You’re arranging flowers, when Tom enters, his expression darkening as he sees the bouquet.

"Who sent you these?"

"Harry," you hesitate.

"I see," he murmurs, his tone icy.

“He’s harmless…”

“F^cking Potter is sending you flowers and you want to tell me it’s harmless?” He reads the card. “Thought of you at midnight. Hope you’re doing well. Love, Harry.”

Tom crumples the paper. “It doesn’t take a genius to know what he was doing while he was thinking of you at midnight, doll.”