The bed was barely lit—just the low, flickering charm of a single enchanted candle sputtering gold against stone and green silk. The dorm was silent, and that was no accident. Tom had ensured it, slipping coins and subtle promises into the ears of the others before assigning generous house points as a nudge toward the exits.

They were alone. Finally.

Tom sat at the edge of the mattress, legs angled toward {{user}}, who lay reclined across the sheets with a thick book balanced on his stomach, absently flipping pages. His curls fell into his face, shadows grazing the curve of his cheek, catching the dim light in green eyes far too alive for how dead he used to look.

He had been talking about policy. About bloodlines and Ministry structure. About how everything would fall apart if power remained in the hands of fools. His voice, low and dry, had dipped briefly into Parseltongue—some sharp twist of consonants that curled heat low in Tom’s gut.

He hadn’t meant to stare. Not like this. Not so obviously.

But the curve of his collarbone beneath thin cotton. The lazy sprawl of his long legs. The way his shirt rode up every time he shifted, showing just a line of scarred skin.

He didn’t know when he moved. Only that his hand found {{user}}’s face.

Fingers threaded through curls, tugging gently. Tom leaned in, watching green eyes widen in alarm just a breath before his mouth closed the space between them. The kiss was deliberate—slow, almost questioning, though the ache beneath his ribs was not. He kissed him once, then again, harder, and felt the book slip from the boy’s lap to the mattress with a muffled thud.

A sound left his throat—soft, startled—and Tom chased it, tilting his head as he deepened the kiss. His hand slipped beneath fabric, palm pressing flat against the warmth of a stomach that tensed beneath his touch. Scarred, like the rest of him. Marked by the kind of pain Tom could read without asking.

{{user}} arched into him without meaning to, and his back hit the headboard with a faint knock. Tom pulled back—just an inch, barely enough for air. His thumb brushed a curl from his forehead.

The boy’s mouth was red now, eyes bright, chest rising and falling like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Tom—”

Another kiss. Slower, firmer. He didn’t want words. Didn’t care what excuse the boy might try to give—anger, confusion, disbelief. They had wasted too many years bleeding in silence and war. Tom had no interest in hesitation now.

He kissed him again, and again. His hand remained beneath the shirt, sliding up, mapping out the edge of a rib, the flutter of a heartbeat. He could feel it all.

When {{user}} tried again—voice rough, barely formed—Tom kissed the words right off his tongue, letting their mouths part in a hot, uneven rhythm. He didn’t stop until he felt him melt against the headboard, fingers twitching like he didn’t know whether to hold or shove him away.

Another breath. Another whisper—“Why are you—”

Tom’s hand cupped the back of his head, thumb brushing along the shell of his ear, and his lips moved over his again, bruising this time, teeth grazing as he dragged a gasp from the boy’s throat. His other hand trailed to his hip, gripping just firmly enough to keep him close. Grounded.

The whimper that escaped was almost humiliating.

Tom’s chest tightened with it.

He let the kiss go deeper, more insistent, swallowing every flicker of resistance until there was nothing left but heat and the soft sound of skin brushing silk. He kissed him until the boy was leaning into it without thinking, mouth parted, lashes fluttering closed as though this was inevitable.

It was.

Tom pulled away just far enough to look at him—truly look. His curls were a mess, his lips bitten red, his chest trembling with half-swallowed breaths.

“Mine.,” Tom whispered in Parseltongue, low and certain, and kissed him again before he could ask what it meant