ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ ᴏɴᴇsʜᴏᴛs

Sleep Debt

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Summary: Knee-deep in textbooks and on the brink of collapse, your only escape may just be the Hogwarts prodigy.

Author: airy-eclipse (on tumblr)

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He finds you after supper, tucked away in a quiet corner of the library, books piled so high up that they obstruct his view of your hunched silhouette. Papers of various subjects sprawled across the table in no particular fashion, as if they had started out in neat stacks and progressively gotten jumbled in the sea of material.

You don't even bat an eye as Tom's shadow falls over the book you're occupying yourself with, Advanced Rune Translations. It is by far the most dreadful thing you've ever laid your eyes on, but you push on. It's a test-heavy season and you were not about to disappoint yourself and your family while everyone else succumbed to slumber, even if the words on the page were looking a little funny. Even if you were going the tiniest bit insane.

Tom clears his throat above you, and you look up, scowling. You soften as you register the lean frame and impeccable posture, stomach fluttering happily at the sight.

"How is it going?" he asks dryly, scanning your fatigued face with an unimpressed stare. You place down your quill to crack your tingling fingers and are relieved to find that they're still attached.

"Good. I feel gooder than a gumball," you say through half-lidded eyes, propping your head onto your hands.

Tom raises a brow, amusement evident in the slight curl of his lips. "Clearly. However, curfew is almost upon us, so I'm afraid sitting here dawdling won't do much good."

You shoot up quickly, knocking your ink tray over in the process and sending the librarian on a rampage of shushes directed your way. "I am not dawdling, Tom! I'm trying to be productive! You know it won't be easy. I can't afford to fail," you hiss indignantly, crossing your arms.

You hate that tests don't affect him like they affect you. He's standing there smiling down at you with his neatly ironed robes and luscious waves and hollowed out cheekbones looking like perfection, and...you...well, you're just barely rocking the disheveled hair and dark circles that students typically sport during the N.E.W.T.s season.

"You failing your N.E.W.Ts." Tom places his palm flat against the polished wood. "And me losing my Head Boy position overnight. Life truly is astounding," he says monotonously, and you can't help but grin, because goodness he's cocky sometimes and Merlin you love it.

"Well," you argue. "That would be an unfair comparison because the chances of you not wearing your badge to breakfast tomorrow morning are, let's see, approximately one in-"

You stifle a yawn and lean forward, head almost colliding with the table for the hundredth time before Tom catches you. A pair of strong arms wrap around you and suddenly you're on your feet, legs shaking after hours of sitting on that stupid seat studying for that godforsaken exam.

"Tom!" you protest. He raises a slender finger to your lips. You roll your eyes in exasperation, but all it takes is one look at him and the words sizzle out and die on your tongue.

He's frowning. The wry humor in his face is gone, replaced by something contemplative, uneasy. His brows are knit together, lips downturned, and there's something akin to concern in his eyes.

You find yourself wanting nothing more than to kiss it away.

And you do. It's sweet and short and almost invigorating, and when you pull away it's gone as if it was never there, a trick of the light. You cup his face in your hands, the world melting away until it leaves just the two of you, two souls intertwined. He meets your steadfast gaze with a breathy chuckle and all at once your heart feels so, so full.

You would say that you hated it, the way you turned to putty in his hands, complaisant and weak in the knees, but you'd be lying to yourself. You loved him like this; loved this side of him that no one else dove far enough to find, guard down and sweet and and so very human.

"Let's get you to your dorm," he whispers, pushing the hair out of your face, and this time, you're too tired to complain.

With the flair of an exceptional student and the expertise of an Auror, he charms the overwhelming pile of books into your knapsack and leads you out the doorway, hand around your waist, which, to be frank, is thoughtful considering you can barely keep your eyes open.

The walk back is pleasant, save for a few stumbles on your part, but you're too tired to feel embarrassed. You treasure these comfortable silences with him, and the empty corridors only add to the peace.

By the time you arrive at the entrance of your common room, the full force of your exhaustion had sunken in and your bed is practically calling to you.

You turn to bid Tom goodnight, but there's that weird, faraway look to his eyes that you can never fully decipher. Softly, you call out his name.

At once the expression melts away and he hesitates for a moment before bending down to your height. "I don't want you skipping meals and studying until sundown anymore. At this rate, your own doom lies in yourself."

He sounds ostensibly harsh, but there is an underlying layer of something soft, something tender nestled in the words. He stills for a moment, and you wonder if he's hoping you don't notice.

You notice all the same.

You hum in agreement and wrap your arms around him. Lavender and cedarwood and the faintest bit of vanilla drift up your nose. It's a smell you find yourself thinking of far too often, and always when you're not supposed to be. It's the subject of your daydreams when you're potting mandrakes in the greenhouse. It's the comforting aroma that crosses your mind when you're lying awake in the dead of night. You're not entirely sure how to feel about the realization.

But one thing was for sure—you'd drown and he'd bring you right back, every time.

"Good night," you say, fidgeting with the green and silver emblazoned tie on his chest.

"Sleep well," he murmurs into your hair, and he stays there in your embrace a little longer than he'd like to admit.