Son of Magic

Chapter 17

December 6th, 1941

Astronomy Tower, Hogwarts

Once their lips connected in a chaste kiss, Harry lost himself to the thrumming heartbeat in his ears—lost himself to the spicy taste of fresh apples and cinnamon and in the warm, heady scent embracing him that smelled so decidedly Tom.

He was rendered incapable of any thought beyond that Tom was standing extremely close to him, his lips moving oh so sweetly against his own. Everything else drifted away from his mind. He forgot where or when he was—forgot the circumstances that brought him to that moment—and he forgot everything else that had been troubling him.

Harry pulled away for a brief moment to take in the sight of a flustered Tom dazedly looking at him through hooded, grey eyes filled with confused longing and warm cheeks tinged a delectable pink colour.

Harry was in a trance, the same trance he'd always fallen into when he stared into those deep silver pools that threatened to swallow his whole existence.

Harry gravitated towards Tom—unable to do anything but follow the unavoidable force of nature reeling him in—and when their lips met again in another chaste kiss, he felt a sense of rightness and homecoming settle over his skin, cloaking him in a familiar comforting warmth that he'd never managed to replicate with anyone else.

Their magic reached out to one another, humming contentedly and buzzing with excited and anticipatory energy that sent sparks over their already heated skin.

Their touch of lips was tentative—soft and gentle in a way that painfully stole Harry's breath away.

It was the type of kiss he'd always longed for Tom to indulge him in but until now had never received.

It was different....

The thought came unbidden, but Harry couldn't deny that the kiss they were sharing was different—better and worse in a way that suddenly had him immensely disoriented.

Harry was struck by that distinctive unfamiliarity of the situation, and that slow seeping realisation abruptly turned the warmth that had seconds previously been fanning a fire in his heart, into a biting chill that snuffed out the flame.

It was a clear warning from his subconscious, that much Harry was aware of—but he ignored it—ignored the sudden wrongness of the kiss because Tom tasted as divine as he always did, and it felt like they hadn't done this in forever.

But the wrongness persisted.

Tom—his Tom—had never kissed him with such caution and tenderness.

This kiss was filled with longing and promise—so very unlike the possessive and demanding kisses that they usually shared....

'Something is wrong,' Harry's mind whispered, more urgently this time.

The kiss was too sweet. So sweet, in fact, that it was almost dreamlike. But if it was indeed a dream, it was one of the nicer ones he's had of late because for the past week all he could think and dream about was...gold and blue, the most breathtaking shade of blue....

Suddenly his world widened beyond silver pools and soft lips, and he remembered.

This wasn't a dream, and this young wizard kissing him wasn't his Tom.

Harry abruptly pulled away from Tom, who was looking down at him with glazed eyes. His breaths were coming out in short gasps as he tried to gather his bearings, but before Tom could think to voice his annoyance and disappointment, Harry was already talking.