Work Text:
Tom heard the bells before he even reached the Great Hall for breakfast that morning.
He didn’t see the mistletoe at first. What caught his attention instead were two Slytherins snogging enthusiastically in the middle of the corridor, entirely oblivious to their surroundings and so absorbed in one another that Tom very nearly collided with them head-on. The sharp, misplaced clinking of bells barely registered as he navigated around their limbs and robes, inwardly disapproving of such unnecessary public displays of affection.
Before breakfast, no less, which felt particularly egregious.
It didn't end there, though. The next couple came into view only a few steps later, kissing and giggling without a shred of shame, and that was when Tom finally saw it. Hovering above their heads was what appeared to be a spring of mistletoe, bobbing slightly in the air with several small bells tied to it, spreading the sound down the corridor and straight into Tom’s skull, where it immediately made his temple throb.
And three steps later, yet more bells.
This time it was two Ravenclaws, kissing with earnest, slightly awkward enthusiasm, then a Hufflepuff and a Gryffindor just past the turn in the corridor, and suddenly Tom was surrounded by noise and laughter and movement, bells chiming from every direction as students stopped short, pulled away, or leaned in, all of it accompanied by running commentary from anyone close enough to witness it.
"—did you hear? The Weasley twins invented it!"
"Brilliant magic, honestly. It only appears if both people want to kiss each other and—"
"How does it even know that?"
Tom’s lip curled despite himself. Wonderful. Exactly what Hogwarts needed, and of course it had arrived in the form of a Weasley invention, because who else would take genuinely impressive magical innovation and waste it on something so frivolous?
He picked up his pace, heading toward the Great Hall with growing determination. He had OWLs to prepare for. A Transfiguration essay due next week, an Arithmancy problem set that was already eating into his patience, a stack of Potions notes he still intended to reorganise properly, and a meeting with Professor Slughorn later that evening that he had absolutely no intention of missing. He did not have time for whatever nonsense this was.
So he walked faster. He dodged people. More bells chimed somewhere behind him. He did not look, nearly hoping that might make them fade away.
The Great Hall was somehow worse, though.
Students kept glancing upward like they expected something to materialise above them at any moment, mistletoe popped into existence seemingly at random, and the constant chiming of bells turned the entire room into a festive cacophony. Every few seconds there was yet another clear ring of sound, followed by scattered applause, catcalls, or loud groans as another pair either leaned in to kiss or hurriedly scrambled apart.
Tom sat at the Slytherin table in a state of tightly contained frustration. Naturally, everyone noticed.
Pansy glanced up from her toast, her eyes flicking to his face for barely half a second before she smirked. “Someone’s in a mood.”
“It’s eight in the morning,” Tom replied, still aiming for casual and missing the mark as he poured himself tea with aggressive precision, “and I have already been subjected to three separate incidents of public indecency. The corridors are a disgrace.”
"Oh, lighten up," Blaise said, grinning. "I reckon it's quite festive."
“It’s rather entertaining,” Pansy agreed. “Public humiliation never gets old.”
Draco frowned. “It's rather invasive, actually. Completely inappropriate.”
"It's kind of impressive, though," Theo interrupted. "The spellwork must be absurdly complex. Like—you’ve got detection of mutual romantic interest—”
“Allegedly,” Draco interjected.
“And there’s also some sort of a proximity trigger,” Theo continued anyway, “and a vanishing mechanism on top of that, and—"
"It's a waste," Tom cut in, flat and final. "They could have made something useful. Instead, they've turned the castle into—"
The doors to the Great Hall opened. Tom’s sentence died mid-word. His hand froze halfway to his teacup.
Of course, the doors opened and closed constantly during breakfast, that was nothing out of the ordinary, but Harry Potter walked in right then, his hair an absolute disaster, his tie crooked as usual, his robes somehow already rumpled like he slept in them. He looked like he'd rolled out of bed five minutes ago, shoved on the nearest clothes, and called it good enough.
And Tom couldn’t stop looking.
He didn’t plan to. He simply failed to look away. His thoughts stalled, his irritation evaporated, and the bells and voices and general chaos faded into something distant and unimportant.
As if on cue, Harry’s gaze swept the Great Hall, then landed on the Slytherin table. Then on Tom, precisely.
Then he smiled, that bright and effortless smile that did something uncomfortable to Tom's chest, something Tom was perfectly content not to examine, and lifted a hand in a casual wave.
And Tom’s hand, which had been completely still only a moment before, betrayed him by twitching and lifting in return. His face felt inexplicably hot.
Harry’s grin widened at that, clearly pleased, before he turned and carried on toward the Gryffindor table, and Tom found himself watching him go, a beat longer than necessary.
“Potter?” Draco’s voice cut in sharply, shattering the moment. “Why is Potter still waving at you?”
Tom promptly remembered how to breathe. His hands itched for something to do, so he grabbed his teacup, took a sip, and burned his tongue. “I've told you already, we worked on that assignment together,” he said, a touch too quickly. “Transfiguration.”
That much, at least, was true. McGonagall had paired them with an expression that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing, a faint glint in her eye that had made Tom brace for the most catastrophic hit his academic record could possibly take. Except that didn’t happen. Of course it didn’t. Harry turned out to be competent, quick to grasp theory, and far more pleasant to work with than Tom anticipated. On top of that, he was relentlessly friendly about it, the sort of person who remembered conversations and habits Tom had mentioned only once, in passing, and sought Tom out again afterward, entirely unprompted, and invited—
"That was weeks ago," Draco said, frowning.
“And?” Pansy cut in lightly. “That's quite clever, actually. Someone like Potter could prove useful, given he's—”
Tom didn’t hear the rest, because he couldn’t.
Because Harry reached the Gryffindor table, took his usual seat beside Weasley, then immediately leaned over to steal food from his plate, and Weasley, that foolish brute, shoved him away with unnecessary force, but Harry laughed and did it again anyway.
Tom’s fingers tightened around his teacup. He realised, belatedly, that he had stopped breathing. Again. Voices buzzed around him, overlapping with excited commentary about the mistletoe, how it appeared above people who sat close together and apparently wanted to kiss, and Tom told himself, very clearly, not to think about it, not to consider what that might mean, and certainly not to look above Harry.
Instead, his eyes flicked upward at once, as if on instinct, fixed on the empty space above Harry and Weasley’s heads, which were uncomfortably close for some reason, waiting for it, for the bells, for the confirmation that could come at literally any moment.
However, the moment stretched, then passed. Nothing appeared. Tom exhaled slowly, some of the tension draining from him, though the feeling it left behind was unclear.
Next to him, someone was still talking animatedly. It might’ve been Blaise, or Draco, or possibly Pansy again, their voices overlapping in the familiar way they did when they argued about something trivial, but Tom only caught fragments, words without context, because this wasn’t over yet. Not at all.
Because Harry had only started eating.
He was laughing as he talked, leaning across the table, stealing food or gesturing with his fork, listening to Granger, across from him, with his head tipped slightly, or nudging Weasley, who responded with the delicacy of a sledgehammer. And every time Harry shifted closer to someone, every time he laughed and leaned in, Tom felt his chest tighten.
Which meant nothing, obviously. Harry had become an unlikely friend, and Tom was simply observant. Curious, perhaps, but only in the way one naturally was with people they spent time with. It would’ve been stranger not to notice the way Harry was unfailingly kind to everyone, how he listened as if he genuinely cared, how easily he laughed, how effortlessly he made the space around him feel lighter, how—
“Tom.”
He blinked. Someone had said his name.
“Yes,” he replied automatically, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to.
Blaise was looking at him strangely. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
“I was listening perfectly well,” Tom lied, but whatever sliver of attention he had reserved for those next to him vanished the moment Harry stood up.
Because there were people everywhere, sitting or standing or moving about, and Tom’s eyes fought to keep track of anyone moving too close, because there was always someone too close, always someone laughing too loudly or shifting into Harry’s space, and Harry—
Harry seemed to simply pause beside Weasley. Then Granger appeared next to them a few moments later, because of course she did, then slid neatly into the space between them. She touched Harry’s arm as she spoke, leaning in close, as if she thought she had some claim on him.
And Tom’s stomach dropped.
Because he’d heard the rumours. Everyone had. Harry and Granger, Harry and Weasley, or even some unholy combination of all three, depending on who you asked and how bored they were. Really, it was Harry and anyone who stood within reasonable distance of him for longer than ten seconds, but it was mostly these two, his eternal shadows, following him around like particularly loyal house-elves.
And Weasley might’ve already been out of the equation, but Granger wasn't. If anything, she was the favoured one, at least where the rumours were concerned.
So Tom couldn’t help the way his gaze lifted immediately, fixed on the space above Harry and Granger’s heads, bracing himself for the sound of bells, for hovering green mistletoe, for whatever this confirmation was supposed to feel like.
Then the bells chimed.
Tom’s heart lurched painfully, a sharp, unfamiliar sensation blooming in his chest before he had time to identify it, a hollow sort of ache that felt uncomfortably like something breaking.
Then he blinked.
The mistletoe wasn’t above Harry.
It hovered over Granger and Weasley instead, bells chiming brightly as Weasley froze, then turned red, and Granger let out an exasperated sound that was very clearly a laugh.
Around them, people seemed to notice quickly. Someone wolf-whistled. Someone else clapped. Weasley stammered. Granger rolled her eyes and leaned in, quick and decisive, and the mistletoe clinked for a few more seconds before vanishing.
And Tom exhaled, sharply, the breath leaving him all at once as if he had been holding it far longer than he realised.
Across the Hall, Harry chose that exact moment to glance back toward the Slytherin table for no apparent reason, caught Tom looking, and smiled. Tom looked away immediately and focused on his food instead, eating far too quickly, because this was clearly not something worth dwelling on. He was also fairly certain he would need the energy later.
Indeed, the rest of the day unfolded like some sort of elaborate psychological torture.
At first, Tom made it through Potions without incident, though he spent the entire double period acutely aware of Harry's presence three tables over. The fact that Harry kept glancing in his direction with that stupidly pleased expression certainly didn’t help, though. Neither did the fact that Tom's stirring rhythm became erratic every time it happened, nearly ruining what should’ve been a textbook Draught of Peace.
Still, the corridor afterward was worse.
Of course, Tom first waited a sensible amount of time before leaving the classroom. He lingered just long enough to appear purposeful, reviewed absolutely nothing on his parchment, then rifled through his bag with unnecessary care, all while allowing everyone else to file out ahead of him.
By the time he stepped into the corridor, he was fairly confident most people were already on their way to their next class.
Instead, he immediately froze.
Harry was standing just a few feet away, laughing about something, and beside him, as if conjured by malice alone, was Ginny Weasley.
Tom’s stomach dropped.
He stopped walking without quite meaning to, his mind already racing ahead, bracing for the sound of bells, for the hovering mistletoe, for the confirmation he’d been dreading all morning and absolutely refused to examine properly. He’d heard the rumours, after all. Harry and the youngest Weasley, on and off, something in the past, something unresolved, something that people liked to talk about far too much, with great confidence and very little actual evidence.
And really, Tom thought, she was clearly inferior. Loud, brash, and entirely unremarkable in all the ways that mattered. Whatever appeal she might’ve held was deeply baffling, particularly when compared to—
He cut that thought off sharply. He lifted his gaze instead, fixed once more on the empty space above their heads, waiting.
Then nothing happened. No bells. No mistletoe.
Tom exhaled slowly, the tension loosening, only to be replaced almost immediately by something else he had no intention of naming.
The feeling was short lived, though.
Because Harry turned mid-sentence, caught sight of him, and lit up instantly, unmistakably. He said something to Weasley, stepped away, and then jogged toward Tom with that same easy energy, closing the distance far too quickly.
Tom usually had excellent reflexes. This time, they failed him. Still, by the time Harry reached him, Tom had managed to take a couple of steps back, putting some distance between them that felt necessary.
Harry didn’t seem to notice. “Hey,” he said, grinning like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”
Which made absolutely no sense, because they’d seen each other at breakfast, and then during Potions, not five minutes ago. Still, Tom couldn’t help the way his pulse did something deeply inconvenient.
Ignoring it, he straightened, schooling his expression into something neutral and collected. "Was there something you wanted?"
Harry’s smile only widened. “I was wondering what you're up to this weekend,” he said easily. “You know—it’s the last one before the holidays. I thought maybe we could go to Hogsmeade together and—”
He stepped closer.
Tom panicked. “I’m late,” he interrupted, taking a deliberate step backward. Then another. “Arithmancy. Across the castle. I really should—”
“Oh.” Harry’s face fell, just slightly, before he recovered with another smile. “Right—yeah, of course. Later, then? I was thinking we could—”
“Perhaps,” Tom said, already turning away. “I’ll check my schedule.”
He left before Harry could say anything else, heart racing, and made his way to the Arithmancy classroom on pure autopilot.
He sat through the lecture with his quill moving steadily across parchment, forcing his attention onto the numbers and charts and equations, deliberately pushing away the intrusive images of greenery and bells and warm, infuriatingly easy smiles.
Naturally, it did not last, and by the end of the lecture, he felt more tired than he had any right to, considering it was not even lunchtime. It quickly became apparent that the day was far from over.
Though Tom went about it as normally as he could, attending classes, moving through corridors, pretending very hard that he was not constantly on edge, Harry seemed to be everywhere at once. Tom spotted him chatting and laughing with someone new almost every time, always too close, always leaning in, always prompting Tom’s gaze to flick upward on instinct, searching for mistletoe where none had yet appeared.
In the corridor between classes, it was Finnigan, talking far too loudly and gesturing with reckless enthusiasm. Tom watched from a distance, unimpressed. Finnigan was chaotic, ill-mannered, and clearly incapable of actually understanding Harry. A spectacularly poor match, really.
At lunch, it was Lovegood. Harry listened to her with what appeared to be genuine interest, nodding along as if everything she said made perfect sense. Which, of course, couldn’t possibly be the case, because Lovegood was deeply unwell. Entirely catastrophic. Tom refused to consider the implications further.
During Herbology, it was Longbottom. They whispered over a tray of seedlings, their shoulders nearly touching. As always, Tom held his breath, eyes darting upward, heart pounding, only to be met with empty air and the faint, infuriating relief that followed. Longbottom, too, was an appalling choice, for reasons Tom didn’t need to waste time listing. Really, none of them were suitable, not at all, not when compared to—
He stopped himself again, jaw tightening. Because this was not getting any easier. If anything, it was getting worse by the minute.
Each time Harry leaned in, each time he laughed or tilted closer to someone else, Tom braced for bells, for the sudden chime that would confirm what he was dreading and refusing to name, and each time nothing happened, leaving him suspended in a state of tense, unsatisfying uncertainty.
By the time of his last class for the day, Tom was exhausted, deeply irritated, hyper-aware of every chime echoing through the castle, and no closer to understanding why this felt so intolerable. He only knew that the entire school had become a minefield, and that Harry Potter was, inexplicably, at the centre of it.
Always at the centre of it.
Ancient Runes was, mercifully, Harry-free.
Tom noticed the change immediately. He could finally relax into his seat in a way he hadn’t all day, shoulders loosening as the lecture began, no laughter drifting too close, no leaning, no instinctive glances upward.
And for a full fifty minutes, nothing catastrophic happened.
By the time the class ended, Tom felt almost like himself again, refreshed by the absence of bells, greenery, and the constant vigilance the rest of the day had required. He gathered his things with renewed purpose and stepped into the corridor, already thinking about dinner and his meeting with Professor Slughorn afterward.
And then he stopped short.
Harry was leaning against the wall just outside the classroom, hands shoved casually into his pockets, expression brightening the moment he spotted Tom.
Tom’s stomach dropped.
“What are you doing here?” he asked at once, taking an unconscious step back.
Harry straightened, clearly amused. “Nice to see you, too.”
“You don’t take Ancient Runes,” Tom pointed out, which was stupid, because Harry obviously hadn't been in the classroom, but he didn't know what else to say.
“I know,” Harry replied easily. Then he added, like it was obvious, “I was just waiting for you. Feels like I've barely seen you all day.”
Which was completely untrue. Tom had seen Harry entirely too much. Or perhaps not too much, just in the wrong contexts. Under the wrong circumstances entirely. Still, he crossed his arms, maintaining a careful distance between them. “I was busy.”
“Right,” Harry said, tilting his head slightly, studying him. “Is everything alright?”
Tom bristled. “Of course.”
Harry hummed, unconvinced. "You seemed—a bit off today. Thought maybe you were avoiding me."
"I'm not avoiding you," Tom replied immediately. "I've simply had a full schedule."
Harry's smile was soft and knowing. "Sure. I suppose you're not too busy to walk to dinner, though?"
Tom hesitated. He could, in theory, refuse. Still, he didn’t. “I suppose not.”
They fell into step together, or rather, Harry did. Tom remained precisely a step and a half away, acutely aware of the narrowing corridor, adjusting his pace each time Harry drifted closer, careful to maintain what he considered a sensible amount of space.
They were nearing the Great Hall. This would be over in moments. They would eat, separately of course, and then Harry would go his merry way, and Tom would go to his meeting, and he would no longer have to watch Harry lean too close to Lovegood or laugh at Finnigan's terrible jokes or listen with undeserved patience to people who couldn't possibly appreciate—
Harry stopped.
Tom halted immediately, tension coiling tight in his shoulders. “What is it?”
Harry stepped closer.
Tom stepped back, reflexive, immediate.
Harry narrowed his eyes, studying him for a moment, then laughed, soft and not unkind. “You know,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “you’ve been doing that all day.”
“Doing what?”
“That,” Harry said, taking a deliberate step forward, closing the distance again.
Tom’s heart pounded. He tried to take a step back, instinctive, but his shoulders hit the wall. “I don’t know what you—”
Bells chimed overhead.
Tom froze.
Slowly, reluctantly, afraid it might be some sort of mix-up and not what it seemed, he looked up. And there it was. Green mistletoe, hovering above them, swaying gently. The bells echoed down the corridor, bright and cheerful and unmistakable.
Harry burst out laughing. “Well,” he said, a few moments later, still grinning, “I suppose that answers that.”
Tom swallowed, hard. “Answers what?”
Harry leaned in, close enough now that Tom could see the faint red creeping into the tips of his ears. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
"You absolutely are," Harry insisted, and suddenly he was closer than ever, the bells chiming again as if in response, louder this time.
And yes, Tom was fairly certain his face had turned a violent shade of red, considering how hot it felt, but he wasn’t about to admit that. Because Harry was definitely blushing, too. Tom could see it clearly now, the pink spreading from his ears to his cheeks, and he wanted to point that out, but Harry didn’t give him enough time to formulate any sort of clever response, because he leaned in, giving Tom just enough time to realise what was going to happen, then kissed him.
It was gentle and brief and devastating, and Tom’s mind short-circuited entirely. He could only kiss Harry back, because of course he would, without thought, without hesitation, and the bells above them chimed again, delighted, and Tom felt dizzy with it, with the warmth of Harry's mouth against his.
When Harry pulled back, his smile was downright smug. “Well,” he said. “Thanks for the confirmation.”
Tom stared at him, stunned. “You—you knew?”
Harry shrugged, still grinning. “I had a suspicion.”
“A suspicion,” Tom echoed faintly.
“Well,” Harry added, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I might've told Fred and George that mistletoe would make for an interesting bit of magic. You know, just a thought I had.”
Tom made a strangled sound. “You what?”
Harry laughed again, kissed him once more, quick and sweet, just as the mistletoe vanished overhead. “Come on, then. Dinner?”
Tom took a steadying breath, heart still racing, mind spinning, but when Harry offered his hand, he took it, distantly aware that he would need to re-evaluate several assumptions he'd made today. Along with the relief he'd felt when the mistletoe finally appeared, and the far worse realisation of how much he'd feared it wouldn’t.
Preferably tomorrow.