Mimicry ★ T.M.R/Reader ★

☾⭒𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋⭒☽

You meet him in the Great Hall at nine in the morning sharp, though (predictably) Tom is early. He's waiting at the end of the Slytherin table with an open book and a cup of steaming tea, a lemon slice floating lazily across the surface where he's holding it nearly to his lips, clearly having been distracted by the words on his page. There's a faint pull between the dark angles of his brows, a tiny little mark of concentration that makes you smile. "Hey," you grin as you place your hands on the table opposite him.

Tom immediately looks up, concentration vanishing.

"Ready to go?" you prompt, bouncing once in excitement.

Instead of replying to this in any meaningful way, Tom only continues to look at you, and you catch a glimmer of something in his dark eyes before he gently sets down his tea in its saucer and stands, his book flipping itself shut where he leaves it behind on the table. "Yes," he says with a quiet smile, stepping around the table towards you. His hand seems to nearly reach for yours as he comes your side but he hesitates, a flicker of uncertainty on his face like he's caught himself doing something spontaneous that he's second-guessing and he pulls back a bit –

You reach forward and take his hand, lacing your fingers together as you turn for the door pretending like you hadn't noticed this. "Where are we going then?" you ask cheerfully, pulling him alongside with you. "Darcey told me that Honeydukes has these new sugar quill thingies that you can secretly eat in class, so that's sort of a must for me, sorry."

Tom is smiling at the ground when you sneak glance at him. "We can go anywhere you like," he says, looking up at the open doors and the crisp morning outside. His hand tightens around yours a little bit, like he's checking it's really there.

"Oh, be careful Riddle," you snicker, "I'll set you up in Madam Puddifoot's for eleven hours straight if you say things like that to me."

"You'd enjoy that, would you?" he says smoothly, giving you a dry look. "Spending eleven hours in Madam Puddifoot's?"

"No, but I'd enjoy how much you'd hate it," you grin, ignoring the lingering stares from the various students filing towards the carriages at your and Tom's entwined hands.

"Your plan is a terrible one," Tom smirks, his gaze drifting across the chilly courtyard as you cross it. "I wouldn't hate that in the slightest."

Your brows raise. "Seriously?"

"You'd expect me to hate spending eleven hours alone with you?" he asks, his lips curling into a smile that borders on devious and you definitely do not blush at the sight of it. "I'm essentially an expert at the practice by now," he finishes softly, watching your reaction with visible amusement, "and at least this way you'll actually be able to talk to me."

You wrench your eyes off him and fix them on the line of carriages ahead. "You know, one could call it a bit creepy how much time you've spent watching me sleep," you say in a hasty attempt to regain the upper hand.

"One could," he agrees with relentless nonchalance, "but then again, one could also call it magnificently romantic."

Your eyes snap to his to find him smirking at you again. "Up to you, I suppose," he says as he slips his other hand into his pocket with a glimmer in his dark eyes that makes your heart skip a beat despite yourself.

"Prick," you say without heat, trying not to smile. "Why are you in such a good mood, then? Is the fact that you're finally seeing the outside world? Those things there are called trees, Tom, and up there, those are clouds –"

"I go outside," Tom interrupts dryly. "I really have no idea how you ever formed the impression that I –"

"Well for one you're practically a ghost," you snicker, waving at his pale face with your free hand, "oh, and then there's the desk in the library with a Tom-shaped indent worn into it... But don't avoid the question."

"What question?" he says smoothly.

"What's got you so chipper?"

Tom's eyes slide to you. His expression holds none of the teasing humour from moments before, replaced with something heavy and quiet and calm and you blink, your heart thudding a little harder than strictly necessary like it can tell what Tom's thinking better than you can. "Nothing," he says quietly, watching you.

You've both stopped in the queue for the carriages and you're very glad for it, because you're suddenly aware that you're not quite able to look away from him standing beside you, the way his winter robe casts his skin in smooth contrast and draws out the black of his hair, or how you're close enough to see his crescent coal-coloured lashes, or how his lips are still a little swollen from kissing him yesterday, or how there's a mark that looks suspiciously like the impression of your teeth on his throat. There's nothing but heavy heat in his dark eyes and you try to remember what it was like to be afraid of him, but it all seems very far away now, all that coldness and anger is in some distant place on other side of the immeasurable expression on his face.

Tom leans forward slowly, calmly, his gaze unmoving from yours and you hold your breath as you watch him dip his head. He softly presses his lips to yours and your eyes fall shut, your cheeks flush, he's temptingly warm against the nip in the air and you lean a little closer. When he gently pulls away, you fall back on your heels without having noticed coming up onto them, and you stare at him with tingling surprise.

"Just you," Tom murmurs, and he says it with a very small, slightly tentative, but wonderfully gentle smile.

Your own smile blooms like he's planted some of his own on your lips.

A call from ahead announcing a free carriage makes Tom look up and he quickly pulls you forward with him towards it.

There's a long day ahead, there are shops to explore and cafes to visit, there's tonight, there's tomorrow, there are shadowed alcoves in the corridors and spaces behind bookshelves you'd like to pull Tom into at some point, and there's a million things you'd like to do with him once you get there.

But right now you've never been so captivated by anything than you are by the sight than him glancing at you with that smile lingering on his lips and his hand holding yours.

And more pressingly.

You've never loved him more.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.