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Tom’s been at the boardinghouse for just over two days before he sees the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen in his life. Lucius and he are doing a short tour of the Continent, in congratulations of Tom’s new Mastery in Curses and Enchantments, and this has been by far Tom’s least favorite stop, in some bucolic bywater in southern France.
He looks up from the boarding house window nook where he’s been peer-reviewing Guggungawp’s fascinating new treatise on hereditary curses–an effort to out-wait Lucius and his tiresome pastoralist fantasies–just in time to catch of a glimpse of the boy as he strolls right by.
He’s short, but broad-shouldered, with tousled ink-black hair, green eyes glowing even in the bright light of the sun and wearing devastatingly tight Quidditch breeches clinging to thick muscled thighs and trim calves. He’s holding a broomstick over his left shoulder and laughing to himself.
It’s a Stunning Charm direct to the chest. He finds himself standing up, curtly moving the leather-bound portfolio of loose pages to the side and turning so he can get the last view as the boy strides by the window. Afterwards, he looks at the crumpled pages and scowls. He’s never been so grossly affected by his own hormones.
***
Tom is convinced he’ll never see the boy again, never suffer that gross loss of control that led to him peering out the window like an addlepated twit, and furthermore, shortly forget he was even capable of that idiocy.
Then he’s waiting for Lucius to arrive for luncheon, irritatedly applying his third round of Sunscreen Charms and wondering just how he will extract this appalling lack of courtesy out of Lucius’s flesh, and the boy quite literally runs into him. The crash of their bodies is like dousing his body in a Euphoria Potion, and Tom finds himself physically clutching the boy’s body to himself. For balance.
“Oh ‘Alo,” says the boy, and he smiles, sort of crooked and shy, and then, in devastating French, “I didn’t see you there.”
“Quite.” Tom says, forcing his hands off where he’s clamped them tight to the boy’s hips, and straightening the cuffs of his dress robes. He has a moment where words, which is ridiculous, because he’s made it a point of pride to speak French just as well as Lucius at this point, and then forces out, “My apologies.” He dips his head, courteously.
The boy’s smile broadens, but then he looks over Tom’s shoulder and cocks his head. “Oh, you’re not eating here, are you?” He asks, like he’s genuinely concerned for Tom.
Tom clears his throat. “Is there somewhere else you would suggest?”
The boy considers him for a long moment. His smile gets a little sly and his eyes fill with mischief, and Tom feels bewitched.
“Oh, I have an idea.” Then he reaches out one smaller square hand out to Tom, work callused and strong. “On y va,” he breathes.
They don’t make it to a restaurant, and they sure as hell don’t make it to lunch. They do make it to a small loft apartment, where Tom holds the boy down and ruts between the boy’s thick thighs. The boy looks too beautiful, too perfect, too good in the dim afternoon light filtered through the curtains, and Tom can’t bear it. He buries his face into the boy’s neck as he thrusts, clutching too tightly at Harry’s hip and nape, some part of him desperately thinking how much he wants to keep this perfect creature and savaging his neck in love bites the whole while.
***
“Oh Morgant,” the boy breathes out, after, out of breath and dazed with the aftereffects of his pleasure. “I don’t even know your name,” he says, half-laughing and half-mortified, his hands coming up to cover his eyes. Tom hates it, being blocked from seeing his face, and before he can stop himself, he’s pulling the boy’s hands away, going back staring straight into his transfixing eyes. Tom’s convinced there are whole arsenic colored galaxies in there.
He resettles himself between the boy’s thighs, ignoring the slick wetness of his own come and desperately unwilling to give away territory he’s already won.
“That’s easily fixed.” He soothes, and Merlin’s saggy bollocks, but that’s so out of character for him that his brain nearly derails completely. “You are?” He tries, in an effort to recollect himself and be charming. He’s still holding the boy’s wrists in his thin fingered hands, pinning him in place.
The boy is so red, crimson although out the face and neck, all the way to the top of his chest, but he still manages a breathy and embarrassed: “Harry, Harry Potter.”
Tom’s heartbeat stutters in his chest. Harry. This marvelous boy’s name is Harry. And then his stomach sinks. Potter. Tom knows about the Potters. Knows how narrowly they escaped the Sacred-Twenty-Eight list, before they relocated to France and integrated into French Wizarding society there, how they’ve produced pureblood potions genius after genius.
And Tom’s been that Muggleborn bit-of-rough so many times before, a role that he’s very used to playing, but he stares into Harry’s soft love-drunk eyes and wants to be an equal.
“Lucius Malfoy,” Tom verbally vomits, not even thinking about it.
“Lucius Malfoy,” Harry breathes out, like a prayer, and Tom already knows this is a terrible idea because he hates that name, on those lips, like that, but he already committed.
Tom crashes his mouth down on Harry’s, and for the next three days he makes sure Harry’s mouth is too busy to do anything but plead him for more.
The fourth day he can’t find Harry, not anywhere, unable to come clean or even pass along fabricated information for owl post. He and Lucius’s portkey leaves precisely at noon, and he leaves that tiny nonsense town in the south of France with a stone in his throat.
***
Tom is definitely not still dreaming of Harry and the gross over-sunshine-y south of France three months later, definitely not dwelling on that Harry shaped ache that’s taken up an ever-present roost in his chest, when Lucius storms into his brand-new Unspeakable office in the Ministry.
Tom raises one eyebrow at Lucius. Lucius looks uncharacteristically… disheveled, normally glossy blond hair slightly tangled and without it’s shine.
“Lucius,” he drawls, displeased. Just because Lucius is the closest friend didn’t mean the man can discard all courtesy. He slowly lays his parchment down on his desk, so that Lucius can see he is obviously intruding. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Riddle,” Lucius’s voice is curt, and he holds a thick piece of creamy parchment in his left hand, which he slaps viciously against his right.
Tom knows he must be furious, because he skips pleasantries and obeisance entirely. He’ll have to correct him later. “Do you have any idea why my father has asked me why the Potters have approached him, demanding that the Malfoys take responsibility for magically bonding with their underage son?”
Tom blinks, utterly floored. “What.”
Lucius shakes the parchment at Tom, normally pale face reddening until he looks like a candy-floss topped tomato. “We have an arrangement with the Blacks! I am engaged to Narcissa! I can’t be bound to a…boy! A boy I have never even met!”
Tom blinks again. He leans forward over his desk, “He was seventeen! That’s the age of consent!” He says, somewhat desperately. He’d checked. Eventually.
“Not in France,” Lucius hisses.
Tom rocks back on his heels. Lucius throws the parchment at Tom’s chest, and he catches it with numb and shaky fingers. He feels like a dullard, like he’s swimming in soup. He stares at the parchment, trying to read it. The words swim. Harry. Harry, who he’d never thought he’d see again. Harry’s bonded to him.
Lucius puts the back of his hand to his forehead, dramatic. “Oh, I’m going to end up assassinated by the Blacks,” he wails.
He turns on Tom. “We have to figure this out before I end up married to him!” Lucius snarls, as aggressive as he’s ever been towards Tom.
Tom’s head snaps up. “The hell you will.”