Chapter Text
Tom cursed as he stared at the flower in his hands. It was so close to perfect. It was the sixth iteration of the same flower, and this time he had truly expected to succeed. To capture the marvel of Harry’s feathers as the sun cut through them.
Over and over, the sight of Harry flying across the light and glowing with beauty unparalleled replayed in his mind, and Tom wished fervently to recreate the wonder that he had seen. Except that he couldn’t. Each one was a failure. Never before had he been unable to achieve his goal. Never had he encountered anything he could not do.
Nothing had been impossible to him… until now.
He cursed again, his fingers tightening around the stem. He was about to throw it to the ground when a smaller hand reached over, brushing feather-light against his fist.
“Tom,” said Harry, green eyes gentled, a faint wrinkle of concern marring his brow. And oh how Tom hated to see anything other than a smile upon his face. “What’s wrong?” Harry asked, guiding the flower back down onto his work table.
Lips thinning, Tom glared at the shimmering petals. So close, but not quite right.
“Tom?”
He glanced up and shook his head. “It is nothing,” he said, smoothing his expression.
Harry gave him a look that conveyed just how much he believed Tom’s words. Which was to say: not at all.
“You have been in this room for over twenty-four hours and I bet you didn’t even eat the meal I left by the door.” Harry crossed his arms, his frown deepening.
Tom felt a pang of guilt as he glanced at the plate. It was covered and still warm, preserved by magic, and very much untouched. He glanced back at Harry, who looked at him expectantly.
He gave a small sigh, his shoulders slumping minutely. “I cannot seem to make it quite right,” he said, gesturing at the flower. “I cannot seem to perfect it.” He made a noise of disgruntlement, disliking the fact that he was admitting to such a failure out loud. Only to Harry would he ever utter such words.
Harry hummed softly, bending down to peer at the flower. It was sparsely petaled, unlike most of his creations. Each petal was vaguely translucent, white in colour but for the shimmering rainbow that burst forth at certain angles.
But it did not glow the way Harry’s wings did. It did not swell with power and beauty as he had intended.
Still, Harry smiled the smile he always did when faced with one of Tom’s creations. As if Tom had made the world itself and not just a plant. Tom felt warmth in his heart despite the evidence of his failure.
Then, without warning, Harry grabbed the flower and danced back as Tom stepped forward in surprise.
“Harry?” He said, a frown settling upon his brow. “What are you doing?” He asked as his love stepped back again, a grin forming on his face.
“You’ll have to come find out,” said Harry, a laugh following his statement as he ducked from the room. Tom heard the quick pattering of his feet down the hall and immediately gave chase.
He wanted to be annoyed. Harry tended to be rather unpredictable and for all Tom knew, his love was about to apparate to one of his friends and show them the flower. Or perhaps to an herbologist to see if they would breed it. Harry was wonderfully supportive and also rather rash, jumping in before everything was quite ready.
He heard quick, light footsteps race up the stairs and followed suit. Harry was fast, and Tom was not sure that he could catch him if he chose to apparate out, but Harry was not headed for the door. In fact, he was headed —
Tom dashed around the corner, his blood rushing as he raced to the balcony, lurching forward just as Harry crouched.
But Tom was just a little too slow and he saw the wings burst from Harry’s back, saw him bend and launch upwards, his wings buzzing loudly, his hair ruffled and blended with shimmering feathers that sprouted in his partial transformation.
Harry was smiling as he held the flower up in the sunlight, allowing Tom to see the way it refracted light in a beautiful array of colours.
But Tom could barely pay attention to his creation, for he was caught by the sight of Harry, haloed by the sun, glowing like magic itself as he smiled down at Tom, his eyes bright as life itself, swirls of magic enveloping him.
It was then that Tom realized why he would never be satisfied with his flower. Because nothing — nothing could compare to Harry’s beauty. And in the end, Tom thought that perhaps that was for the best. Because Tom knew then that he wanted Harry all for himself. Couldn’t bear the thought of someone else seeing Harry just as he did.
And it was selfish of him, perhaps. But at this moment, as Harry laughed, swirling the flower and lowering himself so that he could grasp Tom’s outreached hand, Tom couldn’t bring himself to care.
He loved Harry. He loved Harry with all his heart, and Harry loved him, and that was a magic that would always be theirs alone.