Son of Magic

Chapter 23

And Harry wanted to swallow his tongue as soon as the words left his mouth, knowing that he'd added too much bite into his retort to pass for simple frustration.

"Is that jealousy I detect, Stevenson?" taunted Riddle, and Harry could hear the self-satisfied smirk he was sporting, making him want to turn and stab the quill clenched in his fist into Riddle's not-beautiful-at-all eyes. Maybe he'd aim for the jugular and be done with this whole headache-inducing mess.

"I'd suggest cleaning out your ears, Riddle. But perhaps it's more of an internal malady that ails you, like a mental deficiency or an over-sized ego," Harry answered, thankfully sounding much more collected than he felt, even if his retort was a few levels short of witty.

"Is that your professional opinion, Healer? Would you like to examine me closer?"

Harry hadn't meant to laugh, but what else could he have done when faced with such a cheesy line? Spoken in that husky, seductive tone, no less. So laugh he did, and not even a quiet chuckle, but rather a deep bellied laugh that had him shedding a tear or two.

Had Harry chosen that moment to turn and face the boy he wanted nothing more than to flee from, he would have seen a most peculiar sight. He'd have seen grey eyes widen, then soften into a gentle and admiring gaze, his full lips drawn into the barest hint of a smile that would have stopped his heart.

As it was, Harry did not look, and Tom managed to rearrange his features into the cocksure expression that was more common for him.

"Not even with a ten-foot pole, Riddle."

"Are you sure about that, darling?" whispered Tom, who was suddenly standing much too close to him—so close that Harry felt his breath hotly brushing against his ear.

It was only because of his old-age refined control that Harry didn't startle and jump away from Riddle like a frightened little kitten.

"Did the matron at your orphanage never teach you about personal space?" Harry spat as he started spiralling further down the dark pit of self-loathing.

Why? Why did he have to react to him in such a way? Why did his belly have to heat and his throat go dry?

Why did Riddle have to smell so good?

Instead of responding with indignant fury for even daring to mention the horrid muggle place he'd been brought up in, Tom kneeled behind him, pressing his chest flush against Harry's back.

"Do I make you uncomfortable, Stevenson?"

If Harry hadn't been so taken aback by the gesture, he might have turned around and decked the boy for his abundant audacity, but his blood had frozen in his veins for multiple reasons, the least of which not being the desire he felt stirring from the place he'd banished it to.

"Your strong overtures would make even a whore uncomfortable, Riddle. Now remove yourself from my person before I decide that you'd look better dead and broken at the bottom of this tower."

But Harry's most genuine threat went ignored by the foolish boy.

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Tom said while snaking his arms around Harry's waist. But that was about all the contact Harry could handle before he sprang up and away from the forward wizard.

"Firstly, I'm not a lady," Harry growled defensively. "I assure you that there's nothing gentle or lady-like about my person," he threatened with slightly bared teeth. "And secondly, for someone whose aversion for muggles is so well known, at least in the Slytherin den, you sure use a lot of muggle references. Riddle."