(Tomarry - HP/TR) Burnt Ice Cream

Part II

Tom coughed, loudly. The boy whipped his head up, black locks flying out of his face and round spectacles emerging under the bird's nest that was apparently the boy's hair.

"Oh, didn't see you there. I'm Harry," the boy said easily, a drop of strawberry ice cream dribbling down his chin. Tom's eyebrow twitched.

"Pleasure," Tom returned dryly, sneering as the boy wiped his face with one of his hands, smearing light pink ice-cream on the edge of the boy's sleeves.

"I work at Fortescue's," Harry continued, pointing to the door through which he had come, as if his bright pink apron emblazoned with the shop's name didn't give it away. "Only for the summer, though. I'm saving up for a Firebolt. Have been for a few years, actually, it really is quite expensive."

The boy scratched the back of his neck, looking somewhat sheepish, "My mum wants me to earn the money myself, and not just splurge what's in my trust vault. Something about taking responsibility or whatever. I wasn't really listening."

Tom's lips had tightened into a thin line at the mention of a trust vault, already building the image in his head of a spoilt pureblood idiot, who cared about nothing more than Quidditch. The boy was staring up at Tom from the floor, presumably waiting for him to stay something in return – probably about how it was so unfair of the boy's mother to place such restrictions on him, when the boy's head tilted and the light reflecting off his lenses disappeared, letting Tom see the vibrant green hues of the boy's eyes.

"You're Harry Potter!" Tom blurted out, before grimacing upon realising he had done so. The girls in Tom's year – Greengrass, Davis, and whatever brat was tagging along with them talked for hours on end in the common room about the boys in their school; who was the most dreamy, who was the cutest… essentially any topic so sickening that Tom would soon retreat back to his dormitory to do his homework in peace. However, he did remember them talking about Harry Potter.

"His hair is a mess, and his face is rather plain with those horrid glasses not helping anything, but those eyes. Circe, I would do anything to have those eyes staring at – "

Tom had promptly sought refuge at the library when the gossipers started wading into dangerous territory, so he never knew what exactly the girl had been about to say next. However, he could fully appreciate what his year-mates had been blathering on about, when that startling and unnatural shade of green was pointed his way, entirely focused on him.

"Yes, I am," the boy – Harry Potter – confirmed, and looked at Tom curiously. "Don't tell me! You're….you're….oh, you're that weird kid from Slytherin! You're in my year, right?"

Tom bristled, eyes narrowing at the Gryffindor – for Tom remembered that Harry Potter was the talented Gryffindor Seeker –and he gave a sharp nod. Potter smiled, looking entirely too happy with the deathly glare Tom was sending his way.

"What are you doing out here, Tom? Soaking up some sunshine?" The boy joked, nodding at Tom's pale skin tone which was completely washed out against Potter's light tan.

"Riddle," Tom hissed, snapping his book shut and casting it to the side, "you shall refer to me as Riddle."

"Oh," Potter looked nonplussed, a small frown forming on his face before clearing. "Alright, Tom – I mean Riddle," he hastily added under Tom's sharpened glare.

Tom grunted in return before stiffly standing up, collecting his books in his arms with the intention of returning into the bookshop and demanding Madam Medea to conjure him an armchair, no matter what scornful taunt he'd receive in return. He had no inclination to spend another second in the boy's presence.

"Where're you going?" Potter asked, craning his neck upwards and squinting in the sunlight as Tom pulled the door awkwardly open, arms laden with books, and resolutely ignored the younger teen.

Tom spent the rest of the day crammed between two bookshelves on a wobbly old wooden stool, struggling to make out the small spidery writing under the light of a flickering candle flame. Madam Medea flittered around like a stubborn house-fly, making odd and senseless loops around the bookshop, hissing and cackling at Tom whenever she passed him by.

Tom struggled to ignore her, but his patience startled to crumble when she sat down at his feet and started teasing him for being scared of fairies, of all things. His leg itched to kick out, catch the old hag unaware and stop her blithering madness like some child in the midst of a tantrum, but she smiled knowingly at him, wayward black brows framing twinkling eyes.

The next day Tom returned to the courtyard.