Chapter 3
Tom almost inhales his breakfast. That first bite had been enough to send his hunger into overdrive.
Harry pretends to busy himself making them some tea but Tom catches each time those eyes flicker over before he drags them back to the kettle. Tom pretends not to have noticed.
The edge of his fork scrapes away every last crumb and bit of cream. He only barely stops himself from licking up the fruit juices like some wild, ill-mannered thing raised in a jungle.
He sets the plate down before he can make a fool of himself, but it rises and floats over to the sink, dunking itself into the foamy cleaning solution.
He almost wishes Harry would ask him if he'd like another serving, not that he has enough space for a single bite, but even so, Tom would like to be given the option.
Harry, however, turns to him with a little teacup full of piping hot tea, the steam curling up into a ball just over the rim. "Would you like a cup of tea? I think we have just enough time for one." He throws up a wandless tempus which reads twelve twenty-seven.
"And maybe a question or two? You only had about a million of them before breakfast." Tom's heart quickens at the way Harry's face looks when teasing him.
His lips quirk up in the most charming way, and those beautifully bright eyes only seem to get brighter.
Questions? Yes, he had plenty of those, but more important curiosities were rearing their heads now, like how did Harry's hair manage to look both artful and messy at the same time? And would it feel as soft as it looked were Tom to reach out with his fingers.
"Tom?" Harry's questioning tone shakes him out of his trance, especially as he continues with, "Are you okay? Feeling a little dizzy? Did you eat too fast?"
"I'm fine," Tom grinds out, his earlier thoughts falling to a halt.
What in Slytherin's name...
He turns back to Harry, recalling his words from earlier. "I do have questions."
Harry nods and conjures an armchair with a wave of his wand . He settles in, teacup in hand, gesturing for Tom to begin.
It feels kind of awkward, since he's still at the counter and his face is too visible to this man he still knows nothing about.
"Where are we, exactly? Are we still in Britain?" Still in range of the bombs, he wants to ask, but doesn't.
"In the countryside. Closer to Scotland than you'd think. When you're feeling up to it I'll give you a tour. The grounds are lovely." His eyes narrow onto Tom's face, then he adds, "And extensively warded."
Tom tries his best to hide the overwhelming relief he feels at the words, but he's not quite sure he's succeeded.
He tries to bury it under another question, "How did you find me...last night? Why were you at King's Cross? Didn't you hear about the Blitz on the radio?"
Harry eyes narrow, "Why were you out last night? What were you up to at King's Cross a day early?" Tom looks away, but there is nowhere to hide. "Didn't you hear about the Blitz on the radio?"
It sounds at once scolding, accusatory, and yet, oh so full of worry, Tom can't find it in himself to take any offence.
But neither can he tell this beautiful stranger what he had really been up to last night, for it would only get him pity, or revulsion, or maybe even a mix of both.
And he had found enough of that at Hogwarts, he had no desire to taint any other areas of his life with that brush.
So he keeps quiet as he had earlier and waits for Harry to break first.
Holding that gaze is no less strenuous than sprinting would have been—perhaps even more intense—even if it can't leave Tom actually panting.
The moment Harry's face breaks into a smile, Tom snatches his gaze away to the clouds again. Short bursts are all he's capable of, it had been so close to unbearable Tom had almost given in himself.
"If you must know," he starts off in a pretentious tone, but his smile still betrays him. "I thought a muggle club would be more fun this New Year's Eve; Sosite Alley's only getting worse each year."
Tom studies him with just as much intensity, yet he does not know what to make of Harry's face as he loses that smile and..."I was going to floo home. I'd had like six pints and didn't want to splinch myself. I," he stops, then runs his eyes over Tom's form as though he were marking off a checklist, "I heard you. Your—your magic, calling for help. I followed, I saw you, I–" he grips the armrest with his free hand and takes a deep breath.
When he speaks again, his tone has changed, "You know what happened after that. I used a spell and blood-replenishing potions, and my mother used a healing salve and applied the temporary dressing. She also changed your clothes, I hope you don't mind, yours were...quite drenched in blood." Tom doesn't know what to make of it either.
He's barely noticed the clothes, or the feather-light tug he can now feel against his skin, from what can only be the bandages Harry's referring to.
This day had been entirely disorienting, and it had only been an hour.
"Thanks," Tom says in a measured tone, unable to come up with any more than that singular, monosyllabic word.
Not that he can really tell one of Harry's faces from another, but Tom is pretty sure that flash of emotion had been anger; only, it is gone too quick for any real comparison.
Perhaps Harry expected Tom to completely fall at his feet, for having saved him when he really didn't have to bother. As if he had done Tom some huge favour with these actions instead of just prolonging the inevitable.
Maybe he expected Tom to be eager to repay the debt this left him in, but truly, Tom could not care less. If this Harry Potter wanted something from him, he would have to fight tooth and nail to get it.
Tom would not voluntarily give up a thing.
Still, he needs to bring it up himself, if only to maintain the upper hand.
"So," he starts, drawing Harry's attention away from his tea, "about that life-debt. You should know...I don't have much, and you probably don't want anything to do with what I do have. You...live...here." He gestures around to the open space.
"I," he has to choke the words out, but there's no point in lying either, "I live in an orphanage."
"Tom," there's the pity he's been dreading. Much worse than he imagined it would feel. "It's totally fine, you don't owe me anything, really. As long as you promise to take care of yourself and get better, you can consider this 'life-debt' to me paid in full."
And what...does he mean...by that...
"You..." but Tom doesn't know where that sentence is going himself. He looks away again.
Harry does not press him further, instead refocusing on his tea. Only, he seems to be uncomfortable with even the mention of silence, for he breaks it after only a sip.
"You never did answer me earlier," Tom turns to him curiously, "would you like a cup of tea?"
It's not what Tom expected him to say, but perhaps it would be better if he had something else to focus his attention on, something apart from the puzzle—with eyes that perceive too much—who sits before him.
"Sure," he says, even though he never really drinks tea, or anything classified as addictive. He values his control too much to sacrifice even a portion of it. It's also why Harry's earlier question had been funnier than Tom can explain.
And yet, he cannot deny his curiosity. Yes, he is more interested in ascertaining the reason it appealed to Harry than taste, but either way, two birds and all that.
"How do you want it?" Harry says from just beside him, back at the counter to pour his cup.
Tom looks at the steaming, dark brown liquid and then back at his saviour, now playing the role of secretary. Tom wants to laugh again. "Surprise me," he says instead, and Harry's eyes find his own quite sharply.
At least they can both surprise the other, it would be terribly unfair if Harry had held all the power of such powerful emotion.
"Here you go," he says, handing Tom a now light brown, almost caramel shade of liquid in a twin cup to his own; surprisingly lighter than Tom had expected it to be.
Yes, the intensity of Harry's eyes as he watches Tom take his first sip prickles in an uncomfortable manner, but it's not like he could just tell the man to stop staring either.
Not if he was doing it unintentionally, and Tom bringing it up would all but guarantee even more awkward future interactions between them if so.
Not that Tom's planning on having much in terms of interaction with the strange man he only knows by name and the way he felt when holding Tom against his chest.
Not that he had tried to pay much attention to that.
The tea is just shy of scalding, but that is just the temperature Tom likes his hot beverages at anyway, so he lets it flood over his tongue in a heady swirl of sweetness melded with the earthy and lightly bitter notes; lets it ease his anxiety.
It is more delicious than he had ever imagined it being, and quite understandable that it would be categorised as addictive. Tom wanted three more cups.
He sets his own down and turns back to Harry.
Harry who has not looked away even now, engaging him in another battle of wills.
Tom loses this time, but at least his question reveals nothing he did not intend it to. "What spell did you use?"
"Hmm?"
"You said you used a spell to close me back up, before you side along-ed me here." Then, as he comes to another realization, "Wait, didn't you say you were too drunk to apparate without splinching? Then how?" He trails off, face turning expectant as he waits for Harry.
"I, uh—" he looks a bit flustered at having been put on the spot, but Tom waits him out this time.
"I keep a potion just in case I need to get sober in an emergency. I," he pauses for a second, running his hand through his hair—it doesn't affect the ratio of artful to messy at all, Tom notes—and he continues with what Tom can only identify as shame, "I wasn't planning on going to bed sober yesterday, but plans change, you know."
He gives Tom a rueful grin. "Sometimes little London boys need saving, so it's good to keep a sobering potion on hand, don't you think?"
Tom blinks at him, entirely speechless, and saved from an uncontrolled response by the well-timed arrival of a glowing doe. "She's on her way up now, Harry," is all it says before it disappears.
Harry hasn't moved back to his conjured chair yet, still leaning against the marble countertop only inches away from Tom. "Let's go? Although, I'm sure she wouldn't mind waiting a few minutes, if you wanted to finish your tea."
Truth be told, Tom wants to remain in this room for the rest of his life, so it is no surprise when he asks Harry, "Do you think you could leave it under stasis for after?"
Harry smiles in response and draws his wand.
Only, Tom had forgotten until this point that he would have to be carried back down.