O R P H I C. [Tom. R × Reader]

40. "Shall we?"

=🌿=

It's the morning after the incident, and Tom has hardly moved an inch. He lays curled up under my thick feather duvet, silent and unmoving.

The only thing that tells me that he isn't out cold are his dark eyes, not the slightest part closed, following every move I make.

"Let's go down to your room," I suggest, sliding a book into its place on the shelf before turning to face him. Our eyes meet immediately, but it doesn't look like he's about to reply.

I approach the bed, keeping our gazes connected until I glance out the window at the gradually lightening sky; the sun is rising.

"...Why," it sounds more like a statement than a question, and his voice sounds tired and hoarse, I doubt he caught any sleep after yesterday. I sit down on the edge of the mattress and turn to face him, the sound of feather-down duvet rustling beneath my weight pierces the silence of the room like an arrow. He still watches, without any clear emotion.

I reach my hand out, gently brushing a clump of curls away from his eyes, "so we can retrieve our uniforms."

He doesn't reply, staring for a while as I run my fingers through his curls.

"Must we?" He finally asks, pulling me down to him so my head rests on the pillow right in front of his face.

"The ball is approaching, which means lessons start today," I explain, taking his hand that wasn't buried under the blankets.

I watch the deep brown of his eyes, searching for some emotion, any emotion. But still, there is none.

"For Salazar's sake.." He sighs, slowly sitting up. His movement brings a grin to my face.

"You're the best," I tease him.

"Shut up before I lock myself in the study, away from you," He threatens, slipping on his shoes.

==

No male teacher at Hogwarts ever before would be caught dead teaching the dance classes for the ball, but this year, that tradition runs cold, because in the centre of the hall where all the Slytherin and Gryffindor students stand, stands a tall, dark, slender man. Y/n can't help but ogle at his beautiful, dark, silky skin.

He gives a warm, welcoming aura, and you can feel the gracefulness settling in the air around him. He even smiles, turning his head to meet gazes with numerous students in a refined air about him.

The ebony-skinned man stands in the centre of two large circles, drawn in chalk on the floorboards, one larger and the smaller within it.

"Now, now students," He speaks, and immediately the start-of-class chatter dies down, "My name is Faust, but unless you want a backhand from old man Dippet, you'll refer to me as Professor Clive, I'll be leading and teaching the dances for this year's ball."

It's easy to pick up his heavy African accent, but it simply suits him.

"This year, I'd like to prioritize that there'll be no foolishness in the classes. Having fun is one thing. Being a donkey is another. There'll be no need for diffidence here either, I'll be teaching you all a mixer to ensure that," He seems to divide his attention into fractions, evenly spread among the others as he talks.

"A mixer is a social dance," He smiles, clasping his hands together, "which means, yes, you will be switching partners often." There's a tidal wave of groans as the disappointed students start to make discussion of the unfamiliarity.

Tom also seems to immediately regret getting out of bed this morning, and I also find myself slightly disappointed at the realization that I won't only be dancing with Tom. He sighs and briefly rubs his temple with his right hand, his left reaches around and rests on my hip.