Harry
"Ugh, why does he have to be so hot", Harry starts, as his nib touches parchment but not a single sentence comes to mind.
"Mate, you've really got to stop saying that!" Ron turning slightly green at the mere suggestion, while Hermione's attention does not waver in the least, her quill maintaining its speed like the newest Firebolt.
"But Ron...", Harry turns to the only person willing to listen, no matter how reluctantly, as Ron thumps his head against the table when Harry continues. "You know its true! And especially when he leaves his collar and top button open? I mean, he does know...", he stops as Ron groans; and also, he realises where the rest of that sentence was about to go.
"Harry, please! 'Mione! Tell him to stop!"
Hermione speaks up instantly, still writing her essay. "Harry, stop talking about your crush on Professor Riddle and start working on your Potions essay. You as well, Ronald. You boys do know we have two hundred and five inches of homework to submit next week, don't you?"
Ron goes even greener, and Harry himself feels the anxiety of knowing his Defence homework was going to be pathetic, especially this week. If Professor Riddle would just close that one button, even with the collar unbuttoned, Harry would be able to pay attention once more.
As it was, all his mind managed at the moment was the fantasy of opening another button, and another, and one more...all of them...and then...
His eyes meet Hermione's exasperated brown ones, studying him as he was lost in that thought. Clearing his throat, he tries to recall her earlier words for a response; while she rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Honestly, Harry. You know the man is old enough to be your grandfather, right?" Loud enough for this whole section of the library to hear.
"Mione!", he hisses as he looks around, the tables around them are mercifully empty. What a stroke of good fortune, although, it was the weekend, and they were the only ones willingly torturing themselves. "Why don't you owl that over to the editor of the Daily Prophet?!"
She does look a bit ashamed, but this was Hermione. "You started it. I wouldn't have said anything if you didn't start waxing poetic about..."
"No I didnt!"
He barely gets it out before Ron chimes in again. "Yes, you did mate! You have a serious problem when it comes to Professor Riddle, Harry."
Umm, he doesn't need to sit here and listen to this! They just didn't understand! Professor Riddle was...
(The star of every last one of Harry's fantasies. Sex, vacations by the beach, travelling around in search of adventure, eating breakfast in bed...
He has thought about himself and 'Tom' in every way of existence he knew.)
Crumpling his parchment in his haste, he shoves all his stationery into his bag; standing up as an indignation unfurls.
Who were they to judge him? They were both hopelessly in love with each other and petrified by the thought of discovery. What did they know of relationships?
And one day, he would have Tom in every single way he has imagined; a promise to himself, as he studies them for a moment.
"I don't have a problem, and he will be mine! You'll see! Both of you!" Frustration evident at their discouragement, he walks off before they can pull him down even more.
Didn't they know that Harry was aware of how unrealistic this seemed, but he was also determined! And he was unwilling to compromise on his desire. Tom was Harry's Lily, why didn't they understand!
So frustrated is he, in fact, that he does not notice when he turns a corner and runs into a slightly taller body, all fine fabric and hard muscle. He absolutely does not realise just who it is as he channels his earlier rage, still simmering. "Can't you see I'm fucking walking he..re..."
It is Him.
Professor Riddle.
Who Harry has just cursed out!
Who is smiling at Harry in reponse?
"...I'm so sorry, Professor", he says in the same breath.
"I believe it was you that didn't see me, Mr. Potter." And Harry is about to die of embarrassment.
"...I am-so-sorry-Professor-Riddle-I-was-just-thinking-about-something-and-I didn't-see-you-and-I'm-so-sorry-and..."
"Quite alright, Mr. Potter", and Harry's sigh of relief is too soon. "If you tell me what is it that has you so lost and inattentive. And a little quick tempered, too, if I may add." The words are said in humour but the man awaits his response in all seriousness.
"Umm...well, Professor..." Quick, anything!
(Hermione's voice comes out of nowhere, "...two hundred and five inches next week...")
"Umm, you're gonna laugh, but...it's homework." Even he does not believe himself, ugh.
"Homework?" Professor Riddle's eyebrows rise in disbelief. And with good cause. It was hard to focus on lying to this man when all Harry wanted to do was get on his knees and...
"Yes!" he doubles down, "I had a terrible headache in your last class so I missed a lot of what you said. And I tried to work on my essay in the library just now but I can't seem to remember the advantages and disadvantages of...umm..." what was it again?
"Next weeks essay is on Dementors, Mr. Potter." Oh!
Well, this was a mistake. Harry is pretty well-versed with Dementors, his dad was Head of the DMLE for Merlin's sake.
"Yes, Dementors. I just can't seem to find any advantages outside of Azkaban, Professor." A decent save...if you were a terrible liar. Professor Riddle does not notice
"I did discuss the various uses of Dementor parts for potions and rituals in that class, but I understand, you were unwell. Had you let me know the day of, I would have sent you to the nurse immediately. Next time, if you are unwell, you will come straight to me. Do you understand?" He insists, as Harry nods in a whispered "Yes, Professor."
It is already quite unbelievable, but it turns even more so when Professor Riddle continues. "And I am willing to lend you my book on dementors, but I will not allow you to take it out of my library." He gives Harry a searching look. (Searching for what?) "You may come by my office after Hogsmeade tomorrow. Two hours before dinner should be sufficient, I think."
Harry needs to decline immediately. He needs to either admit his lie or offer to let Hermione fill him up on the subject later, instead. He does neither, tripping over words in his haste to get a glimpse of the Professor's elusive library. (And to have him all alone to himself.)
"Yess...I mean, yes, yes. Thank you so much for being so understanding, Professor Riddle", mercifully, he finds words apart from gloating, and they are surprisingly suitable!
"You are very welcome, Harry. And I do mean it," he continues with an unpredictability Harry is unsure about, "you may bother any time you feel unwell. My door is always open. And I leave the meaning of 'unwell' up to you to decide." A dream, Harry only grows more certain, as the Professor continues to tear him apart with those crimson eyes.
"Um, yes, I mean, yes, Professor. Thank you," he needs to stop his blubbering immediately!
Professor Riddle's smile does not go away. In fact, it only grows at his stuttering. "Twice should suffice, I think." What?
"What?", on Earth could that mean? Twice should suffice? "I mean, what do you mean, Professor?" More of that incoherent idiocy.
"A third thank you would be a bit excessive, don't you think?" Harry wishes he could apparate through Hogwarts' wards right this second. He was truly an idiot!
"Hmm-m...I guess? I do really appreciate your kindness, Professor Riddle." He can barely meet those eyes.
"And that's your last one, all used up. I will see you tomorrow then, Mr. Potter." Still smiling.
"See you tomorrow", Harry says, feeling like he's just been asked on a date, watching the professor pass him in his peripheral.
His heart is beating so loud he wonders if the professor can hear it in the closeness, because as soon as he's out of Harry's sight, he calls out. "Oh, before you go, Harry?"
His foot hangs in mid-air. "Yes, Professor?" Had he heard it then? It was truly as loud as it seemed within?
"I would appreciate it if you would refrain from using that kind of language while you remain at Hogwarts. As a prefect, it is your duty to discourage such behavior."
His heart is not fluttering away anymore, not after that. "Yes, Professor. Again, I am so sorry about that—" Shame, and a sense of humiliation seize him, before the Professor interrupts him.
"Harry?"
"Yes, Professor?"
"Had I considered it a grave enough transgression, I would have taken points. Especially from Minerva's house. Have a good night, Harry"
The sound of fading footfall breaks him out of his reverie as he realises he still has one foot off the ground.
Shaking himself out of the trance Professor Riddle always managed to send him into, Harry tries to locate himself with the portraits, but most of them are away or already snoozing and indistinguishable.
Taking his Map out of his bag, he watches as Professor Riddle's name walks its way to the man's office, and anxiety takes a hold of him again.
His office. What if Harry fucked it all up tomorrow? What if he said an inside thought out loud? He couldn't help himself from thinking them! It really wasn't his fault!
Determined to behave normally and not overthink, he walks back to Gryffindor tower; a quick shower before bed.
Where he then proceeds to spend a good three hours replaying Professor Riddle saying 'Have a good night, Harry' at the very end of their conversation. Barely managing to stop himself from giving in and wrapping his hand around a cock that was now hard and aching...
No! He had to look Professor Riddle in the eye tomorrow, he would be spending a minimum of two hours with the man, he couldn't. He shouldn't!
Sleep, when it finds him, is not enough.
The next day is spent in a sort of haze.
That he has no choice but to meet his parents is terribly unfortunate...but it was impossible to back out of their regular meeting now...but neither can he meet them! His mother's sixth sense about him is too strong for his liking!
He knows she knows from the moment he enters Madam Rosmerta's.
They say nothing to each other beside greetings for the first few minutes, before she gives in. "And what has you so worried?" Ugh, how he loved and hated her bluntness.
"Well", he hedges as he considers his options, her eyes narrow in response. James is still busy talking to a fellow Auror, as he has been since Harry entered. "You remember him?"
"Yes?", she perks up. Utterly vague, but the barest hint was too much for Mom, so what she does know amounts to nothing.
(Not that Harry was ashamed of Tom in any way! No, he just didn't want to say anything without it being real and tangible. Once he had Tom, his parents would see precisely what, or rather who, he had, and there wouldn't be any issue.)
"I think today might be day one of my two year plan." Oh, how he hopes!
"Oh?", her eyebrows rise in that way again, he can feel his heart sinking. "And may I know what the plan concludes to? What happens in the twenty-fourth month?" Ugh!
Why did she always have to—
"Nothing."
Any number of things, really. Harry would take anything. Sex. Marriage. The beginning of a relationship. The declaration of his intentions if he was finally brave enough.
(He didn't even have a two year plan until he spoke about it just a minute ago.)
His own green eyes stare, reflected back at him; it's like they're trying to drill through his skull and read all the juicy thoughts inside. Lily's own words from a time ago.
"So when can we meet this mystery boy who has stolen your heart?" She starts again, at perfectly the wrong time, as James walks up right behind her within listening range.
"A boy has stolen my baby Harry’s heart?" Damn him to Merlin, he is loud enough for quite a few heads to turn to them suddenly at that.
"James, please. This is why he hides from us!"
"Alright, alright," he slides into the booth beside her, leaning forward in his curiosity. "So, who is it?"
"Nobody you know, and nobody I want you to find out about, either." Please, please leave it alone!
They don't, but Madam Rosmerta appears at the perfect time, breaking James' attention away from this invasion of Harry's privacy.
He meets Lily's eyes in a warning and she reads him well enough as she lightly smiles and changes the subject. 'If you slip up one more time, I will not tell you anything, ever again; even what I was about to tell you just now.'
Yes, he was being petulant, but she spoke this language well. Especially with James being as he was, Harry thinks a bit wickedly; as some of the nearby patrons still steal covert glances at them.
Ugh, why did his family have to be such a spectacle?
(He would be one, too, once he got Tom to accept the true nature of their relationship.)
Thankfully, they leave well enough alone for the rest of their time together, and Harry is back on his walk to castle in just an hour, dreading the time he was about to spend with Professor Riddle eagerly anticipating the time he was about to spend with Professor Riddle.
Two hours before dinner meant six, but he's ready and dressed by five-thirty so he decides to wait by the office instead. And who knows, maybe Professor Riddle would invite him in early?
One could always lose oneself in delusion with ease.
Certainly no delusion, as Harry makes the walk there in minutes, and the door cracks open merely ten seconds after he stands beside it; trying to think of a new strategy for next week's match against Slytherin.
"Mr. Potter, you are early. No matter, come on in", Professor Riddle holds the door open for Harry, wearing a maroon turtleneck today, thank Merlin. "Thank you, sir."
Hearing the door shut behind him makes him turn back around automatically, meeting those hypnotic eyes head on. "Come, have a seat, Harry. I will find you that book in a second." He leads Harry over to his huge desk right in the middle of the room, directly under a frosted-over dome skylight.
Almost as beautiful as the man it belonged to, especially in the muted pinks and purples of an early setting sun.
Harry sits as he watches him disappear behind a door and re-emerge with a slim black book. Closer to a journal, he realises, when it is placed it front of him.
It is, in fact, his personal journal; as Harry finds out. Pages and pages of perfectly handwritten calligraphy. Every new facet of this man Harry discovered, more beautiful than the last.
And looking around, there are thousands of similar journals interspersed through the shelves of his office, "Amazing." And it is, he's not even embarrassed about his slip.
"Is it, then?" Professor Riddle is wearing the same smile from yesterday. "Why, thank you, Harry. Here—" he picks up a new sheaf of empty parchment, "for any notes you'd like to make?" Notes? He didn't prepare for any notes.
Harry's apprehension must show on his face as Tom only laughs lightly, "You are not required to take any notes, Harry. A thorough read should be sufficient, I think."
Like he was going to reject anything Professor Riddle wanted to give him. "No, I'd like the option", he argues instead, reaching for the hand still waiting with the parchment. "And a quill," he was such an idiot, "please?"
Professor Riddle hands him a fountain pen from a holder at his desk. "Have you ever used one of these?"
"Yes, my mother prefers them to quills." And Harry has never been more glad for this fact.
In the back of his mind, somewhere, he wonders if any other students got to use Professor Riddle's fountain pens. (If there did exist one, Harry would like their name, their address and a floo call to his Godfather to arrange the alibi.)
Shaking himself out of this unsurprising vicious jealousy as Professor Riddle speaks again, "Yes, Lily did always prefer pens. Very well then, Harry, if you have any questions while reading, I am yours until dinner."
—And there goes any possibility of Harry focusing on Dementors. The worst words Professor Riddle could ever say to him, how had he not spontaneously combusted yet? (I am yours.)
Choosing to keep his lips sealed, lest they utter some nonsense he couldn't take back; he opens up to the first page, Professor Riddle taking a seat in front of him.
"Would you like a cup of tea before you start?"
"Yes, please." Anything to busy his mind, even a little. He really should focus on paying attention to reading.
He can't, as a tea-tray appears by the far end of the desk, set to service two. He is too busy watching Professor Riddle's fingers and thumb as they pinch the kettle, even the slightest movement of the most innocuous limbs elicits a tremor within him.
Even just the slightest hint of skin was—
Reflexively glancing back at the journal when Professor Riddle speaks, "Milk and sugar, Harry?" He forces himself to meet those eyes, hoping he has not been caught staring again.
"A bit, and two, please." And he almost dies on the inside once more, as Professor Riddle picks up the cubes for Harry's tea with bare fingers.
The soft clink when the cup and saucer are placed beside him snaps him out of it. "Here you go." He's not paying attention to Harry's staring at all, as he moves to make his own cup, picking his own cubes the same way.
So it was just a reflex then? How disappointing.
It does help him focus, however; and he loses himself between the work of art that was Professor Riddle's thoughts, and the handwriting that showcased them.
Harry already knows most of this information, but each page of Professor Riddle's personal journal contained little unknown tidbits that made the re-reading decently rewarding.
Flipping over to the last page is also disappointing, but in a way that actually hurts, physically. He needs to find a way to stay longer, as he studies Professor Riddle now correcting some homework.
Not wanting to be caught staring once more, he attempts conversation. "How many journals like this have you written, Professor?"
Professor Riddle looks up in a smile once more as he answers, "Too many to count, I believe. Are you done with this one?"
A rather reluctant "Yes."
Professor Riddle must see it because he surprises Harry instead of making him leave. "Would you like to read another?"
"Yes!" This one too embarrassingly loud and rushed.
Professor Riddle's smile deepens as he holds out one hand with an expectant look, and a duplicate black journal flies out to him from the shelves. "Next weeks class will be on Lethifolds." His eyes narrow as he looks at Harry in contemplation.
"A practical class this time," he continues unexpectedly, and with an offer that has Harry shook up once more at the prospect of spending more time with the man, "would you like to assist me with it, Harry?"
"Yes?!" Not that he was complaining, but why was this happening? And now?
"This should be sufficient," he switches the journal in Harry's hands for the one in his own, "How about tomorrow then?"
"Huh?"
"I still have to hunt one down, Harry. I had planned on making a trip to the Forbidden Forest this Sunday morning. Would you like to join me?"
"Yes, Professor." His heart is beating too fast once more. Too embarrassingly loud.
"Then I will come collect you after breakfast. You may continue on your reading until dinner." Still a good thirty minutes away, as Professor Riddle casts a tempus.
"Yes, Professor."
They pass by entirely too quick, but it's not all bad.
Harry catches Professor Riddle in a yawn.
It is such an impossible action, especially from a man such as Professor Riddle, Harry initially thinks it a figment of his imagination.
Until it happens again, and he watches Professor Riddle cover his mouth in the cutest way as he sets his pen down. "I believe it's about time for dinner?"
Harry shuts his journal slowly, remembering Professor Riddle's words from earlier; he would not be allowed to leave with the journal.
When he places it back on the table, Professor Riddle gives him a surprised look. "Change your mind, Harry?"
"I'm sorry, Professor?"
"Oh. You may keep that journal until you're done reading it. You may exchange it out for another when you're ready."
"Professor?"
"Yes, Harry?"
"Um, well, you just said...I mean...you said I couldn't take your books out of your office." Why couldn't he speak the only language he knew around this man?
"That I did. It was before I realised how careful you would be, Harry. You may return it once you're done with it. Now, dinner?" He stands up at the words.
Harry picks up the journal once more. "Yes."
This needs to happen again.
And not just the trip on Sunday.
He needs to see another yawn. Maybe a sneeze?
No, it wasn't weird!
What if...'I leave the meaning of unwell up to you to decide'...?
Certain in his decision, he makes his way to dinner in a daze; mind too busy plotting the precise way he would play this.
'Watch out, Professor Riddle', he searches for those crimson eyes at the head table once more; a quiet lurching in his stomach when they meet.
Regardless.
Harry would have him, regardless.