let me go, hold me close

Tom is....

Surprised.

Confused.

Curious. 

Harry.

Harry's library table.

Harry's secret kitchen full of elves.

Harry's willingness to share.

Harry's kindness. 

Harry.

Kind.

Steadfast.

Considerate.

Compassionate.

His words written in stone. 

His acceptance written in stone.

His generosity astounds Tom.

Where are all of Tom's usual words, his grace, his charm.

He can only nod at "My absolute favorite place is the Quidditch pitch, ofcourse, but I am sure you haven't heard much about Quidditch or flying yet, if at all", mouthing the word "flying" as he hears it. 

Flying. 

Flying?

Flying!

Oh how Tom has dreamed of flight. Has dreamed of his departure, never to return. To never have to see the orphanage again. To never see those sniveling idiots that surround him again. Has yearned for that impossible feeling of true freedom.

He wants to fly up and away.

He wants to stay close to Harry.

Wants to bury Harry into himself before he leaves, unwilling to let go of this strange new wonderful person he has met. Useful, he mind tacks on.

Wants to fly away with Harry. To keep him Tom's secret, to keep his kindness to himself, his smiles and his sweet humourous words Tom's and Tom's alone. 

None are deserving, he decides, even as he nods in agreement.

Flying.

He almost cannot believe it. 

Can he really fly?

Now?

(Not that Tom has never attempted to fly with his something. He has ofcourse. Many times. Many many times. Has considered and planned and attempted to execute. 

Unfortunately it hadn't been fruitful in the least, his something unwilling to go as far.

Not that he has since stopped trying, especially as he definitely knew it to be possible.

He has flown.

Once.

Under extreme duress, in fact.

He had been pushed off the roof of Wools garden shed when he was four, attempting to reach an injured snake that had most likely escaped certain death as the meal of some raptor, it had cried for help and Tom had answered.

He knows not who pushed him, just that he had felt a compelling force against his person, a force that had hauled him over the edge before he had even realised the precariousness of his position.

And then, that something had responded in kind to the feelings rushing through him.

Feelings of panic and despair and hopelessness and certain death.

And then, an enveloping safety, a warmth, a lightness, a summer's breeze.

And he had safely floated down. 

And he knew then.

Knew he could.

Knew he wanted more.

Knew he HAD to recreate that experience.

Knew he had to practice.

And then.

Then he knew it wouldn't happen.

His something wouldn't respond the way it did once and never again.

No matter his effort, his intent and will ineffective.

Not that he had given up yet.

He still tried.

It just never worked.)

Harry is looking at him expectantly, paused in the doorway out now.

Tom only nods.

He doesn't know what he's agreeing to exactly, having heard nothing after 'flying', but he doesn't care.

Harry hasn't abused Tom's curiosity yet.

Infact, he had only indulged it, Tom realises. He has shown Tom more in this hour or so of meeting than Tom had been expecting to learn in a week. Maybe even a month.

Maybe ever, as he thinks about the secret kitchens that the oldest students are ignorant of.

He follows Harry through the long and winding corridors, taking care to remain close, unwilling to repeat his lost wanderings around the castle, as he had had to when searching for the library. 

Tom watches the students they pass with a rapturous gaze, unwilling to miss any detail now that he has a learned guide to follow.

They give him shocked and jealous looks full of hatred, and soften as their eyes reach Harry's form beside him.

He hates them too, he decides, certain in his resolution.

Hates these familiar envious glances at his person, wants to gouge their eyes out, to maim their irises to tatters, just like that rabbit.

Hates that he has to share His Harry at all.

Even with only their eyes. 

He wants those eyes to bleed.

Even if Harry is not paying them any mind at all, his stride quick and detemined. Purposeful as he leads Tom to another wonderful surprise. Unyielding as he makes sharp turns at inches away from sudden walls that greet them in their trek.

Harry knows the castle inside out, he realises as he continues to observe. He seems deep in thought, saying nary a word as they exit the indoors and take their first steps into the promised sun and breeze.

Tom follows Harry diagonally through the grass in front of them. In the distance, a giant half moon made of gleaming bronze, seats divided and upholstered in the four primary colors of Hogwarts houses. 

Tom feels his spirits lighten the futher their steps take them, the other students disappearing slowly but surely.

No more eyes to itch at that feeling in him.

When they reach the furthest end of the stand, Harry slows to a stop, turning to Tom. 

"I have been nominated Quidditch captain along with Prefect this year, although to be honest, I have been unofficial co-captain since my first year."

Tom can feel the moment growing closer, his stomach turning slightly. He attempts to focus on Harry's words.

Quidditch?

That word again. 

Tom's focus sharpens on Harry's words from earlier, trying to slot them together in some attempt to solve the puzzle.

Harry's absolute favorite place, the Quidditch pitch, recalls. 

Calling it a pitch implied Quidditch to be a physical sport of some sort. One that required flying, apparently. Nominated as Quidditch Captain means it is a team sport, like Football maybe. Or cricket. Or maybe even a mix? Magic surprises after all.

Harry continues with, "But nevermind that", and— Why nevermind?! Tom wants to question. 

He wants to know. Longs to know every single facet of Harry. Wants to unravel each of Harry's faces slowly. 

He has to, if he wants to ensnare Harry as he had conspired to in that first meeting. 

Harry continues with another intuitive response, as unpredictable and knowing as ever. "I am sure you're curious what Quidditch is exactly, hmm." And yes, yes, ofcourse Tom is curious. Ofcourse Harry understands Tom in this way. 

And ofcourse, Harry doesn't leave him wanting, "The simple answer is that it is a magical team sport that requires flying on brooms." It is as Tom guessed already earlier, as expected. Nothing evades him after all. 

"The complicated answer can wait for now I'm sure." This again! Why is Harry unwilling to fully share everything with him—

"Let's see you just get on the broom today." And ah, ofcourse Tom thinks, they are both ready for action, the theory could wait for later. 

Maybe at 'our' table, he did say I could ask him questions after all. And as expected, "Later we can talk more about the game, if you want", a confirmation of Tom's thought. 

Yes, they will most definitely talk at 'their' table. Later. 

For now, Flying.

Flying!

That swooping feeling envelops him again even as Harry says, "My equipment is in my locker, so is my broom for that matter" and starts walking away from Tom, obviously expecting to be followed as earlier. 

Tom does not follow him.

He is thinking about flying, but with some seriousness this time, instead of excitement. Flying again. 

He has never managed it since that one time, that one traumatically induced time. When his Magic had reacted to his panic at that rushing feeling as he hurtled towards the ground. 

And now, he can have that again, but in a different way. On a broom, Harry had said.

Harry who is now turning back to him, his expression hesitant and confused as he both interrogates Tom and provides for other options of entertainment. "Tom? Did you change your mind about my favorite place? There are plenty more sights, I promise. If flying seems a little intensive, I have another favorite place I suppose. One you would love, and I wanted to show you that too anyway."

Although Tom is curious at that last part, he is still unwilling to be thought of as a Coward. He rushes out a reassurance.

"No, it's okay. I'm okay. We can fly", or if Harry has changed his mind for some reason, "or see another place." 

He considers his next words, wondering if his honesty about his hesitation will be perceived as weakness. But this is Harry, he reasons. One chance, he thinks. 

"It's just", he starts, another moment of hesitation, "are you sure if I fly with a broom I will be safe?"

"And I won't fall?", these words muttered for himself. The memory of the roof edge moving sharply in his vision as he tumbled down still as crisp as the day it happened. 

As crisp and clear as everything is, really, but it is astonishingly sharp even so.

He has come back to it many times, in his attempts to recreate that feeling, to will himself to fly unsuccessful. 

What if he falls again, and this time his Magic doesn't come to save him? Is this broom really safe to use? The thought unnerves him.

Harry is grinning at him, full of good humour. "My Firebolt is the best of the best", and Tom assumes Firebolt is his brooms name, or brand.

"And it has a parental setting", Tom doesn't know whether to get mad at Harry for treating him so obviously as a child with this statement, or to get mad at Harry for intuitively reassuring him once again. 

How dare he treat Tom as a kid? Tom doesn't need ANY parental setting, thank you very much. If only he had the body of an adult, he would show them he could adult with the best of the best. His brain was All Adult.

And, in the same breath, How dare he understand so clearly Tom's fear and unwilling reluctance? How dare he (correctly) presume to know Tom so? How dare he treat Tom as (—amazingly as) he had? As if Tom was supposed to be treated that way, with kindness and wit and knowledge? With promises of safety and comfort? As if he (correctly) knew what Tom wanted (needed)?

How dare he (so correctly) make Tom feel safe with just words? Understood? Warm? How dare he make that tug at his lips feel so insistent, even as he rages at his confusion......

His elation (and confusion) at his newfound companionship only grows the longer he spends around this boy. This Harry. "Okay, lets fly", he agrees, willing his thoughts back to the oncoming experience and the excitement it causes him.

They walk to the red door, the third one as they pass a green and blue one without stopping. Harry holds the door and Tom breathes in the musky damp of the inside of the locker rooms. 

They walk up to a small door in the wall, and Harry reaches to open it, revealing a small cubicle of space with a sleek and shiny ebony and gold trimmed broom. 

He makes a joke to urge Tom to take off his robes and gives him gear that is definitely three sizes too large, urging him to put it on. Tom listens, knowing somehow that Harry will modify it with Magic after he's done. 

He's drowning in them as he turns to Harry, who quickly waves his wand. As expected. 

Harry moves sharply (for no apparent reason) to hang up Tom's robes, gripping that sleek broom Tom had noticed earlier. He directs them back to the stands, dropping the broom beside Tom before turning to face him as they pause in their earlier spot.

"Alright, so, the first step to flying is to make the broom listens. And the broom will listen Tom, as you intend to make it listen" he nods to show his concentration.

"Magic is all about intent Tom, I am sure you have figured that out by yourself at this point. Your will over your Magic, your belief, they are necessary components to making your Magic make, well, Magic." Harry may not be a man of many words, but has chosen all the important ones correctly. 

Tom already knows this, obviously. He can do Magic with just his will since he was four after all. He knows the importance of intent. Of belief. Of his unrelenting will. 

"Now, I want you to stick you hand hand up just a bit, right over the broom, and you can either think or say 'Up'. Call the broom to you, Tom."

Harry's gaze is wonderous rapture as the Firebolt instantly slaps lightly against Tom's open palm, thrumming with magic.

"Now I want you to climb it like you would a bike, and don't worry, the cushioning charms are literally the best of any broom on the market, it is a very comfortable invisible seat."

He wonders how Harry even knows what a bike is as he moves to follow. Maybe he's interested in Muggles, which would explain his attempt to befriend Tom. 

But not the extent of his effort, Tom wonders. 

His thoughts come to a stop as he finds himself on an invisible cushion an inch from the brooms length. It is more comfortable than any chair at Wools had ever been. Only marginally less comfortable than his new feather soft dorm bed. 

"I'm floating on a flying broom."

He absolutely cannot prevent the words, so he changes the language, wanting to keep his wonder to himself, unwilling to share his loss in composure.

—He almost falls off the broom.

Harry.

Harry surprises him once again.

This time with a discovery so unpredictable Tom is certain he has broken his brain.

"Ofcourse you're floating on a flying broom. You walked into a brick wall and now you live in a castle of Magic. It's the floating broom that got you, really?" The words surround him, hisses echoing against his ear drums, shock and awe and confusion and hope and an absolute breakdown. 

"You speak?"  He unintentionally echoes every snake he's ever met. 

Harry.

Sweet, kind, intuitive Harry can speak to snakes?

To snakes.

Snakes!

Like Tom.

His heart beats faster even as his ears strain to catch Harry's words, even as his brain attempts to switch back on.

Harry tries to distract him with a joke. Tries being the key word. Tom would let the Earth split in front of him before giving up his focus on What. Just. Happened

"Ofcourse I speak. Have you been imagining the conversations we've had today? I'm sure I havent," the words are back to English.

"As a snake," he cannot control the evident frustration in his tone. 

Why is Harry jesting with Tom in this way? 

Who is this boy? Who is this Harry Potter?

Who is Harry? 

Is he Tom's family? Could he be?

Dumbledore said it wasn't common to do so, when he had asked about the snakes. It certainly would explain Harry's behavior more than anything else had so far.

"Yes, I speak to snakes. No I am not related to Slytherin. Yes, I have always been able to since I can remember. No, I don't want to become famous for, so if you could keep it under wraps, I would appreciate it." Harry's words are droll, his tone reserved and formal as Tom attempts to capture the essence of his words.

Even as his brain is spinning out of control from the introduction of this unknown variable. 

He Speaks and has always Spoken. Just as Tom. 

Famous? Why would anyone become famous for speaking with a snake, he wonders, when the most pressing matter takes hold as he reconsiders Harry's words.

—No I am not related to Slytherin—

Why on Earth would Harry clarify that unasked question?

Slytherin is the name of his house. Why would he be related to a Hogwarts house anyways? Unless it's a name Tom thinks, and resents his decision to read his subject books first, leaving the thick dusty, Hogwarts: A History for the end.

(It had a peculiar smell that wouldn't leave and Tom had wanted to indulge himself just some more where he could.)

He has no choice, "Not related to Slytherin? Why would you be related to Slytherin? The founder of my house?"

He hopes he hasn't presumed too much with that last question.

And he hasn't. 

"Well, Slytherin could talk to snakes, and so could his family. And yes, my parents thought it possible, but I am totally unrelated to the Gaunts."

A confirmation and a curiosity.

Gaunts.

The words replaces the earlier echoes with new ones.

The word seems as strange as it seems familiar.

Gaunt.

Harry is still going on, ""My mother did many tests, even with blood, which is a bit illegal I must admit, yet none had a satisfactory answer." 

At any other time, mention of illegal tests of blood would burn Tom with a hungry passion and thirst in his quest for knowledge. This time though.

This time his brain is too overloaded. His body still balancing atop the broom as he knows more and more and more.

Harry has fed that hunger too much too soon. 

Thoughts flash through him. 

The feeling of floating on a broom for the first time. 

Harry Speaking. 

Speaking back at Tom.

Slytherin. Who Tom may be potentially related to-

Gaunt. Who Tom may be potentially relayed to-

Illegal blood tests that Harry and his Mom indulge in to sate their own curiosities.

It is overwhelming, but he needs another confirmation. "Who are the Gaunts? Relatives of Slytherin?" He needs to know this.

Needs Harry to answer him fully this time, needs to Know. Needs it to further connect the dots in his head.

Harry doesn't disappoint.

"Yes, the last living descendants. They are quite mad, they gambled and drank away their fame and fortune last anyone heard. They are not members of magical society in a way to be honest, keep to themselves, always have."

Not the best news, but not the worst either.

So, —now he knows more things after all.

Knows that he and Harry aren't family, even as he resolves to try those illegal blood test himself. To get Harry to share that knowledge. To ensure Harry definitely has the right results. 

Knows now that there may potentially be other actual members of Tom's family out there, if Harry is to be believed. 

(Maybe they aren't directly his family. These Gaunts. Maybe second or third cousins or something more distant. He will find out later. Soon.)

Knows that he could probably be related to the founder of his Hogwarts house?

Maybe not though, Tom reconsiders. Why would he have lived the life he led in the orphanage if that was the case. Why would his family have left him in a Muggle orphanage if they were indeed Magical? Why would a descendant of Slytherin be left to rot in that hovel of bleak depression? In that soon to be war torn filth and despair? 

...He is still on the broom, he realises, having not moved since he sat. The conversation with Harry has him shook to the core, as if that ocean of Harry Magic has finally pushed and pulled him apart to tatters, like he feared it could earlier.

Except, Harry had only used words, no Magic at all.

He makes a decision he hopes he doesn't regret. 

"Can we just get on with the flying for now? And we can revisit the Gaunts and Slytherin and your mom's illegal blood testing later, maybe in the library?"

Harry understands him once again, reading between the lines. 

"Later, yes. You're right, it's time to fly."

And yes. It is indeed time to fly, Tom thinks.

He is ready for this moment since the time he had heard the word out the other boys mouth. 

Flying.

Again.

He cannot wait. 

He readies himself, strengthening his resolve before takeoff.

Harry interrupts.

"Wait."

Tom is expectant. Waiting. 

Harry has his wand out, his face a little pinched, the expression unnatural to Tom who has only seen surprise, acceptance and joy so far.

"I", Harry stops, and Tom burns with curiosity. What is it, he wants to ask. ".....have never used the parental lock feature before. I can find out, it will just be a second."

The parental lock Harry had mentioned earlier. 

Tom had half hoped he'd been joking about that, unwilling to be treated as a child. 

The other half is renewed in the way Harry has so obviously not forgotten about his safety. 

He waits, unknowing of what to expect. What greets him however is beyond his wildest dreams. 

It seems he will not fly for a bit after all he laments without any real remorse.

The Stag takes his breath away. 

His mind is once more broken in just a few minutes, and yet in such a different and pleasant way. 

He hears Harry utter the words, and then.

A sense of that earlier calm he had felt in the library, intensified beyond belief as it surrounds him.

He barely feels his mouth fall open involtarily, stunned at this feeling coursing through him.

He has never ever felt like this before. 

The blinding Stag stands before him, a soft glow emanating into the air, those antlers are merely inches from his face.

He raises a hand and brushes at the curved end of one of the horns, expecting to feel nothing but air as his fingers pass through the illusion.

It is no illusion. 

The Stag before him could be a living breathing thing, it's antlers as present as if made of bone. 

He reaches out again, and—

He feels waves of warmth and peace and contentment pass through him like he has never felt before. 

There is only Tom and the Stag, Harry's Magic in this form, he realises. 

A form he can touch. Can feel.

Tom is there, in that touch, sans mask, sans thought, sans even his sense of self, only feeling joy. An unknown feeling. He exists in that moment and nothing else. There is no Wools. No boy in the train. No thoughts of vengeful retribution. 

His him and Harry.

Harry who breaks him out of his reverie, forcing him to reluctantly breaking off their connection. 

"It's called a Patronus", he tells Tom, then turns to it while continuing to talk. "Tell Mom, absolutely no questions, no exceptions, unless she wants me to go directly to Moony next time. I need to know how to set and remove the parental lock on my Firebolt."

Sending a message to his mother in such a tone....Tom wonders of their relationship. Of this Moony, who is apparently Harry's preferred choice above his mother, even as he picked her for the query.

Why, Tom wants to know. What did his mother do? And yet he seems confident of her willing response, even in the face of his rudeness. 

Tom burns again, but this time with a curiosity that cannot be sated unless Tom resorts to being rude. Asking about Harry's personal life, like he was really the friend as Harry had introduced him to the elves, was not on the agenda all.

Harry successfully distracts him against future thoughts by sating Tom's immense curiosity on this specific piece of Magic. This Magic that had made Tom feel something he didn't know he needed and didn't know how to give up now that he had had a taste. 

The message is answered in turn, a smaller and obviously female Doe dances towards Tom. He cannot attempt to feel this one as well, stuck on the broom as he is, and it stops a good few feet away. 

"Just tap thrice on the top end with your wand, Harry. It should allow you set parameters for how wide and high you'd like it to go, how fast, and whether you'd like to turn the anti-falling charm on."

The voice is light and clear as it guides Harry on the functions. Harry seems to understand her instantly, turning to move when She continues. 

"And congratulations on finally making a friend, even if it's with a little firstie. I knew there would be atleast one person in seven years."

Tom wonders how she has deduced all this even as he understands her reasoning himself. 

Ofcourse, even if Harry was teaching a friend how to fly on his broom, none would need a parental charm except a complete novice. 

Thus, correctly, she had made her assumption about Tom.

........Then the rest of her words start a new echo in his head.

He is Harry's first friend that his mother knows of. And shes never even met him. Even if she doesn't realise they aren't friends and Tom is just spinning his web. 

He is still Harry's first friend. 

His first friend in Hogwarts, or perhaps even ever, the longer he thinks about her words the stranger they make him feel.

Harry was treating him in a way unexpected by even his Mother. Tom doesn't know what to make of him at all anymore, if he ever could, Harry more a riddle than him, he thinks a bit amusedly.

He shakes his head free of thoughts again, as he watches the Doe leave with a warm "You know how much I love you Harry." The tenderness and affection obvious in her words even to Tom, who now longs for more things. Impossible things. 

I want to hear that said to me, those words, that tone, that warmth a voice inside him says.

Tom throws that errant thought out of his mind with as much force as he can manage considering it was, after all just a thought. But he is unwilling to want from other people again. Unwilling to fall into that cycle of hope-disappointment-humiliation-pain he has been through a few times as a child. 

He uses people to a certain and pre-planned means and then discards them once they have served his purpose. 

He wills his brain away from any further distractions, intent to finally fucking fly already. He's been kept waiting. Too. Long.

"Ready?" Says Harry, and Tom is. He is.

The rest of Harry's words fall to air as Tom zooms off, the broom under him listening just as Harry insisted. 

He makes a slow lap, close to the ground, toes just inches from the grass. 

The broom under him really feels like nothing, except he knows it's solid wood in his grip. He feels himself stuck to the seat, only able to snuggle more comfortably into that invisible cushion, the broom under him strong and steady.

He takes a faster lap, and another. And another. And loses himself in that feeling he hasn't felt in seven years now. And this time it isn't even the result of imminent danger and sure death. This time hes not floating, hes speeding instead on pure Magic.

This time, Harry has gifted him flight, on his sleek black and gold broom that Tom can tell is obviously very expensive.

It answers his every intent, aiming to please.

It only gets faster and he loses himself in quick loops, the wind against him finally ridding his mind of his wandering thoughts.

It's going great, until it isn't, ofcourse. 

Tom glances at Harry for a second and sees more than just him.

Dumbledore. Standing beside Harry, as if in conversation.

The broom hastens to his target, coming to a stop as he hears the words, "Yes, Professor."

Tom is curious about the subject of their conversation, curious to the subject of Harry's agreement, but even more, he is raging at the mere presence of this infuriating man.

"Tom" the man greets him, casually addressing Tom in a name he hasn't been given permission to use. 

How dare he, Tom thinks, even as he responds with a "Professor Dumbledore."

The one sided formality infuriated him. He wanted to peel Dumbledore's skin back slowly, he considered as he looked at the man, and then lightly salt it all over with Mrs Coles fancy swan shaker he had stolen once. Wanted to set his beard alight in a triumphus mimicry of the time he had set Tom's things on fire, that first day of Knowing. 

"I didn't know you and Mr Potter to be such fast friends." It is none of his business. So he should really just leave right now before Tom makes another miscalculation. He doesn't. "Flying lessons on your second day and even more, from our resident flying prodigy no less." And ofcourse Harry is amazing at flying, it was his favourite. "And you did look pretty decent on the broom there just now too, we Lions may be in some trouble." That last part is utterly unexpected, what on Earth does he mean by complimenting Tom so?

Harry saves him from attempting a response. "We met by chance at the library" he lies, to Tom's surprise and pleasure, "and Tom showed an immediate interest in flying, so I agreed to teach him, hoping to create a worthy rival."

Actually, Tom had tried to steal Harry's table and Harry had shown him a secret kitchen anyway and let him try out his most likely extremely expensive broom and was gonna show him more places, more like. 

Tom doesn't intend to correct him in the least, just willing the old man far away from his person as possible. 

Ofcourse the old man doesn't take a hint. He turns to Tom again. "Tom, I am glad to see you in such good hands, my boy, you could not have found a better friend than Harry here at Hogwarts."

Umm, thanks for some information he already fucking knew back in the library. When he had come up with his plan to soften the boy to him. Atleast now with his obvious words and idiocy out of the way, he turns to finally leave them both alone. Thankfully. 

"He's my head of house, just a moment of catching up after the summer hols." 

That explains it. And Tom sure is glad the visit wasn't for himself, to meddle in Tom's personal matters, to clear his suspicions one way or another. 

Nevermind then, he thinks and says, "Nevermind about him. Flying." His tone echoes his awe. "Flying is amazing" he concludes, unable to find enough words. 

And it is. It had been better than he had dreamed of. Better than he had experienced, never having even imagined the speeds he had reached today.

He makes a seperate decision, one for much later, that once he does indeed crack flying with just his Magic, he will also make himself go just as fast or faster. And until then, he can study this broom and try to make his own better one. 

For the moment though, he revels in this shared feeling of joy between Harry and himself. 

Harry.

He doesn't know what to make of the other boy at all. 

And he has never been more confused in his life. 

And yet, he doesn't know as he sees the silver sparks at Harry's wrist that he's about to become even more confused than ever. 

Harry.

Sweet. Unpredictable. His.