The Diary (pottermort)

chapter fourteen

Fleamont Potter is a child. He is pampered, immature, easily flustered. He is not like Euphemia, his ex-crush that is avoiding him because she is avoiding Tom and her encounter with Grindelwald left her a little more than fearful. Euphemia is calculated, soft-spoken, and so much more articulated than Fleamont. And he is not like Tom, either. Tom, who knows all the right things to say and who considers himself perfect because he is.

Despite the fact that Fleamont stutters when Tom would not even waver, Tom is his friend. Tom has seen his soul and has not condemned it.

Fleamont put no effort in denying his infatuation with Tom. How could he? Tom is the epitome of perfection. And when, in early January, Fleamont is approached by his friend and given the offer to be something more-- why, Fleamont can hardly believe his luck.

Fleamont tries to tidy his forever unruly hair for the date, but the fact he fails is a given. Tom looks nothing like Fleamont in his dress robes-- which are expensive, fancy, and tailored specifically to Tom's figure-- because Tom looks like he was born to wear aristocratic clothes. He looks at peace in the clothing he had never worn before and it serves as a perfect contrast to Fleamont's out-of-water mannerisms. Fleamont is no stranger to wealth but he is a stranger to looking like it. His robes are new, yes, as always, but they do not radiate arrogance like the dress robes do.

Tom waits for him at the stairs of Hogwarts. He sees the awkward way Fleamont holds himself and does not advert his eyes. He says instead, ever so softly, "You look lovely, Flea. Let's get going, yes?"

(Fleamont is whipped.)

They walk to Hogsmeade, for Fleamont's parents had signed he and Tom's Hogsmeade permission slips, and did so hand in hand. They watch, amused, as Neville scares the other children, who are too panicked to severely maime their pet. Tom had suggested they let her tag along and Fleamont did not have it in himself to disagree.

Fleamont rants about Quidditch and Tom listens. He is obviously not as into the subject as him but Tom tolerates the talk of Fleamont's passion and it is more than enough. Tom talks briefly about whatever he wants-- ranging from an essay he's writing on the Patronus Charm to how Slughorn is a gold digger without the romance, supposedly-- and Fleamont hangs onto every perfectly spoken word.

(And how could he not?)

They browse the shops together, sometimes buying something and sometimes not, but having fun either way. When they exit Honeydukes, bags of only the best sweets in hand, Neville meets them outside. She slithers up Tom's leg and rests herself in the crook of Tom's neck.

Fleamont grins at the sight. "Did you ever have a pet snake?" he voices. "Before, I mean."

Tom pets Neville's scales absently with his free hand. "No," he says and his voices conveys no emotion. (It is as if he is upset at the fact but does not wish to show it-- or does not care to.)

"Erm--" sputters Fleamont, trying desperately to keep the conversation flowing and trying even more so desperately to push back the flush on his face. "Did you have any other animal-- uh, pals?"

"No," Tom says and a small smile graces his face, "But Billy Stubb's rabbit was rather fun to play with at times."

"Was?" Fleamont prompts.

Tom grins with shark-like teeth and a gleam in his eyes, and Fleamont knows that Euphemia would be terrified but Fleamont can only find it in himself to be utterly attracted to the image. "It ran away," he said simply.

And who was Fleamont to disbelieve him? Even when his expression does not match his words and his grin is shark-fucking-like?

Tom has no reason to lie. Fleamont squeezes his hand reassuringly and knows (deep in the heart he wears on his sleeve) that there was no better person to give his Invisibility Cloak.

Fleamont voices the sentence with a crimson face and Tom smiles ever so charmingly before his face clears of the gesture abrutly; his face flashes with realization of something-- of what, Fleamont did not have a clue. Before Fleamont can ask what's on his mind, Tom uses his free hand to cup the side of his face.

He asks, intently, his eyes on Fleamont's lips, "Can I kiss you?" (Because consent is sexy.)

And who is Fleamont to deny him when it was something he has wanted for so long?

Tom's kiss is perfect because it is Tom's-- he never provides anything less than everything. The chaste brush of their lips is no exception.

Fleamont pulls back with a dopey grin. He is worth it, Fleamont thinks. He is not sure himself what he was referring to. Tom is worth his Invisibility Cloak? Tom is worth renaming his snake? Tom is worth all the money in the world?

No. Not just that, Fleamont thinks and then, with more clarity, Tom is worth everything.

And is it not the truth? Tom has a thin-lipped smile and a far-away look in his eyes. (Those eyes that are concealing disappointment.) He runs a hand through Fleamont's hair and thanks him for the evening and thanks him for everything.

"Y--you deserve it," Fleamont says, because it's true. "What's mine is yours."

Tom tilts his head, flashing a grin that is all teeth, and the angle makes his cheekbones catch in the light. He is beautiful, Fleamont thinks. "Of course," responds Tom, his well placed confidence shining through.

It is an evening neither will forget. Different as their reasons may be, it marks a day in their shared history. One of disappointment, one of affection, and one of a future together declared in unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

Tom wonders how the evening would be remembered differently if Fleamont knew that Billy Stubb's rabbit did not run away.