you've got someone else in mind, or if you don't want to go at all. I just…" He exhaled, the movement small but deliberate. "I thought I'd ask. You deserve to have a good night, Harry. You deserve to be happy."

Harry's throat felt tight. "I… I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything right now," Cedric said with a small smile. "Think about it. Take your time. I'll be waiting for your answer."

He reached out and squeezed Harry's shoulder gently—warm, reassuring—and then stepped back. "I mean it, Harry. Whatever you decide… I hope you find a way to enjoy the Ball."

Cedric gave him one last smile, then turned and walked down the corridor. Harry watched his back, long legs eating up the space between them, golden hair catching the light as he went.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. Cedric’s invitation lingered in his chest, warm and tentative. He would think about it, he told himself. He had to. But the ache of that silent, watching presence would not leave him entirely, and he knew it wouldn’t.

For now, he let himself lean against the cold stone wall of the corridor, heart racing, pulse loud in his ears. He felt surprised, flattered, almost dizzy. Cedric had asked him, and he hadn’t even realized he wanted someone to.

And somewhere beyond the edge of that warmth, the shadow waited. Silent. Observing.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment and let the winter sunlight settle on his face, trying to push down the tight knot in his chest. For now… he would think about the answer.

For now… Cedric’s kindness was enough.

---

The courtyard was empty at this hour, the stone benches cold beneath the fading autumn light. A bitter wind swept through the open space, carrying with it the scent of dying leaves and the promise of winter's approach. The ancient stones seemed to absorb what little warmth remained in the air, radiating back only a bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Harry sat alone on one of those cold benches, his Transfiguration textbook open but unread in his lap. He'd been staring at the same page for twenty minutes—maybe longer, he'd lost track—the words blurring together like ink in water. The diagram of a teacup transforming into a tortoise swam before his eyes, meaningless. He couldn't have recited a single word from the page if his life had depended on it.

It is December twenty third. A month. Thirty days since Tom Riddle had last spoken to him. Since those dark eyes had met his across the Great Hall, the library, the corridors—and then deliberately looked away.

Harry's chest ached with it. The silence. The absence. The way Tom would enter a room and Harry's entire body would go taut with awareness, every nerve ending suddenly alive and attuned to Tom's presence, only for Tom to sweep past him as though he were invisible. As though he were just another face in the crowd. As though those stolen moments in the Restricted Section had never happened. As though Tom's fingers had never traced the curve of Harry's jaw with something approaching reverence, his voice low and possessive: Mine.

But Harry wasn't his. Apparently, he was nothing at all.

The exhaustion sat heavy in his bones, a weight that had accumulated over sleepless nights and anxiety-filled days. He hadn't been sleeping well—couldn't, when every time he closed his eyes he saw Tom's face, felt the ghost of his touch like a brand against his skin. It was maddening. Infuriating. He should hate Tom for this, for the casual cruelty of his indifference, for the way he'd taken something precious and fragile between them and crushed it without explanation.

He did hate him.

He also couldn't stop wanting him, and that was the worst part of all. That was what kept him awake at night, what made him feel pathetic and weak. The wanting hadn't diminished with Tom's silence—if anything, it had grown stronger, more desperate, like a wound that wouldn't heal.

Harry had tried, in those first few days, to get Tom's attention. He'd positioned himself in Tom's path, had tried to catch his eye in the library. He'd even, in a moment of desperation that still made him cringe, attempted to corner Tom after Potions. But Tom had simply looked through him, his expression blank and cold, before turning to engage Abraxas Malfoy in conversation about some obscure Dark Arts theory. The dismissal had been so complete, so absolute, that Harry had felt it like a physical blow.

After that, he'd stopped trying. Pride, if nothing else, demanded that much.

The wind picked up, sending a scatter of brown leaves skittering across the courtyard stones. Harry pulled his robes tighter around himself, though he knew the cold he felt had little to do with the weather. Above him, the sky was deepening from pale gold to dusky purple, the sun sinking behind the castle walls. Soon it would be time for dinner, and he'd have to face the Great Hall again, have to sit at the Gryffindor table and pretend he wasn't constantly aware of Tom's presence at the Slytherin table, pretend his heart didn't lurch every time he accidentally glanced in that direction.

He was so tired of pretending.

"Potter."

Harry's head snapped up so fast his neck protested. Tom stood at the courtyard entrance, framed by the stone archway, his robes immaculate despite the wind that tugged at Harry's own disheveled appearance. He looked perfect. Untouchable. His dark hair was swept back from his face, not a strand out of place, and his posture was impeccable—board shoulders back, chin slightly raised, every inch the aristocratic heir to Slytherin's legacy. His expression was carved from marble, cold and controlled, but there was something in his eyes—something sharp and hungry and almost desperate that made Harry's breath catch in his throat.

For a moment, Harry couldn't speak. Couldn't move. A month of silence, and now Tom was here, looking at him with an intensity that made Harry's skin prickle with awareness. Part of him wanted to run, to flee before Tom could hurt him again. Another part—a larger, more foolish part—wanted to close the distance between them and demand answers.

"What do you want?" Harry's voice came out rougher than he intended, scraped raw by emotion he couldn't quite contain. He closed his textbook with more force than necessary, the sound echoing off the courtyard walls like a gunshot.

Tom moved closer, his footsteps deliberate, measured. Each step seemed calculated, as though he was approaching something dangerous that might bolt at any moment. "We need to talk."

The words hit Harry like a slap. "Now you want to talk?" He stood abruptly, anger flaring hot and bright in his chest, burning away the exhaustion and hurt. "Over a month, Riddle. A month of nothing, and now you decide we need to talk?"

"Sit down." Tom's voice was level, controlled, but Harry could see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands were held carefully at his sides.

"No." Harry's hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. The pain was grounding, real. "You don't get to ignore me for weeks and then order me around. You don't get to—"

"I said sit down." Tom's voice was soft now, dangerous in its quietness. He was close now, close enough that Harry could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his sides as though restraining himself from reaching out. Close enough that Harry could smell the faint scent of parchment and something darker, something uniquely Tom.

"Make me."

For a moment, something wild flashed in Tom's eyes—something raw and uncontrolled that sent a shiver down Harry's spine. Then his expression shuttered, that careful control slamming back into place like a door closing. "You're being childish."

"I'm being childish?" Harry laughed, the sound bitter and harsh in the quiet courtyard. "You're the one who's been acting like I don't exist. What did I do, Tom? What did I do that was so terrible you couldn't even look at me?"

"You didn't do anything." The words came out clipped, precise.

"Then why—"

"Because I can't!" The words burst from Tom with unexpected violence, his control fracturing. He turned away sharply, one hand rising to press against his temple as though fighting off a headache. His shoulders were rigid beneath his robes, every line of his body screaming tension. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, strained, as though each word was being dragged from somewhere deep inside him. "I can't look at you without wanting to—" He cut himself off, his shoulders rigid beneath his robes.

Harry's anger wavered, confusion bleeding through the hot rush of emotion. His heart was pounding, his breath coming faster. "Without wanting to what?"

Tom was silent for a long moment. The wind whispered through the courtyard, carrying the scent of approaching rain and the distant sounds of the castle settling into evening. Somewhere, a door slammed. Voices echoed from far away, students heading to dinner, their laughter incongruous with the tension crackling in the air between Harry and Tom. When Tom finally turned back, his face was carefully blank, every emotion locked away behind that impenetrable mask he wore so well. But his eyes—his eyes were burning with an intensity that made Harry's breath catch.

"Without wanting to touch you," Tom said, each word precise and controlled, as though he was confessing to a crime. "Without wanting to keep you. Without wanting things I have no right to want."

Harry's heart stuttered in his chest, his anger momentarily forgotten. "Tom—"

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" Tom moved closer, and there was something almost desperate in the movement, though his voice remained level, controlled. "How difficult it is to maintain any semblance of control when you're near? You walk into a room and everything else becomes irrelevant. Insignificant. There is only you." He paused, his jaw clenching. "Do you know what that's like? To have spent years building walls, constructing defenses, making myself untouchable—and then you come along and demolish all of it without even trying?"

Harry stared at him, his mind racing. He'd imagined this conversation a hundred times over the past three weeks, had rehearsed what he'd say, how he'd react. But nothing had prepared him for this—for the raw honesty in Tom's voice, for the way his carefully constructed facade was crumbling.

"Then why push me away?" Harry demanded, his own voice breaking slightly. "If you feel that way, why ignore me? Why make me feel like I was nothing to you? Do you have any idea what these past weeks have been like? Seeing you every day and having you look through me like I'm not even there?"

"Because you're not nothing." Tom's hand shot out, gripping Harry's wrist with careful intensity. His fingers were warm against Harry's skin, his touch sending electricity racing up Harry's arm. "You're everything, and that's the problem. I don't—I'm not supposed to need anyone. I've never needed anyone. But you—"

He stopped, his thumb pressing against Harry's pulse point as though measuring his heartbeat, as though reassuring himself that Harry was real and solid and here.

"But me what?" Harry whispered, his anger draining away, replaced by something more fragile, more dangerous.

Tom's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. His eyes were dark, turbulent with emotion he was struggling to contain. "You make me weak."

The confession hung between them, raw and honest and painful. Harry could see the cost of it in Tom's face, the way he looked almost angry at himself for admitting it, as though the words had been torn from him against his will.

"That's not weakness," Harry said quietly, his free hand coming up to rest against Tom's chest. He could feel Tom's heartbeat beneath his palm, rapid and strong. "That's just—that's caring about someone."

"I don't care about people, Harry. I use them. I manipulate them. I—" Tom's grip on Harry's wrist tightened fractionally, not enough to hurt but enough to ground them both. "But I can't seem to do that with you. And I've tried. God, I've tried. I've had a month trying to convince myself that you were just another distraction, another weakness to be eliminated. I've tried to reduce what I feel for you to something manageable, something I could control and compartmentalize. But I can't. Every time I see you, every time I hear your voice, every time you laugh at something Weasley says—" His voice roughened. "It's like something inside me is being torn apart."

Despite everything—the hurt, the anger, the month of misery—Harry felt a small, painful smile tug at his lips. "Sorry to be so inconvenient."

"You have no idea." Tom's free hand rose, hovering near Harry's face but not quite touching, as though he was afraid that if he made contact, he'd lose what little control he had left. "The Yule Ball is in two days."

The abrupt change of subject made Harry blink, his mind struggling to catch up. "What?" He has totally forgotten.

"Go with me." It wasn't quite a question, wasn't quite a command. Tom's voice had gone soft again, but there was an edge of something almost vulnerable beneath it, something that sounded almost like pleading. "To the ball. Go with me."

Harry's breath caught. He wanted to say yes immediately, wanted to close the distance between them and forget the past few weeks of misery, wanted to lose himself in Tom's touch and pretend none of it had happened. But the hurt was still there, still fresh, a wound that hadn't healed. He couldn't just ignore it, couldn't just pretend it didn't matter.

"Cedric asked me.” he said, watching Tom's reaction carefully.

Tom's expression went very still, every muscle in his face freezing. "Diggory."

"Yes."

"And what did you tell him?" The question was carefully neutral, but Harry could see the tension in Tom's shoulders, the way his fingers had gone rigid against Harry's wrist.

"I said I'd think about it." Harry pulled his wrist free from Tom's grip, taking a small step back. He needed the distance to think clearly, needed space between them so he could focus on something other than the magnetic pull of Tom's presence. "Why should I go with you, Tom? Give me one good reason why I should trust you not to just—disappear again the moment things get difficult."

Tom's hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles going white. For a moment, he looked lost, as though the question had genuinely stumped him, as though he'd never considered that Harry might say no. Then his expression hardened into something determined, something almost fierce.

"Because I'm asking you to," he said, his voice low and intense. "Because despite my best efforts, despite every logical reason I have to stay away from you, I can't. Because the thought of you going to that ball with Diggory—with anyone else—makes me want to do things that would get me expelled." His eyes flashed. "Because I've spent the past month in hell trying to stay away from you, and I can't do it anymore. I won't."

"That's not a reason," Harry said, even as his heart raced, even as every part of him wanted to give in. "That's just you being possessive."

"I am possessive." Tom moved closer again, and this time Harry didn't step back. Couldn't step back. "I'm possessive and selfish and I want you in ways that are probably unhealthy. I want to keep you away from everyone else. I want to mark you as mine so thoroughly that no one else would dare approach you. I want—" He stopped, his jaw working. "But I'm also—" The next words seemed to physically pain him. "I'm also sorry."

Harry stared at him, certain he'd misheard. "What?"

"I'm sorry." Tom's voice was stiff, formal, each word carefully enunciated as though he was speaking a foreign language. But there was sincerity beneath it, raw and real. "For ignoring you. For making you feel as though you were insignificant when you're anything but. For being a coward about this—about us. You deserved better than that. You deserved an explanation, a conversation, something other than silence and avoidance. You deserved—" He paused, his expression flickering with something that might have been self-loathing. "You deserved better than me running away because I was too afraid to face what I was feeling."

It wasn't a perfect apology. Tom delivered it like he was confessing to a crime, his pride clearly smarting, every word seeming to cost him. But it was real, and Harry could see the effort it took, could see the way Tom's hands were trembling slightly at his sides.

"You hurt me," Harry said quietly, needing Tom to understand, needing him to know the full weight of what he'd done. "These past few weeks—I thought I'd done something wrong. I thought you regretted what happened between us. I thought—" His voice cracked. "I thought maybe I'd imagined how you felt, that maybe I'd read too much into it. That maybe to you, it was just—I don't know. An experiment. A distraction."

"Never." The word was immediate, fierce, almost violent in its intensity. Tom closed the remaining distance between them, his hands coming up to frame Harry's face. "I've regretted many things in my life, Harry, but touching you isn't one of them. Being with you isn't one of them. What happened between us—" He paused, his thumbs brushing across Harry's cheekbones. "It was the most real thing I've ever experienced. And that terrified me."

Harry's resolve was crumbling. He could feel it, the way his anger was giving way to something softer, more dangerous. The way his body was leaning into Tom's touch despite his mind's protests. "If I say yes—if I go to the ball with you—you can't do this again. You can't just shut me out when things get complicated or when you get scared. We have to talk about things. We have to—"

"I won't." Tom reached out slowly, giving Harry time to pull away. When he didn't, Tom's fingers brushed against his cheek, the touch feather-light, reverent. "I can't promise I'll be good at this. At—whatever this is between us. I can't promise I won't make mistakes or that I'll always know the right thing to say. But I can promise I'll try. I can promise I won't run away again, no matter how much it scares me."

"Try harder than you did these past few weeks," Harry said, but there was no real heat in it anymore. His anger had burned itself out, leaving behind only exhaustion and a fragile, tentative hope.

"I will." Tom's thumb traced along Harry's cheekbone, his touch reverent despite the intensity in his eyes. "Say yes, Harry. Come to the ball with me. Please. Let me—let me try to do this properly. Let me prove to you that I can be what you need."

Harry's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, overwhelmed by the sensation of Tom's touch, by the raw honesty in his voice, by the weight of everything that had passed between them. When he opened them again, Tom was watching him with an expression that was almost tender, all his usual masks stripped away.

"Okay," Harry whispered. "Yes. I'll go with you."

Something in Tom's face transformed. The careful control didn't disappear entirely—Harry suspected it never would, that it was too fundamental to who Tom was—but it softened, warmth bleeding through the cracks. Relief flooded his features, so profound that Harry realized Tom had genuinely been afraid he'd say no. "Thank you."

"Don't make me regret it."

"I'll do my best." Tom's hand slid from Harry's cheek to cup the back of his neck, drawing him closer with gentle insistence. "Though I should warn you—I'm not planning to share you. At all. Diggory will need to find another date."

"Possessive," Harry murmured, but he was smiling now, his hands coming up to rest against Tom's chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his palms.

"Extremely." Tom's voice had dropped to a low rumble, his gaze fixed on Harry's lips with an intensity that made Harry's breath catch. "I don't share what's mine."

"I'm not—"

"You are." Tom's other hand settled on Harry's waist, pulling him flush against him. Harry could feel the warmth of Tom's body through their robes, could feel the tension thrumming through him. "You've been mine since that first night in the library. Since you looked at me like you could see past all my carefully constructed masks. Since you made me feel something other than ambition and cold calculation. Since you made me want something more than power and control."

Harry's breath hitched, his fingers curling into Tom's robes. "Tom—"

"I'm not good at this," Tom continued, his forehead coming to rest against Harry's. His breath was warm against Harry's skin, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "At feelings. At vulnerability. At letting someone see the parts of me I usually keep hidden. But with you, I want to try. I want to be—" He paused, as though the next words were being dragged from somewhere deep inside him, from a place he usually kept locked away. "I want to be someone worthy of you."

"You already are," Harry said softly, his hand coming up to cup Tom's face. "You're just too stubborn to see it."

Tom made a sound that might have been a laugh, though it came out more like an exhale, shaky and uncertain. "Only you would think that, Potter. Only you would look at me—at all my flaws and darkness and capacity for cruelty—and see something worth—"

He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he closed the remaining distance between them and kissed Harry.

It wasn't like their previous kisses—hurried and desperate, stolen in dark corners where no one could see, always tinged with the fear of discovery. This was deliberate, almost careful, as though Tom was trying to communicate everything he couldn't say with words. His lips moved against Harry's with a tenderness that made Harry's chest ache, one hand still cradling the back of his neck while the other pressed against the small of his back, holding him close.

Harry melted into it, his fingers curling tighter into Tom's robes as he kissed back with equal intensity. All the hurt and anger and longing of the past three weeks poured into that kiss, transforming into something sweeter, something that felt almost like hope. Tom's lips were soft against his, moving with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the desperate grip of his hands. Harry could taste the salt of tears—his own, he realized distantly—and the faint bitterness of the tea Tom must have drunk earlier.

Tom's hand slid up from Harry's back to tangle in his hair, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Harry made a soft sound in the back of his throat, pressing closer, needing to eliminate every inch of space between them. Tom responded immediately, his arm tightening around Harry's waist, pulling him impossibly closer until Harry could feel every line of Tom's body against his own.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Tom rested his forehead against Harry's again. His eyes were closed, his expression more peaceful than Harry had ever seen it, all the usual tension and calculation smoothed away.

"I meant what I said," Tom murmured, his breath ghosting across Harry's lips. "About needing you. About you being everything."

"I know." Harry's hand came up to cup Tom's face, his thumb brushing across his cheekbone. Tom's skin was warm beneath his touch, and Harry could feel the slight tremor running through him. "I need you too. Even when you're being an impossible, emotionally constipated git."

Tom's lips quirked into a small smile, his eyes opening to meet Harry's. "Emotionally constipated?"

"Extremely."

"Fair enough." Tom opened his eyes, and the warmth in them made Harry's heart skip. There was something vulnerable in his expression, something raw and unguarded that Tom rarely let anyone see. "I'll work on that."

"You'd better." Harry leaned up to press a quick kiss to Tom's lips, soft and sweet. "Because I'm not going through another month of you ignoring me. Next time, we talk about it. Next time, you come to me instead of running away."

"Next time, we talk about it," Tom agreed, his arms tightening around Harry as though he was reluctant to let go, as though he was afraid Harry might disappear if he loosened his grip. "Though preferably there won't be a next time."

"Preferably."

They stood there for a long moment, wrapped in each other's arms as the last light faded from the sky. The courtyard had grown quiet around them, the castle settling into evening. Somewhere in the distance, Harry could hear the faint sounds of students heading to dinner, their voices and laughter carrying on the wind. But here, in this small pocket of space, it was just the two of them, and nothing else mattered.

Tom's hand moved slowly up and down Harry's back, the gesture almost absent-minded, as though he was memorizing the feel of Harry in his arms. His other hand remained tangled in Harry's hair, his fingers occasionally tightening as though to reassure himself that Harry was real. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper, so quiet that Harry had to strain to hear it.

"I've never felt this way about anyone before. I don't—I don't quite know what to do with it."

Harry pulled back slightly to look at him, seeing the vulnerability in Tom's face, the uncertainty that he usually hid so well behind masks of confidence and control. His dark eyes were wide, almost lost, and Harry's heart clenched at the sight. "We'll figure it out together," he said, his hand coming up to brush a strand of dark hair from Tom's forehead. "That's what people do when they care about each other. They figure it out. They make mistakes and they learn and they try again."

Tom nodded slowly, his hand coming up to tuck a strand of Harry's perpetually messy hair behind his ear. His fingers lingered there, tracing the shell of Harry's ear with a gentleness that made Harry shiver. "Together, then."

"Together."

Tom kissed him again, softer this time, almost chaste. It was a promise, Harry thought, a commitment sealed with the press of lips. 

When Tom pulled back, there was a hint of his usual smirk playing at his lips, though it was softer than usual, less sharp. "I suppose we should go to dinner before people start wondering where we are."

"Probably." Harry made no move to step away, his arms still wrapped around Tom's waist. "Though I'm not sure I care what people think right now."

"Neither am I." Tom's smirk widened slightly, some of his usual confidence returning. "But I do want to make it clear to Diggory that you're no longer available. Preferably by walking into the Great Hall with you."

Harry laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks, genuine joy bubbling up in his chest. "You really are possessive."

"I warned you." Tom finally, reluctantly, loosened his hold on Harry, though he kept one hand linked with his, their fingers intertwining naturally. "Come on. Let's go make our relationship status abundantly clear to the entire school."

"Subtle as always, Riddle."

"Subtlety is overrated, darling.” Tom tugged Harry toward the courtyard entrance, his fingers laced firmly with Harry's. "Besides, I've spent these  weeks being subtle and miserable. I'm done with that."

As they walked together through the archway and into the castle proper, Harry felt something settle in his chest—something warm and right and real. Tom's hand was solid in his, his presence steady at his side. The past month had been painful, a special kind of torture that Harry wouldn't wish on anyone. But maybe they'd needed that. Maybe they'd needed to fall apart a little to understand how much they needed to stay together. Maybe they'd needed to face the possibility of losing each other to realize what they had was worth fighting for.

The castle corridors were mostly empty, the other students already in the Great Hall for dinner. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls, a steady rhythm that matched the beating of Harry's heart. Tom's thumb traced absent patterns on the back of Harry's hand, a small gesture that sent warmth spreading through Harry's chest.

"Tom?" Harry said as they approached the Great Hall, the sound of hundreds of voices growing louder with each step.

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For apologizing. For being honest with me. For—" Harry paused, searching for the right words. "For being brave enough to come find me."

Tom stopped walking, turning to face Harry fully. In the torchlight of the corridor, his features were softer, more open than usual. The masks he usually wore had fallen away, leaving behind something raw and real. "Thank you for giving me another chance. For seeing something in me worth saving. For not giving up on me even when I gave you every reason to."

"Always," Harry said simply, the word a vow.

Tom's expression flickered with something deep and intense, something that looked almost like awe. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Harry's forehead, lingering there for a moment before pulling back. His lips were warm against Harry's skin, the gesture tender in a way that made Harry's throat tight with emotion.

"Ready to scandalize the school?" Tom asked, a hint of his usual arrogance creeping back into his voice, though it was tempered now with something softer.

Harry grinned, squeezing Tom's hand. "With you? Always."

They walked into the Great Hall hand in hand, and if the entire student body turned to stare, neither of them particularly cared. The noise level dropped dramatically as hundreds of eyes fixed on them, conversations dying mid-sentence. Harry could feel the weight of their stares, could hear the whispers starting up, but Tom's grip on his hand was possessive and sure, and Harry squeezed back just as firmly.

Tom won’t get off the hook so easily, actually Harry will make it hell bent for Tom, but they’ll figure this out. Together.

And for the first time in past couple weeks, Harry felt like everything might actually be okay.