A/N:

written for an ask meme on my tumblr! thank you to matthew for sending this one!

Prompt: I can explain it. I mean, "I can't explain it."

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The Do's and Don'ts of Trouble

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Harry had as much of a knack for getting out of trouble as he did for getting into it.

Out late after curfew, sweating profusely after a near run-in with Filch, then miraculously finding a new corridor to slip into and run to freedom? Ridiculous.

Accidentally losing his Transfiguration homework, spending all morning looking for it before showing up late to class and offering half-mumbled excuses to McGonagall, only to remember Ron had borrowed it last night and then handed both essays in together? Preposterous.

Or, more recently, having a crush on the world's biggest prat and somehow ending up with said prat in a broom closet?

Absolute fucking nightmare.

Of course, as with all other unfortunate events in Harry's life, the only person who he really had to blame was himself.

It began the way most of his ill-advised adventures did. Harry, under his father's Invisibility Cloak, lurking around in the school after everyone had gone to bed.

The quiet of the empty Hogwarts corridors was comforting in a way that his room full of sleeping dorm mates could not match. Harry would wander to his heart's content, letting his feet carry him down the familiar paths to his classes, to the Quidditch pitch, to the kitchens. Then, once he was sufficiently worn out, he would return to Gryffindor tower and go to bed.

So it was on one such night that Harry was trailing around, not paying much attention to his surroundings and debating whether he ought to go to the kitchens for a midnight snack, that he came across an odd pairing in one of the intersections on the ground floor.

A young Hufflepuff by the name of Mallory Perkins was standing—nay, trembling—in front of Slytherin Prefect Tom Riddle.

Needless to say, Harry's immediate reaction was to simply curse Riddle into oblivion and be done with it. With the Invisibility Cloak on, there was no way for such an incident to be traced back to him, and if Riddle was going around late at night terrorizing Hufflepuffs, then Harry was most definitely going to do something to stop him.

Mallory, noted Harry, was in her nightgown, barefooted, and very pale. Her hair looked as though it had not seen a brush in several weeks.

Harry slid his wand from his robe pocket, prepared to intervene, when Riddle opened his mouth to speak.

"Do you realize what hour this is, Ms. Perkins?"

The tone was not unkind, and so Harry hesitated, waiting to see what would happen.

"Um," stammered the girl, eyes so wide that the whiteness of them was overwhelming enough to be off putting. "I'm s-sorry! I j-just—" She cut off, voice thick with emotion, face paling further.

Riddle frowned, uncrossing his arms from where they had been wound tight across his chest. "Did something happen to you?"

"No, but I—I—"

Then, to the horror of both boys in the corridor, Mallory began to cry.

Riddle froze, and Harry winced in sympathy. Neither of them had any idea what to do with a crying second year.

"If nothing happened," Riddle said slowly, "then why are you crying?"

There was no response, only Mallory's soft sobs and hiccups as she wiped frantically at her face. Harry tried to think if there was anything he could do, but he came up short. Revealing himself would do no good; he would only get into trouble if Riddle saw him.

It took some time for Mallory to calm down enough to speak. "I had a n-nightmare," Mallory said between sniffles. "And everything in my dorm room was so d-dark. I didn't want to stay there anymore. I'm sorry for leaving." She rubbed her sleeve across her face, smearing the tears and snot.

Riddle had not moved since Mallory's original outburst, but now he took a step closer, his body language relaxed. "That's quite alright," Riddle said soothingly. "You're not in any trouble."

"I'm n-not?" Mallory hiccuped loudly, then flushed. "We're not supposed to be out after curfew. Professor Sprout expects us to follow the rules. I don't want her to be upset with me."

"I'm sure Professor Sprout will understand," Riddle continued, still in that low, comforting voice. "I certainly understand. Nightmares happen to the best of us, after all."

Mallory's face remained a bright, splotchy pink. "D-do you have nightmares?" she asked quietly.

"I do," Riddle said, voice tight. He stared at her for a moment, then turned his gaze to the far wall, a gesture of vulnerability that Harry had never seen before. "But what matters is that you remember nightmares only have as much power over you as you are willing to permit them."

Harry stood, transfixed by the sight, unable to blink. He had never imagined that Riddle—pompous, arrogant, egotistical arsehole—could be so... kind. Harry had settled on Riddle being one of those people who had a handsome face with rotten insides. It was discomfiting to be proven wrong.

Riddle drew his wand and conjured a square of cloth, which he handed to Mallory, whose mouth fell open in surprise.

"Thank you," she said, the words barely audible even in the dead silence of the corridor.

"You are most welcome." Riddle smiled, a gentle expression settling onto his sharp features, smoothing the edges. "Shall I escort you back to your common room?"

Harry was now having a moment. Riddle was not nice. He was charming in the snooty way. Every single one of Harry's interactions with Riddle involved him feeling like Riddle was trying to consistently one-up him regardless of what they were doing.

Maybe Riddle just thought he wouldn't be able to get away with being nasty to a little Hufflepuff girl.

Maybe Riddle was just having a really nice day.

Maybe, Harry thought as he watched the two students walk off together, Riddle continuing to murmur reassurances in a deep tone that was not attractive in the slightest, maybe he would have to make some more late-night trips. Just to be certain that this was not a one-time occurrence.

Sure, that was a plan. A very excellent plan with no way of going wrong despite the growing number of alarms blaring in the back of Harry's mind.

After all, it wasn't like Harry had, over the course of his illustrious Hogwarts career, ever been caught out by Riddle before. The opportunity of pulling one over Riddle without Riddle even realizing it was just too good to pass up.

Harry tugged his cloak closer around his shoulders, trying to shake tonight's incident from his brain, and began the long trek back to Gryffindor Tower.

He was not absolutely not thinking about what it would be like to have an escort.

Following what Harry had begun to call 'The Incident with the Hufflepuff', Ron and Hermione became subject to many unreasonable questions about their Prefect schedule.

It was not that Harry had never shown interest in their Prefect duties before; rather, he was now showing a lot more interest in this than he had ever shown in something as mundane as a schedule.

"I'm good for Quidditch," Ron said worriedly. "You know that, right? Or do you think we need more practices?"

"No, no," Harry said, hasty. "Nothing like that."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "You're not up to something, are you? I keep telling you, Harry, one of these days you are going to get caught! It won't matter if it's Ron and I on patrols if you're caught by a professor."

"It's nothing bad," Harry protested automatically. Then, realizing he had just confirmed the existence of his ulterior motives, he clamped his mouth shut.

"Then what?" Hermione demanded, unimpressed, mouth spread into a flat line of utmost disapproval.

"Then nothing!" Harry said, silently cursing how utterly unconvincing he sounded.

Ron exchanged an amused look with Hermione. "Fine," said Ron. "Keep your secrets. Did you want a copy of the Prefect's schedules? I can show you mine."

Harry paused. This was... too easy. This was too easy, and now he was very suspicious. "Alright," Harry said. "That'd be great."

Ron patted his shoulder. "I'll give it to you later tonight. I don't have it on me right now."

Later that night, Ron emerged from their dorm room with a piece of parchment.

"Here's the next two weeks' worth," Ron said, depositing the scroll onto the table where Harry was attempting to focus on his Potions homework. "Good luck with your nothing."

Harry snatched it up and dumped it into his bag with a mumbled, "Thanks, Ron."

Ron snickered. Harry stuck his tongue out and blew a raspberry in response. Life was hard enough without his friends laughing at him for his unfortunate luck.

Harry wasn't going to actually do anything. Nothing bad could happen to him if he wasn't doing anything. He would just follow Riddle around on his rounds and see if... see if he could witness any other genuine moments of kindness on Riddle's part.

For the rest of the night, Harry avoided untangling what his exact goal was and tried to focus on his homework. Then, once most of the other students had gone to bed, he drew out Ron's Prefect schedule and gave it a once over.

The Prefects were listed in pairs, and each person's name seemed to appear at least once a week.

Only once a week? Harry frowned down at the page. It felt more often than that whenever Ron and Hermione were gone. Maybe that was just because he was so used to them.

Anyways, this meant that Harry only had one opportunity a week to... follow Riddle around. As weird as that sounded.

Er—to make sure that Riddle wasn't up to no good. That was a better way of putting it.

Harry rolled the parchment back up and tucked it into his bag. Riddle wouldn't be out and about for another six days. That was plenty of time to reconsider and not make hasty decisions.

Harry glanced back down at his Potions essay, which was due tomorrow morning. Plenty of time, yep.

By the time the day of Riddle's assigned Prefect round arrived, Harry was feeling antsy. Ron kept shooting him funny looks before they went to bed every night, as though he was expecting Harry to announce that he was about to scamper off into the darkness of the castle for dubious activities.

Not to mention that the three of them—he, Ron, and Hermione—were suddenly spending a lot more time in the common room together.

Ever since the start of their fifth year, Harry had gotten used to the occasional night of plowing through his homework on his own, or with Neville and Ginny, but now Hermione was around to offer pointers and correct his grammar.

Which was nice, but Harry had to wonder if there had been recent changes to the schedule that resulted in all this new free time.

Strangeness of his friends' schedules aside, it was not until late Saturday evening that Harry noticed he had committed a grave error.

"You finally heading out tonight?" Ron asked casually from across the table. They were playing a game of wizard's chess while Hermione read one of her 'books for fun', which was a gigantic Muggle textbook on Biology.

"Yeah," Harry said, unthinking.

"Riddle's on duty tonight," Hermione said, flicking a page of her book. "Is that wise?"

Harry's brain short-circuited. Of course both Ron and Hermione knew who would be on duty tonight. And of course they also knew that Harry must have chosen tonight specifically because it was Riddle's turn.

Harry cursed several times in his head, wishing he had had the foresight to pick another random night to lurk about the school. That would have helped to conceal his real reasons for wanting the schedule.

"He doesn't scare me," Harry said, staring very hard at the chessboard so as not to give himself away.

"Bloody stick up his arse, if you ask me," Ron said helpfully. "Bishop to F6."

In a last ditch attempt to save himself, Harry ordered his castle in a horrible move designed to distract Ron from the conversation topic. This thankfully worked, as Ron squinted at the board, his brain going into overdrive as he pondered all the ways to ruthlessly take advantage of Harry's poor chess move.

A quick glance at Hermione revealed she had gone back to her reading. Harry breathed a sigh of relief and let the remainder of the night pass without further commentary on his planned late-night excursion.

Once his friends had bid him good night and the common room was empty, Harry withdrew the Marauder's Map from his bag. Then he retrieved his Cloak, which he pulled on.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

The map revealed itself, ink spreading across its surface. It took a few moments for Harry to find the name he was looking for—Tom Riddle—and then he was off into the quiet of the castle, footsteps light and quick across the cold stone floor.

That evening, Harry followed Riddle around the castle for hours while the Slytherin Prefect made his rounds. Riddle was alone for some reason, which Harry attributed to Riddle's sound dislike of Pansy Parkinson. Perhaps they had made a deal to never walk their rounds together.

To Harry's great disappointment, nothing eventful happened save for the spectacular interruption of Lavender Brown and Michael Corner in one of the school's many broom closets. Harry would have preferred to avoid seeing that, and so he was not at all sympathetic when Riddle assigned them both detention for a week.

When the night drew to a close, Riddle let out a wide yawn, stretching his arms out before turning towards the corridor that would lead him to the Slytherin dungeons. He even mussed at his hair a bit, ruffling the coif of curls atop his head. The modesty of the gesture stirred something unnameable in Harry's gut.

For half a second, Harry was tempted to follow, to witness more of this version of Riddle that was less uptight, less hyper-aware of his surroundings to the point of posturing.

But that was the type of poor decision Harry had been aiming to avoid, and so he pivoted, forcing his legs to carry him back to his dorm, where his comfortable bed was waiting for him.

The next few weeks followed a similar pattern. Harry had given up on attempting to hide the focus of his stalking, and continued to stay out only on nights where Riddle was scheduled to make rounds.

Ron and Hermione said nothing, surprisingly, and Harry had begun to wonder if they weren't secretly plotting something behind his back while he was gone. Last week, Ron had waved a cheerful goodbye and Hermione had wished him good luck.

Harry chose not to think about it. Whatever they were doing while he was gone, it was none of his business. It was better they were occupied with activities other than making fun of him.

Thus Harry was able to engage in Riddle-watching without fear of repercussions. There had been a few close calls—times where Harry could have sworn that he'd made a noise and Riddle had heard him—but so far nothing terrible had happened.

Harry was well-aware he was pushing the limits of his luck, but this did not deter him from his goal.

His goal, which was increasingly vague as the days wore on.

His goal, which was having unfortunate side-effects on his waking hours. Harry often caught himself staring at Riddle without meaning to, comparing the polished, public version of Tom Riddle to the relaxed, casual one that existed only during evening patrols.

"Riddle is staring at you."

"Is not," Harry retorted in a whisper, not looking up from his textbook. "Nice try, though."

"No, really," Ron hissed.

They were in the Great Hall for their regular study period, heads bent low over various reading and writing materials. Harry resisted the urge to cave to his impulse and instead shook his head.

"No, thanks," Harry said firmly.

Ron scoffed. "Fine, don't believe me, then."

Harry counted seconds in his head. One, two, three, four...

When he hit five minutes exactly, Harry sat up, pretending to stretch his arms, and—

—and made eye contact.

Riddle's eyes were an unremarkable chocolate brown, darker than most, and swirling with... some kind of indescribable emotion.

Determined to prove he was not afraid, Harry held the gaze and raised his brows in response. He, after all, was not the one who had been caught staring.

Riddle did not blink for the longest time, his face neutral and wiped clear of any visible expressions. Was he going to look away?

The idea of holding this staring contest forever was starting to settle in, churning Harry's stomach with a mixture of anxiety and confusion.

Then someone nudged Riddle's side, drawing his attention. Riddle scowled fiercely and turned to look at whoever it was who had elbowed him, breaking the odd tension. Harry's shoulders relaxed, the temporary stress of the moment melting away.

"That was dramatic."

Harry choked on nothing and whirled to look at Ron, who was studiously hunched over his Herbology notes.

"You're going out tomorrow night, right?" Ron asked, as if he had not just delivered the verbal equivalent of a glass of water to the face.

"Yes?" Harry said, then wondered why he had answered with a question instead of a firm statement.

This was all Riddle's fault. Why had that berk gone on to be a half-decent person, thereby ruining all of Harry's Saturdays for the past month? This was a blatant personal attack.

"Cool," said Ron, like Harry's response had been the preferred one. "Hermione and I won't wait up, then."

Saturday evening, Harry was on edge. The previous afternoon's random interaction, coupled with Ron's comment, had created what Harry imagined was an invisible cloud of doom over his head.

Harry had no doubt that his period of respite was over; he was about to land himself into some trouble. Harry was equally sure that this trouble, whatever it was going to be, was not enough to deter him from his self-admitted terrible course of action.

Thus Harry bid Ron and Hermione farewell for the night, prepared to meet his unfortunate end with the bravado Gryffindors were known for. By now, Harry knew exactly when and where Riddle liked to begin his rounds. If not for the fact that Harry was invisible, he could imagine their weekly meeting was a planned one.

Every Saturday without fail, Riddle would show up exactly five minutes after curfew at the top of the staircase that led up from the Slytherin dungeons.

Today, Harry noted, Riddle had forgone his school robes and was clad only in shirt, vest, and trousers. The tie was there, but it was loose, the knot hanging low from the neck.

Harry swallowed, his breath puffing hot air against the heavy fabric of his Cloak, and resolved to follow at a further distance than usual.

This would prove to be a mistake.

While they walked, Harry kept a few paces between them, careful to watch where he placed his feet, not daring to take any chances.

Everything was fine until they reached their third junction of the night. Harry knew Riddle's route by heart, and so he drifted towards the right side of the corridor, prepared to round the corner.

Riddle turned left.

Harry felt his unease dial up several notches, but he continued along nevertheless, curious as to what had urged Riddle to discard his established pattern.

The route continued with no hints, and they did not encounter any students or professors. If anything, this route was less populated than the previous one. Harry crept along, waiting, wondering.

Eventually, they began to ascend. Harry disliked this, for staircases were difficult to traverse quietly, and they made it harder for the Cloak to keep his feet covered.

They were part way up a steep staircase when Riddle paused in place.

On any other day, all of this would have been fine. But just this afternoon, Harry had held an extra-long Quidditch practice, and so his legs were wobbly after so many flights of stairs.

So when Riddle whirled around and spoke—

"I know you're there."

—Harry's legs failed him entirely, stumbling him backwards out of reflex, his heel catching on the hem of the Cloak.

Harry yelped, the world tilting in slow motion around him, and watched, dazed, as Riddle's eyes widened in alarm.

Harry's right arm flailed wildly, grasping for the railing, fingers scrabbling against the marble surface and finding the barest hint of purchase there. The Cloak flapped up, exposing his feet and legs, and Harry was certain that he was about to fall down the whole flight of stairs and bean his head on the stone floor below.

Riddle was scrambling forward, his face blurry in Harry's disoriented vision. Riddle's hand stretched out, straining, catching on the fluttering hem of the Cloak.

Harry had one second to wonder why Riddle hadn't just used magic to summon him, and then he was being jerked forward as the pull of the Cloak yanked him vaguely in an upright direction, permitting him to grab onto the railing to properly steady himself.

Still, Harry's feet slipped down several steps, leaving him with bruised legs and knees as he slowed his fall enough to settle into an awkward, crouched position.

Harry had little time to ponder on the extent of his idiocy, however, because Riddle had tossed the rest of the Cloak off of him and was currently hauling him to his feet.

The railing was uncomfortably hard against Harry's back as Riddle clamped a hand down onto his shoulder, his thumb brushing just under the collarbone.

"You're an idiot," said Riddle promptly.

Harry was trying to breathe, and he did not appreciate the closeness of Riddle's stupid face while he tried to do so. "Get off me," Harry said roughly, suppressing the heavy gasps that were rattling around in his chest.

"You've been following me," Riddle added, his tone now curious, his head canting to the left, like Harry's newest night hobby was interesting rather than cause to be hexed into oblivion.

Harry focused on the slowness of his next exhale and did not deign to respond to the accusation. His heart was going a thousand kilometers a minute, and despite the fact that Riddle was holding him up, his legs were protesting the weird angle of their current position.

Riddle's hand gave Harry's shoulder a firm squeeze, firmer than was strictly necessary, in Harry's opinion.

"Nothing to say?" Riddle asked, smiling.

Harry quickly contorted his expression into something resembling a scowl, and was rewarded with Riddle's sharp gaze roaming over his face, from the challenging set of his brows right down to—to his lips.

Harry could feel his face warm right up. The proximity was not helping.

"I have to admit," Riddle said. "You're the last person I would have thought to be one of my many fervent admirers, Harry, but I am very flattered—"

"Go to hell," Harry bit out, having finally found his voice.

Riddle's grin widened, blinding and positively feral, and Harry's heart leapt up into his throat. "Only if you promise to come with me."

Harry gaped at this, and therefore was too distracted to shove Riddle away as Riddle trailed a slow hand down the length of Harry's tie.

"You—" Harry started, accusing.

"Me," Riddle said simply, in that unfairly low tone that made Harry's toes curl.

Dozens of protests and excuses ran through Harry's mind, some of them even plausible and reasonable in the face of Riddle's infuriating smugness.

All of that flew out the window as Riddle leant in, dark gaze fixed on Harry's mouth, inciting a panic that Harry had not experienced since his initial excursion into this mess.

"I can explain!" Harry blurted out.

Riddle stilled, then withdrew. His expression was patiently amused. "Yes?" Riddle asked, and Harry hated how unbothered he sounded.

"I mean," Harry continued, well aware that he was babbling in order to keep Riddle away from him for reasons that were still unclear, "I can't explain it. It's very hard to explain."

"The night is young," Riddle quipped. "We have time."

Time for other things, too, judging by the way Harry was squished against the banister.

"It was an accident," Harry began, cautious. The presence of Riddle's hand on his chest, fingers drumming a sensual beat against the fabric of his tie, was distracting. "I saw you comfort that second-year Hufflepuff a month ago."

That caught Riddle off guard. He blinked, the flirtatious veil sliding off his face and revealing muted surprise.

"It was really nice, what you did for her," Harry continued, his words slurring together in his haste to get them out. "It was really nice," he repeated.

Riddle's throat bobbed, and he was suddenly unable to keep his eyes fixed on Harry's face. "And you thought that this was a good reason to follow me around for weeks on end?"

"I thought it was nice," Harry said quietly. "And I wanted to see if it would happen again."

Now it was Riddle's turn to gape, though Harry felt that Riddle did a far better job of looking attractive while doing it than Harry probably did.

"It's nice to see who you are when there's no one looking," Harry added, even softer this time. Then he coughed lightly, uncomfortable at the depth of his admission.

Riddle was going to laugh at him, he knew. Riddle was going to laugh and remark that he had only been nice to Mallory Perkins because it served to further his public image as the quintessential Prefect.

"That's," said Riddle.

Harry waited for the rest of the sentence, but no words emerged. Riddle seemed unfocused as he pulled back, though his hand kept its place on Harry's chest.

"Sorry," Harry said, sheepish. "I realize I sound kind of crazy."

Riddle frowned, and Harry wondered if he was now going to be assigned detention and dumped back at the Fat Lady's portrait.

"Walk with me," Riddle decided. "Let's finish my first round and see if we happen upon any miserable Hufflepuffs." Then he withdrew entirely, moving down a few steps to scoop up the Invisibility Cloak.

Harry straightened, confused by the turn of events, and accepted the proffered Cloak. "Should I put it on?" Harry asked.

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't want to be seen talking to thin air," Tom said, scoffing. "Besides, you'll be with me."

Harry wasn't sure how he was meant to interpret that statement, and he was not about to ask what would happen at the end of their walkabout, either.

(Though a traitorous part of his brain he was now attempting to squash had crossed its fingers for snogging.)

"Okay," Harry agreed. Regardless of whether or not Tom was going to cover for him if they ran into other people, he was out after hours, and it was not unfair for him to be punished for it.

Harry draped his Cloak over his arm and fell into step next to Tom. He did not dare check his watch for the time, but he was fairly sure that the hour was very early, as Tom had said.

After a short while of silence, Harry glanced about at his surroundings and was dismayed to note that they were headed towards the section of castle that contained Gryffindor Tower.

They passed into a wide corridor with several classrooms attached to it. Harry had begun, out of desperation, to brainstorm conversation topics in his head. Tom wasn't looking at him anymore, and Harry was worried that what he'd said had somehow come across as grossly offensive.

Then, just as they turned the corner into a long, empty corridor, Harry heard the joyful sound of muffled laughter.

"Shhh! Someone's going to hear us."

"You worry too much, Hermione. Riddle never comes this way, and Parkinson ought to be on the other side of the castle by now."

Ron. And Hermione. Those voices belonged to Ron and Hermione.

Harry spluttered silently, swivelling in place, looking for somewhere to hide. Tom had opened his mouth to speak, likely to ask why Harry was acting like an idiot again, when Harry's eyes landed on the only available hiding spot nearby.

The broom closet.

Harry barely registered Hermione's response, he was so hellbent on his escape.

With one hand, Harry seized Tom by the arm and pushed him along, using his body weight for leverage. With his other hand, Harry wrenched the closet door open and unceremoniously shoved them both inside, letting the door fall shut behind them.

Hardly pausing for breath, Harry slapped a hand over Tom's mouth and tried not to move around lest their bodies get any closer than they already were. Tom's breath puffed out against the palm of his hand, a minor sound of outrage.

Just outside the closet, Hermione was giggling. "Oh, look, there's one!"

Next to Harry, Tom finally went still and silent. Harry dropped his hand with haste, Tom's lips were on fire—which they might as well have been—and blessed the darkness of the closet for disguising his blush.

"Ladies first," said Ron, and Harry could imagine the accompanying grand gesture that went along with it.

How long had this been going on? Had his best friends been snogging this entire time right under his nose?

Flummoxed, Harry angled his body around so he could face the door and listen in. This had the result of brushing the entirety of his front side against Tom's chest, which was a lot more physical contact than Harry had been prepared for.

Then Tom's arm came up like a steel band, sliding around his waist and tugging him close.

Harry made the most undignified yelp as he fell back. Tom's low chuckle echoed in his ear, and Harry cursed the day Tom Riddle had ever been born.

"Oops. I think someone's in there," said Ron.

"Occupied," Tom called out roughly. The almost-sultry edge to his voice altered it so beyond what he normally sounded like that Harry felt, with some relief, that Ron and Hermione would not recognize it.

Harry squirmed in Tom's embrace, too afraid to speak. His friends would absolutely notice if Harry was the one speaking from the depths of the broom closet.

"Hold still, darling," Tom murmured, arm held tight, pinning Harry against his body. "Let them pass."

Harry was certain that this was the moment when everything would go horribly wrong. Even though he wasn't sure how, he was sure it would happen.

"Let's find somewhere else," Hermione whispered, though her giddiness meant the volume was a bit above her typical whisper. "Leave them to it."

Ron said something in response, and then Harry heard their footsteps fade away.

"You're very tense," Tom remarked.

Harry twitched in surprise. The breath he'd been holding hovered precariously on the tip of his tongue, trapped behind his closed lips.

"Shouldn't I be?" Harry retorted weakly. "I just found out that my two best friends want to snog in a broom closet."

Tom shifted behind him, and then Harry felt something brush against the back of his head. "Is that a fault, then? Snogging in a broom closet?"

"Er—" Harry wanted to redirect the conversation back to a safer topic, but he was unsure how to do so while he could feel, in great detail, exactly where their bodies were lined up together.

"I'll admit I never understood the benefits before," Tom continued, his breath fanning out in a soft wave over the shell of Harry's ear. "This space is dark, crowded, and so far removed from civility that I often wondered if there was any higher power than rampant teenage hormones."

"And you're above all that, I assume," Harry said, unimpressed.

"I never claimed to be perfect," Tom responded, wry, and Harry could hear the smirk that existed behind that statement.

"Well, that's a relief."

Tom's arm slid upwards from Harry's waist, pulling across his ribcage, the warmth seeping through Harry's shirt and soaking into his skin.

"You have yet to answer my question, Harry. Is it a fault?"

Tom's voice was a goddamn siren call, hovering somewhere just behind Harry's shoulder, everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Harry thought back to his catastrophizing, to all the ways that this singular moment could go terribly, horribly wrong.

Tom was trouble of the highest degree, and here Harry was, inviting him right over the doorstep.

"No," Harry said, firmly. "It's not."

That was when Tom turned him around and kissed him.

Their lips pressed together—gently at first, then with breathless fervor.

Harry half-gasped without meaning to, and then Tom spun them around, bracing his hand on the back wall with a soft thud.

The lingering doubts of before vanished from his mind as Tom's other hand curled through his hair and drifted downwards, a tender touch that burned against the nape of Harry's neck.

Harry knotted his fists into Tom's shirt, determined to pull them even closer together, and was rewarded with a low groan that sent a rush of adrenaline flooding through his veins.

A potent intensity was unravelling in the pit of Harry's stomach. It was easy, too easy, to get lost in the sensation—to drown in the heat and the scent and the touch, all over, overwhelming in the quiet darkness of the broom closet.

When Tom tilted back to rake dark eyes over Harry's face, a contentedness washed over his features—a tender, softer version of the pleasure from seconds before.

All the reasons that had driven Harry to this point were present in that fond, almost affectionate gaze.

Then the smile shifted into a smirk. "Was that nice enough for you?" Tom purred, eyes glinting with delight even in the dim lighting.

Ugh! Ugh, ugh, ugh.

"Ugh," Harry said, grimacing. "You were doing so well until you said that."

Tom laughed at that, his arms gathering Harry close against his chest, and Harry could not find it in himself to protest.

"Pass the bacon, please," Harry said.

Hermione picked up the platter and handed it over silently. Once Harry was done serving himself, he passed the platter over to Ron, who took it with a mumbled, "Thanks."

The three of them were at an impasse.

They were not to ask Harry about the marks on his neck, and in return, he would not interrogate them on the marks on their necks.

It was, Harry surmised, as good of a compromise as he was going to get. At least this explained what they'd been up to, though he was a bit offended they thought they could hide it from him. He would have noticed… eventually.

Either way, Harry was going to load up on breakfast, then spend the rest of his morning on Charms homework. That was the plan, and he was sticking to it. To aid this plan, he had specifically chosen to sit on the side of Gryffindor table that was not facing the Slytherin table.

"Riddle's walking over," Ron said.

Great. Fan-bloody-tastic. "Uh huh." Harry prodded at his bacon, then set his fork down on the table because he was worried his hand would shake.

"He's… still walking over," Ron continued to narrate.

"Shut up," Harry muttered.

"He's getting closer," Ron insisted, sounding alarmed. He gave Harry's ribcage a nudge.

Harry jabbed back with his elbow, then at last turned his head up to glance at Tom Riddle, who was fast approaching.

Handsome git. Tom's tie was pushed up almost all the way, shirt collar stiff and pulled tight around his neck, and Harry was going to toss him down a flight of stairs for looking so put together.

Harry decided to hell with it—he got to his feet, prepared to greet his impending disaster.

Tom's mouth split into a smirk. He strode up and stopped in front of Harry, so that they were face to face, separated by less than an arm's length. Everyone around them was watching.

"Good morning," Tom said, pleasant, saccharine sweet, and then he shifted, taking a half-step forward so he could brush a kiss against Harry's cheek.

"Good morning," Harry said back, trying to mimic the casual tone, willing the heat in his face to banish itself to Antarctica.

Tom's smile softened out, his hand reaching for Harry's and giving it a quick squeeze before he dropped it, whirling away and heading over to the Slytherin table for the day.

Ridiculous. Preposterous.

"Are you two dating, now?" Hermione asked in tones of mild surprise.

"He's a nightmare," Harry said, seating himself back at the table. "An absolute nightmare."

"That's not a no," Ron pointed out.

Harry sighed. "It's not," he admitted, and then, after shoving his plate to one side, carefully laid his head down on the table. "I've finally gotten myself into trouble I can't get out of," he mumbled into the wooden surface.

"Uh huh," said Ron, judgemental. "Out of all the boyfriends to have, you had to go and pick that one?"

"I know," Harry whined, reaching out blindly to smack Ron's shoulder. "Stop reminding me."

.

END.

A/N:

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