Tom Riddle & Pureblood Smallmindedness
This is not a normal breakfast. Blaise should be glowering at him. Even though Harry has taken to him -- in the form of sometimes playful banter about morality and no longer pulling him aside to tell him he's tainted -- the same cannot be said for Blaise.
He can barely tolerate him. He keeps his jaw wired, his arm latched onto Harry's at all times, a lifeline, speaking only to whisper into Harry's ear.
But this is not a normal breakfast. Blaise, instead of the tense, rigid way he held himself before, has a stoic expression. His arms are held securely to himself and Harry will not look at him.
Tom sits down, charming smile on his face. Blaise slips a book into his bag as he does. "Reviewing Potions, Blaise?" prompts Tom.
Blaise doesn't say anything and that is normal (despite this not being a normal breakfast). Harry, however, doesn't greet him and that... that is not normal. Harry's gaze is fixed on his plate and he eats like he has never been hungrier. Why the rush? Usually, Harry sticks around until the last of their group has arrived and eaten and then, if he has a joint class in the morning, he will walk with one of them to their class.
But this is not a normal breakfast and Harry seems to have no intentions on waiting on anyone. He is eager to leave. Peculiar. "How did you sleep, Harry?"
"Well," he responds. He wipes his napkin with his mouth, sets his fork and knife to their respective places,clearing his throat. I should be going. Class starts soon."
It doesn't. "Don't you have Charms with the Gryffindors?" says Tom. "I thought you were planning to walk with Ron to it?"
Ron turns red and sputters. "Yeah, mate -- don't you... You should stay. Wait for me, I mean," he finishes lamely.
Tom takes a sip of his goblet, eyeing Harry, who is making no moves to sit back down. "No," he says. Sharp. Curt. What are you avoiding? "I do not want to watch this."
"Harry, it's not a b--" Hermione protests but Harry has already left.
He has Charms to get to, after all.
"Watch what?" Tom asks.
No one says anything and, after a moment of dead and uncomfortable silence, Neville stands up, too, spitting out something to do with getting lost easily. "I'll -- um, be heading out, too."
Tom looks to Hermione. "Everyone seems quite uneasy." Uneasy is an understatement. "Is everything alright?"
It's not Hermione who answers. "No," says Blaise.
"Oh," replies Tom. Something is very off here. (This is not a normal breakfast.) "What troubles you all?"
"Not them. It is I who is troubled." You speak as if that is supposed to mean something to me, as if that is supposed to move me. What is your ploy here?
"Ah. Terribly sorry to hear that. I wonder, though, how it pertains to Harry? He seems irregularly antisocial this evening. Upset."
He knows it is a mistake the moment the words leave his mouth (he cannot help but feel as though he'd just failed some sort of test) -- Hermione and Ron's faces contort, guilty and sad but not at all surprised.
And Blaise... Blaise says nothing. He might be insulted that Tom cares more about Harry's wellbeing than any suffering or scale of "unwell"ness Blaise might be suffering through, but, no, that isn't right. Blaise already knows this. Why be upset at the confirmation of something already confirmed?
No. Blaise is not insulted, he's not mad, not unwell. He's not... anything.
Ron glances at Tom's goblet, then back at Hermione. He stands to leave, "Charms," he says, "got to, uh -- get to it," and Tom hears is and doesn't care. Tom looks at the goblet in his hands.
It is normally filled with orange juice, no pulp, with half a slice of orange fruit stuck unto the edge of the cup, but this isn't a normal breakfast.
I sat down.
Blaise puts away a book.
Potions.
Harry will not look at him, will not speak to him--
The cup trembles in his hands, the electricity of his magic wanting to jolt out and wrap around Blaise's throat and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. The table starts to shake and Tom stops it. He thinks Hermione leaves but isn't sure because he's closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and releasing it through his nose. He reels himself in but the anger is still there, uncontrollable (is this what it's like to be Harry? All wrapped in the ebb and flow of your emotions and forced to float or drown?).
Blaise spiked his cup, he reminds himself. That is all he knows. The taste and texture, they are still the same. He sniffs it, not even bothering to hide his behavior from Blaise, because he's sure Blaise knows that he knows, sure that Blaise let him know, however insulting that is.
It still smells like orange juice.
Tasteless. Odorless. Colorless, too, it must be.
"You spiked me with amortenia," Tom says. And everyone here watched you, everyone knew it, but they didn't stop you. They did not want you to, did they, but you've got a sly mouth when you want to, don't you? You are a Slytherin for a reason. You convinced them. Fed into their -- what? Curiosity? Was that it? Made them go along with it, made everyone not agree but no longer protest.
Everyone. Except Harry. Loyal, (lovable) Harry. He is angry at you for this. For doing this to me.
(I hope he never forgives you.)
"Why?" Tom asks.
"You are smart," Blaise says. "Figure it out yourself."
He leaves and Tom decides he will do just that.
Because he gave no reaction to the amortenia, they all know that Tom does not really do the whole "love this." That is not ideal, not common knowledge, but that is fine. Repairable. If he gives a sob-story during lunch about his experience with love -- reluctantly admitted, not untrue -- any judgment cloudling them will fall, apologies alongside it.
But... That does not seem like it is it, this petty attempt at ruining him in the eyes of his friends. It might be what he tells them, might be the same action despite his motivations (the same action that Harry, oh dear, dear Harry finds despicable because you can't dose people with rape-juice on a whim, Blaise, you just can't) but there is more to it.
Blaise will let Tom's explanation pass uninterrupted. He might apologize, too. Whatever his motivation, Blaise will not confront him with it here.
No. This is a benchmark.
For what, Blaise? For what?
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
Lunch goes predominantly as Tom expected. "We had heard that, you know, from Harry, that you didn't know.. well, like Harry put it, how to love, mate," Ron says, subbing his neck sheepishly. Tom glances at Harry, who shrugs as if to say yes, and? "He's not very good at, uh--"
"Harry keeps a journal," Hermione interjects, rubbing a hand along ron's arm. "Writes out his life as it happens and his opinions as they are formed."
"Because of his memory loss?" Tom asks. Memory loss that he should not have but does anyway, but whatever.
"Yeah," Harry says. His head is pointed pointedly away from Blaise at his side. "Mind's a mess and all."
"Yes," continues Hermione. "And, when writing, he sometimes omits the context of the opinions he has."
"Why?" Tom could never function like that; context is always relevant. He does not understand the choice to not include it.
All eyes turn to Harry, who shrugs, again. "I forget to." ...Or, maybe, there is not choice here.
(Insanity and eventual death if left untreated.)
Tom clears his throat. "I see. Harry wrote I did not know how to love and Blaise experimented on me -- for lack of better word -- to see if it was true, even Harry's lack of information otherwise?"
"That's basically the basics," Harry says, not giving Blaise a chance to defend himself. "I told Blaise if he went through with it, I'd hex him. Then maybe we would be even."
Neville cringes. Tom feels something rise in his chest. Good, Harry. Choose me over him. Every time.
"Have you hexed him yet?" Tom does not even figure to ask if Harry actually would or not; he's a man of his word and tends to act like it.
"Maybe," Harry says He sips on his tea. "I guess he'll just have to wait and see. Won't he?"
Harry's magic rises dangerously around him and Tom feels -- for a moment -- something tug at his chest, as if a string had been strung around his heart and started tugging. Harry put down his tea and the feeling went away.
What was-- what did -- who are you? The others seem just as effected -- save Blaise -- but Harry just sits there, sipping his tea, like nothing had happened.
"I'm still mad," Harry says, meeting Blaise's eyes. "If you couldn't tell."
Blaise finally speaks. "I am well aware. Your magic is very vocal."
Harry doesn't look as if he has any idea about what he's talking about and just says, "I did clarify that this would be a deal breaker if it was anyone else who did it, didn't I?"
"You did." But you love me too much, goes unsaid.
Harry is tired of Blaise's composure so, of course, he decides to lose his own, standing up and whirling on Blaidse. "Using such a vial potion, I cannot believe you--"
"Harry," Tom tries.
"-- And for what? To prove that Tom is a soulless, callous monster who cannot love? Was that your goal--"
Tom is starting to feel a bit insulted. "Harry."
"-- But it doesn't matter, Blaise, you know it doesn't matter--"
"What doesn't matter?"
Harry lets out a breath, sitting back down. He turns to Tom. "Why you do not feel love."
Tom jolts back. "Uh -- what?" He stuttered -- Merlin, Tom Riddle does not stutter, but... oh, but Harry, Harry surpasses all of his expectations.
No, he decides. Harry is lying for appearances' sake, lying because he wants to strike Blaise with it. He offers an explanation anyway: "I was conceived under the Love Potion." Sure, the idea that those born under the influence of amortenia are incapable of love is misconstrued because of the lack of research in the field, but Harry and Co. did not need to know that.
Harry is not happy at the confession.
He's fucking seething. He turns back to Blaise, a white knuckled grip on his cup. "This is why we don't pry into matters irrelevent, Blaise!"
Blaise lets out a small, "It matters. You acted like it matters."
Harry deflates. "I did. I admit and I apologize. But it does not matter to me anymore. And it never mattered enough to confront him, let alone drug him."
"What changed?" Tom finds himself asking. None of this feels real or right.
"Love," Harry says, "matters to me a lot. I define myself by it." Of course you do, Tom thinks. You are just a Hufflepuff at heart, no matter who you surround yourself with. "I defined you by it, too. But I got to thinking... that maybe being able to love does not define the other aspects of a person. A person who does not love still feels sympathy. A person who does not love can change."
Harry looks off to the side. "I was wrong, I realized. With Tom, love does not matter. It's everything else that does."
Harry, Tom registers, is not just a Hufflepuff at heart. His loyalties and beliefs, etched in stone as they are, are subject to change, even when they are about what matters to a Hufflepuff most; love.
But, no, Tom thinks. Harry is not special, not different, not remarkable. Harry is a Hufflepuff at heart. It is just his definition of a Hufflepuff that is flawed.
"I was wrong," Harry said. So was Tom.
You... have changed me, Harry. Like I have changed you.
Harry is rambling on about how these things are to be discussed in private and with the consent of all parties, ".. we can't just force overtly personal things out of people like that, Blaise, he admitted he is the product of rape, it is wrong to force someone to confess to that or face hatred..." and Blaise is giving out apologies, but he seems sad to do so. Maybe he thinks that Harry is choosing Tom over him like Tom had first assumed. But Tom has rethought that.
Harry is choosing his morals over Blaise. Just this once.
Then, without warning, Harry grabs Blaise by the collar and pushes their lips together hard, their teeth clinking loudly.
Tom stares.
And stares.
And then takes a sip of his tea.
Hermione, Ron, and Neville give similar looks of endearing to the pair (even though Ron is looking a bit red in the face.) This is a common occurrence.
Tom had... heard that Harry and Blaise were romantically involved, though he heard so in much more vulgar terms. It is different to see it laid out like this, however.
"That," Harry says, pulling away, "is an apology for the hex I put on you."
"Apology accepted, if you would accept mine."
"Needless to say."
Blaise runs a hand through Harry's hair, then catches Tom's eye. "Tom. You're staring."
"Apologies." Tom schools his face into a neutral expression. "I did not know you two were dating."
"Is that it? Or do you have a problem with gay people?" Blaise hopes he does, Tom can see. Hopes he has a reason never to talk to him again.
"Blaise!" Hermione yelps.
Tom puts up a hand. He has no prejudice against gay people. It is a terribly Muggle hatred.
... Which, Tom thinks, sounds so silly, doesn't it? That something like hating gay people can even be swayed by your blood status?
Merlin. He's been spending too much time around Harry.
He shakes the idea -- the traitorous, traitorous idea -- out of his head. "I am no stranger to homosexual relations."
Ron spits out his tea, choking.
Harry does not seem as moved. "Really? I hadn't thought you the type."
"As if being homosexual permits a 'type'?"
"Mhm," Harry says. "I suppose you are right."
"And, besides," Tom continues, "I am not gay. I have experimented enough to know I am not. It's the best and only way to know your sexuality, don't you agree?"
Ron's face becomes redder -- something Tom didn't even think was possible. Hermione pats his back. "No," she says. "I do not agree."
"Oh?"
"Some may need to, in your words, experiment in order to determine their attraction."
"But you disagree that this is always the case?"
"Yes."
"I find that unlikely. There are so many experiences regarding sexuality that exist; how, I allege, do you know that you are not alligned with them if you have not partaken in them? It's like fruit. You cannot say you do not like apples if you have not tasted them."
"Sexuality," Harry says, "is not like fruit."
Tom doubts that. "How did you know you were gay, then, Harry?"
"After experimenting, you had a certainty that you didn't enjoy it, right? Or something like it?"
"I suppose."
"Well, who's to say that that certainty and that experience are codependent?"
"Harry's always been certain he's queer," pipes in Neville.
Tom falters. "Queer?"
Harry shrugs. "Not straight, but not otherwise labelled. I know I like men. It doesn't matter to me what I like beyond that."
Huh.
Queer.
In Pureblood society, there are three sexualities: gay, straight, and problematic.
He has never heard the term queer.
Being around you, Harry, is fascinating. You reject every Pureblood standard to-date, Merlin, everything I stand for, you stand against.
(Harry Potter is bad company.) I am not sure I care anymore.
(I am hanging around Harry Potter because of his relations to God.) I am hanging around Harry Potter because of Harry Potter, because every argument is intoxicating, because you exist outside of my echo-chamber.
"You are correct, then," Tom says evenly. Are you? You might be. I don't know. I am supposed know this, supposed to know everything. "It must be circumstantial. Up to the individual and all."
Queer, huh?
He thinks he likes that one.