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5th of April 2017
It was one of those loud nights in London. Just the night that you would expect from a dark ducked away neighborhood. It was a place found between dark alleyways that any normal human being wouldn't think about getting close to, let alone actually enter.
Harry had finally run away from his parent's overbearing for the night, with a promise that he is only going with Ginny for a fun night in some other friend’s house. Well he is very clearly not going to this unknown friend of his with the roads that he is taking, but he is truly meeting up with Ginny so it is not a complete lie.
When Harry finally arrived at his favorite place in the world, the Padfoot pub, a pub owned by his amazing godfather that gave Harry unrestricted entering and VIP treatment. Harry simply smiled up at the bouncer who was a six foot something man with muscles that he would kill to touch and lick again.
The bouncer, Alex, only smiled down at Harry and gave him a wink with his gorgeous blue eyes and long eyelashes.
“Nice seeing you again Alex.” Harry's tone was bordering on seductive. But you can't blame him. The sex Alex gave him last week was enough to make the angels sin.
“Welcome back Harry!” And Alex, bless his soul, was such a sweetheart. He kept refusing to shag Harry since the first time he met two years ago. He was after all 20 back then, but Alex finally gave in this year and fucked Harry to heaven and back.
Harry could only blow him a kiss and slip into the club's front door where he was immediately swarmed with people from all ages and backgrounds. After all, this club accepted people without caring about their backgrounds, looks, status, and age as long as the people were over 16.
Harry felt like he was swerving in a car VR game since he kept being pushed around to get greeted by nearly every single person present. After all, who didn't know the gorgeous menace that was Harry Potter? Exactly.
“Harry! Over here!” And thank merlin someone came to Harry's rescue from this “throw Harry Potter around” game.
Ginny’s voice cut through the bass thumping against the walls. Harry shoved past a few bodies, ignoring the drunken greetings tossed his way, until he found the corner booth. Ginny was perched on the edge of the seat, flushed with excitement, her hair catching the neon lights. Across from her, Luna sat serenely with a drink so violently blue it looked radioactive, and the twins were already halfway through a pitcher of beer, clinking glasses with smug grins.
“Took you long enough,” George said, sliding a glass toward Harry. “We were about to put up a Missing Person’s poster.”
Harry smirked, dropping into the seat beside Ginny. “Relax. The party doesn’t start until I get here.”
“Obviously." Fred said, raising his glass in a mock toast with a soft smirk on his face.
Ginny shoved a shot glass into his hand the moment he sat down. “Finally. Thought you’d ditched me for Alex again.”
Harry smirked. “Jealous much?”
Harry downed a gulp, letting the cheap burn of alcohol spread through him. It was the perfect distraction from the rest of the world—the nagging of his parents, the suffocating expectations. Here, in Padfoot, he was untouchable.
The lights flickered once, twice, then dipped into near darkness. The crowd erupted with a cheer that rattled Harry’s teeth. Luna tilted her head toward the stage. “It’s starting.”
A single spotlight flared, cutting through the smoky haze. Four figures strode out—Bellatrix with her bass slung low like a weapon, Pansy with her guitar gleaming under the lights, Batty twirling his drumsticks as though they were knives. And then—Tom.
He walked to the mic like he owned the place. Maybe he did. The black shirt clung to him, collarbone sharp, eyes shadowed. When he looked up, it was with a predator’s kind of confidence, and the roar of the crowd only fed it.
Harry leaned back, unimpressed. He’d seen plenty of local bands crash and burn here before. They all thought they were gods for one night. Nothing new.
The first chord split the air, heavy and raw, and the room surged like a living thing. People shoved forward, pressing against the stage, hands in the air.
Harry, though, only tipped his glass toward Fred in a lazy toast and smirked. “Told you, same as always.”
But it wasn’t.
Onstage, Tom Riddle gripped the mic stand, voice pouring out like fire and gravel, rough in the edges but magnetic. His gaze swept the crowd, feeding off the energy, until it snagged on something—someone.
The boy wasn’t screaming for him, wasn’t even facing the stage properly. He lounged in the booth like the chaos had nothing to do with him, grin lazy, black hair sticking to his forehead from the heat. Green eyes flashed when he leaned across Ginny to steal her shot, his laugh swallowed by the roar of the bass.
Tom missed half a beat. It was so slight only Pansy’s raised eyebrow caught it, her fingers not faltering on the strings even as her gaze flicked his way. He recovered, snapping into the next line, but his focus stayed locked.
Who the fuck was that?
The lights strobed green for half a second, hitting Harry’s face dead on, and Tom felt something coil hot and tight in his chest. Every lyric after that, he sang like he was throwing it at the mysterious guy with enchanting green eyes.
Harry didn’t notice. He was busy arguing with George over who’d down the last shot.
The years blurred after that night at Padfoot.
By April of 2018, Harry had had enough. Seventeen years of James and Lily’s suffocating control had left him restless, and on the day he turned eighteen, he finally snapped the leash. With Sirius at his side, he boarded a one-way flight to New York.
Sirius was nothing like Harry’s parents. He was rich—old Black family money, the kind that could buy penthouses and yachts without blinking—and reckless enough to let Harry do as he pleased. Their glass-walled apartment towered over Manhattan, stocked with expensive liquor, music blasting at all hours. Sirius called it their fortress of sin, and Harry was free to drink, dance, and burn through the city however he liked. No more curfews. No more lectures. No more gilded cages.
Back in London, though, the world kept moving.
That band Harry had dismissed at Padfoot in 2017 didn’t fade away like the others. By 2019, their name was crawling across flyers and playlists. By 2020, they were headlining festivals. And that same year, they came back to Padfoot.
It was supposed to be a “hometown show.” a nod to the place that had hosted them before anyone knew their names. The crowd that night was bigger than the pub had ever seen, spilling out into the alleyways. For Tom, though, the return had another purpose—one nobody else guessed at. He had hoped to see the green-eyed boy from the booth again. The one who hadn’t even looked at him. The one Tom still couldn’t get out of his head.
But Harry wasn’t there. He’d already left for New York. Tom never knew.
The concert changed everything anyway. Videos went viral, fans online calling Padfoot a hidden gem, a cradle of greatness. People started traveling just to see the place where Riddle and his band had “started it all.” Sirius, never one to miss an opportunity, leaned into the fame. Padfoot expanded. London first, then New York, Las Vegas, California. Branch after branch, a chain of neon-lit clubs bearing the Black family name, all feeding off that single night in 2020 when the world decided Padfoot was legendary.
By 2023, Tom Riddle’s band was a global phenomenon with millions of fans, and Padfoot was the hottest club franchise on both sides of the world.
Ginny was one of those fans, loyal to the band since the very first night. The twins bragged even louder, having also called themselves “day-one Padfoot witnesses.” Their walls were plastered with posters, their playlists ruled by Tom’s voice.
Harry, though? To him, it was just another blur. A night of neon and cheap liquor, long forgotten. He didn’t know the band had gone back looking for him. He only knew they had returned to Padfoot’s for the supposed hometown concert since all of social media was dying to write about it, he knew it turned his godfather’s club into an empire. But he certainly didn’t know that Tom Riddle had never forgotten the boy who didn’t look back.
—
Steam curled lazily around the bathroom mirror, blurring Harry’s reflection into nothing but green eyes and dark hair dripping with water. His skin still buzzed faintly from the night before, the kind of reckless hookup that left his body humming but his mind oddly hollow. He tugged a towel around his hips and padded barefoot into the bedroom, the skyline of New York glowing through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
His phone lit up on the dresser, buzzing insistently. Ginny.
Harry rolled his eyes but answered, dragging the towel over his hair. “What’s up, Red? You never call this early unless something’s on fire.”
Ginny’s voice came through bright and buzzing with excitement. “Do you remember that band we saw back at Padfoot, years ago?”
Harry snorted. “Remember them? Gin, they’re everywhere. Billboards. Playlists. I can’t even grab coffee without hearing Tom bloody Riddle’s voice blasting from the speakers. Hard to forget.”
“Good,” she said, triumphant. “Because you, my dear Harry, owe me. I just got us VIP tickets for their concert on Sunday.”
That got his attention. He pulled the phone from his ear long enough to check the date glowing on the screen. Friday. Two days.
Harry leaned back against the wall, towel slipping a little at his hips. “Wait, VIP? As in, you scored us backstage passes or something?”
“Not just me,” Ginny rushed on. “Luna and the twins are already in. I ran into one of the band’s managers, Harry—one of the actual managers—aandshe gave me a whole bundle. Said she remembered me from Padfoot.” Her laugh was pure delight. “Guess being a loyal fan pays off.”
Harry sighed, dragging his hand through his damp hair. “You know I don’t really listen to them.”
“I know,” Ginny said, softer now. “But you were there that night, too. You’re part of this, whether you like it or not. So what do you say? One night. With us.”
Harry stared out at the glittering sprawl of New York, towel slipping lower, the faint ache of last night’s sins still lingering in his bones. A concert. A band he’d dismissed years ago. Ginny, Luna, the twins—all pulling him back toward a night he thought he’d left behind.
Harry tossed his phone onto the bed after the call ended and let himself flop back against the mattress. Ginny’s excitement still buzzed in his ears, but exhaustion pulled harder. A concert, huh? VIP tickets. He closed his eyes, towel sliding down his hips. He’d think about it later.
Sleep came quick.
—
Saturday mornings in New York always smelled like burnt bagels and car exhaust. Harry liked it. It was alive, messy, loud—nothing like the manicured silence of his parents’ estate back in London.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as he strolled down the block, black hat doing a poor job of hiding the mess of his hair. Even half-hungover, Harry Potter was unmistakable.
“Morning, menace!”
Mrs. Carmichael, a grandmother who ran the corner flower stall, waved at him with a spray of tulips in her hand. Her dog barked once, tail wagging furiously.
Harry gave her a two-finger salute. “Morning, gorgeous. Dog’s looking fitter than your last husband.”
She gasped, but the laugh that followed was warm. “You little devil. Go on, get your coffee before I throw at you these flowers.”
Harry grinned and kept walking. He could already taste the espresso.
—
The coffee shop’s bell chimed when he pushed open the door. The place smelled like roasted beans and cinnamon, crowded with regulars hunched over laptops. Behind the counter was Theo, the barista—dark hair, tattoos peeking from his rolled-up sleeves, and the kind of smirk that had gotten Harry into trouble more than once.
“Potter,” Theo drawled, leaning on the counter. “Back for more?”
Harry slid his sunglasses down just enough to wink. “Depends. You talking about the coffee or you?”
Theo rolled his eyes, but his smirk deepened. “You’re insufferable.”
“True,” Harry said, tapping the counter. “But you like it. Large iced americano, extra shot.”
Theo made the drink, and Harry watched, leaning lazily against the counter. They didn’t need to say it—yeah, they’d hooked up before, more than once, and yeah, they probably would again. But Harry liked keeping him guessing.
Theo set the drink down, but when Harry reached for his wallet, Theo shook his head. “On the house. You keep this place interesting.”
Harry arched a brow, sliding a crisp bill across the counter anyway. “You know I don’t take free shit. Rich brat rules.”
Theo sighed but pocketed the money, muttering something about Harry being “the most stubborn bastard in Manhattan.” Harry blew him a kiss before sauntering out, drink in hand.
Next stop: the deli.
—
The tiny shop smelled of smoked meats and oregano, shelves stacked high with everything from imported cheeses to off-brand cereal. The bell over the door jingled, and Mr. Alvarez looked up from the counter. He was stocky, graying, and had known Harry since he and Sirius moved into the neighborhood five years ago.
“Potter,” Alvarez said with mock severity. “Don’t tell me you’re here to steal my entire stock again.”
Harry grinned, grabbing a pack of gum from the display just to make a point. “Relax, old man. Just the essentials.”
Alvarez narrowed his eyes. “You’re not paying for gum. It’s practically worth less than the wrapper it comes in.”
Harry slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter anyway. “And yet, here I am. Supporting local business. You should be thanking me.”
“You’re impossible,” Alvarez grumbled, but there was no real heat in it. He tucked the bill into the register and handed Harry his change. “Tell your godfather I said he still owes me a bottle of the good whiskey from that last party.”
Harry smirked, tucking the gum into his pocket. “I’ll tell him if I remember.”
“You won’t.” Alvarez muttered, but he was smiling as Harry pushed back out into the street.
---
Back outside, Harry paused, sipping his coffee and looking up at the skyline. The city hummed around him—horns blaring, strangers yelling, a busker playing guitar on the corner. This was his kingdom, messy and loud and alive. Everyone knew him, everyone forgave him, even when he stirred up trouble.
And yet, as he chewed his gum and kept walking, Ginny’s voice echoed in his head.
Do you remember that band… VIP tickets… Sunday…
Harry shook it off. It was just a concert. Just another night out.
But still, he couldn’t shake the strange weight in his chest.
Sunday came faster than Harry expected.
One moment he was brushing off Ginny’s excitement with a shrug, the next he was standing outside Barclays Center in Brooklyn with a laminated lanyard around his neck, VIP printed in bold black letters. The pass caught the glow of the neon lights above, like it was taunting him for showing up at all.
The place was alive. Fans spilled into the street, packed shoulder to shoulder in leather jackets, ripped jeans, and heavy eyeliner. Some clutched signs, others balanced on tiptoe for selfies in front of the massive tour posters plastered along the arena walls. Vendors shouted about official merch and scalped tickets, while the low thrum of bass from inside the venue rattled through the pavement.
Harry shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, sunglasses low on his nose. He looked like he belonged and yet completely didn’t—aloof while everyone else vibrated with anticipation.
“Harry!”
He barely had time to brace himself before Ginny crashed into him, her red hair catching the glow of the marquee lights. Her grin was wild, cheeks flushed, and she grabbed his arm like she was afraid he might bolt.
“I can’t believe you actually came." she said breathlessly.
“Neither can I,” Harry muttered.
Behind her, Luna floated forward in glittery silver pants and a sheer top dotted with stars, sipping a neon drink through a straw. Fred and George weren’t far behind, their smug expressions identical as they waved their VIP badges in Harry’s face.
“Honestly thought you’d flake,” George said.
“Would’ve put money on it,” Fred added.
Harry rolled his eyes. “Sorry to ruin your betting pool.”
Ginny tugged him toward the special entrance, flashing her badge at the security guard. They skipped the long line of screaming fans, walking past barriers and flashing cameras until the heavy doors swallowed them into the venue.
Inside, the arena stretched wide and endless. The stage loomed at the far end, massive screens stacked like towers above it. Light rigs glowed overhead, casting the crowd in a haze of color. Even half-full, the roar of voices already pressed against Harry’s ribs, vibrating through his chest.
Their seats were close. Too close. Front section, practically pressed against the stage barricade. Ginny squealed when she saw, clutching Luna’s hand, while the twins fist-bumped like they’d just robbed a bank.
Harry dropped into his seat, stretching his legs and forcing a smirk. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” Ginny gasped, whirling on him. “Harry, we’re about to be ten feet from Tom Riddle. This is insane.”
Fred shoved a beer into Harry’s hand. “Drink. Maybe it’ll loosen you up before you embarrass yourself.”
Harry snorted but took a long swallow, the cold fizz cutting through the heavy air. He tried to play it cool, like this was just another night out, nothing special. But his eyes kept drifting toward the stage—the empty mic stand, the instruments gleaming under the lights, the sense of waiting.
Something in his chest tightened.
This wasn’t going to be just another concert.
Backstage throbbed with restless energy—the muffled roar of the crowd bleeding through the walls, the vibrations of musical instruments being tested in the distance.
Tom sat on the edge of the couch, posture perfect but fingers restless, twisting the silver ring on his hand again and again. Anyone looking would think he was calm, but those who knew him, really knew him, could see the cracks.
Pansy noticed first, of course. She always did. She was perched on the arm of a chair, her guitar propped casually across her lap, nails tapping on it iin rhythm. “You keep spinning that ring and it’s gonna cut your finger off.” she said dryly, eyes sharp in the mirror’s reflection.
Tom didn’t bother to answer.
From across the room, Bellatrix gave a low laugh, the kind that carried a little too much edge. She was hunched over her bass, plucking strings deliberately, each note vibrating through the floor. “Our man, nervous? What is it this time darling? Stage fright, or something prettier?”
Tom’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Barty was sprawled in the corner, flipping his drumsticks between his fingers, grin wolfish. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
The room stilled just enough for the unspoken truth to settle.
“The manager said she handed VIP passes to a group,” Pansy added, tilting her head. “One of them was a girl—redhead, mouthy, what’s her name… Ginny? She rang a bell.” Her smirk was knife-sharp. “Funny coincidence, isn’t it?”
Tom’s throat felt dry, but his voice was even when it came. “She doesn't know if he's going to be here.”
But they all knew who "he" was.
The boy in the smoke and neon haze of Padfoot, years ago. Messy-haired, troublemaker smile, eyes that had burned straight into Tom’s thoughts. It had been one night, one moment, but it had carved itself into him, a ghost that lingered through every lyric he wrote, every faceless crowd he sang to.
Harry Potter.
Tom had told himself he was long gone. That he’d only imagined that spark, that the godson of Sirius Black was another untouchable figure in a sea of thousands. But then the band had gone back to Padfoot in 2020, and Tom had hoped--no, ached--to see him again. And Harry hadn’t been there. He’d already left for New York.
And yet… Here was the chance again.
“Three minutes!” a voice shouted from the hallway.
The room shifted into motion. Bellatrix strapped her bass across her shoulders like a weapon. Pansy adjusted her guitar strap, hair falling forward as she checked the tuning. Barty twirled his sticks, bouncing with barely-contained energy.
And Tom rose last, every inch the frontman the world expected—sharp suit jacket, dark hair falling just so, eyes outlined in kohl. The picture of control.
But beneath the surface, his pulse raced.
Because tonight, Harry Potter might be in the crowd.
And Tom didn’t know if, after all these years, he was ready to see him again.
•••
The house lights dimmed all at once, plunging the stadium into shadow. For a heartbeat the air was heavy, expectant, humming with the anticipation of thousands pressed shoulder to shoulder. Then the first spotlight cut through the smoke, slicing across the stage.
The crowd roared.
Tom stepped out into the light like he’d been born for it. He didn’t rush. He never did. Each stride was measured, deliberate, calculated to draw the eyes that were already fixed on him. Behind him came the rest of the band—Bellatrix slinging her bass across her body like a weapon, Pansy rolling her shoulders with her guitar gleaming under the lights, Barty twirling his sticks before falling into place at the drum kit.
But it was Tom the audience wanted, Tom they screamed for. The man, the face, the voice that had taken them from back-alley pubs to sold-out arenas.
He curled his fingers around the mic stand, tilting his head back, black hair combed back with few stray curls falling on his forhead. The sound of the crowd was deafening. He let it wash over him, let it build.
And then- he saw him.
The VIP section sat just beyond the crush of fans near the stage, elevated enough to be visible if you knew where to look. Tom always looked. Tonight, his eyes caught on a figure leaning lazily against the railing, a drink in hand, dark hair even messier than he remembered. Sunglasses hung from the neckline of his shirt, forgotten, leaving those unmistakable green eyes exposed.
Harry Potter.
Tom’s chest tightened. The years hadn’t dulled him—if anything, they’d sharpened him. Gone was the restless teenager in a smoky London pub; the man in front of him was older, sharper, wrapped in the kind of careless confidence that only came from being adored by everyone who crossed his path.
And Harry didn’t even notice him.
Ginny was talking animatedly at his side, he saw twins already arguing over something, a blonde girl sipping from a fluorescent drink that looked suspiciously like liquid starlight. Harry only nodded occasionally, gaze drifting lazily over the crowd below, utterly oblivious to the fact that Tom Riddle was staring holes into him from the stage.
The drummer’s sticks cracked together, sharp as gunfire. The first note slammed out of the speakers, and the crowd erupted, their roar shaking the rafters.
Tom wrenched his gaze back to the mic. The show had begun.
He let the music take him. His voice cut through the arena, raw and electric, the kind of sound that could ignite a riot. The lyrics weren’t “Rumors” yet, tonight’s opener was one of their heavier tracks, all crashing drums and snarling guitar. Bellatrix’s bass thrummed like a heartbeat beneath it, Pansy’s riff slicing sharp and clean, and Barty’s relentless rhythm drove it all forward.
Tom moved across the stage, every movement a performance, every glance calculated. He pointed into the crowd, let his voice drop into a growl, then soared up again until the entire stadium echoed with it. And still, no matter how deep he threw himself into the performance, his eyes kept dragging back to the VIP box.
Harry was laughing now, Ginny had let her eyes start from the band to Harry where she said something that made him tip his head back, laughing. For a split second, the sight knocked the air from Tom’s lungs. It was infuriating, how easily Harry commanded his attention without even trying. The bo, no, the man, hadn’t looked at him once, and Tom felt like he was on fire. His eyes would look at something far away while he bobbed his head to the songs that tom would sing.
He turned back to the crowd, throwing a hand out, and the response was instantaneous—thousands of voices screaming back at him, bodies surging with the music. It should have been intoxicating. It always was. But tonight, it was background noise to the single pair of green eyes that refused to meet his.
Two songs bled into three, then four. The set moved like clockwork—fast, aggressive, relentless. Tom’s voice was smoke and blade all at once, carrying the band higher with every note. Pansy’s solos crackled like lightning, Bellatrix’s bass snarled low, and Barty attacked the drums like he meant to break them.
The audience was theirs, completely.
And yet, when Tom’s gaze flicked sideways again, Harry was leaning against the railing, sipping his drink, watching the stage with an expression Tom couldn’t read. Not disinterest, exactly, but not the recognition Tom had been craving for years.
It was maddening.
He gripped the mic tighter, the silver ring on his finger glinting under the lights. He poured the frustration into his voice, let it tear through the arena like fire. The crowd screamed louder, surged closer.
But all Tom could think was this: Harry Potter was here. After all these years, he was here.
And Tom wasn’t going to let him slip away again.
The arena was a storm by the time the last echoes of the second-to-last song faded. The crowd chanted the band’s name over and over, desperate, hungry for more. Sweat glistened on Tom’s skin, his chest heaving with the force of his last scream into the mic. He held up a hand, palm out, and the noise softened, never silent, but enough to be shaped.
He stepped forward, one hand gripping the stand, the other curling around the mic. His dark eyes swept over the sea of faces. For a moment, they lingered, just a fraction too long, on the VIP section.
“This next one,” Tom said, voice low, rough from the hour of screaming but steady enough to command. “It’s new. Unreleased. You won’t find it online, not yet. You’re the first to hear it.”
The crowd erupted.
Tom let the cheers wash over him, then leaned into the mic. His tone shifted, quieter, sharper, intimate, like he was speaking to just one person in the stadium.
“I wrote this song for someone,” he said, lips curling into something between a smirk and a confession. “Someone I’ve known, well, watched I suppose, for six years now. Someone who never cared about me. Not then. Not now.”
A ripple went through the crowd. Some screamed. Some hushed, straining to catch every word.
Tom’s gaze flicked again, unerringly, toward the railing where Harry stood. His next words were soft, deliberate.
“The only thing I had of him were the whispers. Little fragments. Rumors. A story about his fights. A flash of his smile. Gossip about his trouble. And his eyes…” His voice dropped lower, nearly swallowed by the silence of the crowd hanging on his every syllable. “Green. Sharp. The kind of eyes you never forget.”
Ginny froze. Her drink halfway to her lips.
Beside her, Luna tilted her head, unblinking. Fred and George exchanged a look, identical sparks of dawning interest between them.
Harry shifted, his smirk faltering, the drink in his hand suddenly too heavy.
Tom’s smile deepened, sharp as a blade. He leaned back just enough that the spotlight shadowed his features. “We met in a little club once. A hole in the wall. A place called Padfoot.”
And Tom said that while looking straight at Harry. And that gaze was not only seen by his band members but by Harry's friends too.
Ginny’s glass slammed onto the railing, liquid splashing over the edge. “Oh my God.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried to the twins.
“Bloody hell,” Fred muttered.
George’s grin was unbelieving. “He’s talking about-”
“Harry.” Luna finished for them, serene as ever.
Onstage, Tom’s expression gave away nothing but his usual confidence. The band was already in position, Pansy strumming the opening riff like electricity, Bellatrix’s bass growling low, Barty spinning his sticks with a wicked grin.
Tom closed his eyes, lifted the mic, and when he opened them again, they locked on Harry like a target.
“This one’s called Rumors." he said, voice cutting clean through the noise.
The first notes slammed into the arena. The crowd lost their minds.
But in the VIP box, Harry stood perfectly still, drink forgotten in his hand, the sound of his friends buzzing around him like static.
The crowd surged forward as the first notes hit. Then Tom stepped to the mic, and the place seemed to shrink to silence.
He's got some nice long hair and you knows he's a bad chick
All the boys stare, can't help it it's a habit
Clothes that he wears, shorts with a jacket
I just wanna get him all alone on a mattress
While the crowd is going crazy, Ginny glances at Harry, then back at the stage, something shifting in her expression.
I just wanna have it, I just gotta have it
Rumors all around say his body is fantastic
All natural boy not a piece of him is plastic
Head to his toes, yeah they say that he's elastic
Tom’s eyes sweep the crowd, casual for anyone else, but when they land on Harry, he held his eyes just a beat too long.
Yeah the whispers all around say he has a reputation
Don't believe it 'til I see it so I want a demonstration
And I've always learned it better with a hands on education
So I need a private session if you get what Im saying
The lyric cut through the chaos like a blade, timed perfectly with Tom’s wink at Harry. Ginny nearly choked on her drink, Fred muttered “holy fuck,” and George, for once, had nothing clever to say.
Harry felt heat crawl up his neck. His fingers clenched the railing so tight his knuckles whitened.
And they say that he's not easy, no he's really complicated
But that only makes it better and its got me so fixated
And I'm not the type to wait around I've never hesitated
But he's got me so captivated so the game I'm gonna play it yeah
Harry’s hands trembled around the railing, but he couldn’t look away. Not anymore. Tom’s gaze found him again and again, and each time it did, Harry felt the walls he’d built around himself cracking.
Barty’s backing vocals thundered in, adding raw weight to the chorus. The fans screamed, some jumping, others waving their arms, phones flashing.
He's got a body like a coke fiend
He likes to keep the party going
These rumors got me feeling lonely
I want that body baby show me
He's got a body like a coke fiend
He likes to keep the party going
These rumors got me feeling lonely
I want that body baby show me
I want that body, baby show me
And at the moment, when he started singing again, Tom's eyes didn't just barely find Harry's, no. He held those dear green eyes of his.
Yeah, heard you look good in a sundress
I heard you look good when you're undressed
I heard you like to get away
I heard you like to stay out late
The memories slammed back, Padfoot’s. The sticky floors, the smoke-filled air, the very first time he’d seen this band years ago. That night.
And Tom hadn’t forgotten. Not one fucking detail.
I heard you had a couple boyfriends
I heard they didn't treat you right
I heard you're hated by your girlfriends
'Cause all the guys want you tonight yeah
Ginny clutched his wrist, nails biting into his skin. Luna leaned forward, serene as ever but with a soft certainty in her voice. “It’s you, Harry.”
Harry couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe.
...
The rest of the night blurred.
Harry heard the roar of the crowd, the crash of guitars, the thunder of drums—but it all slid past him like water. His ears rang with Rumors, with Tom’s voice, with the heavy weight of eyes that had locked on his own for the entire song.
Ginny hadn’t stopped looking at him. Neither had Fred or George. Even Luna, quiet and unshaken, kept sending him these little sidelong glances that made his skin itch.
By the time the song ended and the band disappeared behind the stage, Harry’s chest ached from how hard he’d been holding himself together. He was buzzing, half from adrenaline, half from panic.
Ginny leaned in close, breath hot against his ear. “Backstage passes, Harry. We’re going.”
“I’m not-"
“Oh, you’re coming,” Fred cut him off, already tugging the passes out of his pocket and flashing them smugly. “Front row seats weren’t enough.”
George smirked. “Besides, don’t you want to meet your biggest fan?”
Harry shot them both a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “He’s not-”
But the words fell flat. His throat tightened around them. 'He’s not talking about me'. Except he had been. Every line, every glance, every sharp smile.
The staff herded them out of the arena pit, through a side door marked VIP ONLY. The hallway smelled like sweat, beer, and too many bodies crammed together. A few other fans walked with them, buzzing with excitement, clutching posters and Sharpies like lifelines.
Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, head ducked. He didn’t want this. Not tonight. Not with Ginny’s hand still gripping his arm like she was afraid he’d bolt.
The security guard opened the door to the VIP room. Music and laughter spilled out, Barty’s voice loud and unfiltered, Bellatrix cackling like a maniac, Pansy’s sharper tones cutting through.
And Tom.
Harry froze in the doorway.
Tom was leaning back on the sofa, shirt half-unbuttoned, throat slick with sweat. His curls stuck damp to his forehead, and his posture was all lazy arrogance, but his eyes—his eyes snapped straight to Harry the second he stepped inside.
Ginny’s breath hitched. The twins exchanged looks that were nothing short of gleeful. Luna smiled softly, as though she’d known all along.
The other fans rushed forward, voices tripping over each other as they tried to get attention, autographs, pictures.
But Tom wasn’t looking at them.
He hadn’t looked away from Harry once.
And Harry’s chest felt like it was going to explode.
...
The room was chaos at first, buzzing voices, laughter, the sharp pop of a beer bottle being cracked open. The few VIPs who had crowded in were wide-eyed, pressing posters and shirts forward for signatures.
Bellatrix soaked it up, wild grin splitting her face as she scribbled her name across anything thrust into her hands. Barty leaned into it too, cracking jokes, drumming Sharpies on people’s shoulders before signing. Pansy was cooler, aloof, only giving autographs when someone was brave enough to ask twice.
And Tom? Tom stayed where he was, legs spread casually, a glass of something dark balanced in his hand. His focus never strayed far from Harry.
Harry felt it like a spotlight. Like heat pressing into his skin. He kept his eyes fixed anywhere but at him.
Slowly, the crowd began to thin. The other VIPs drifted out with autographs and selfies clutched tight, still squealing about it even as security ushered them back toward the hall.
Until, finally, only Harry’s group was left.
Fred and George made a beeline for Barty, drawn to his manic energy like moths to a flame. Within seconds, they were laughing so loud Harry was sure the walls shook with it.
Luna had settled herself comfortably near Pansy, talking in that soft, steady way of hers that somehow had the guitarist listening instead of brushing her off.
Even Ginny, was half watching Tom watch Harry, and half fidgeting like she was waiting for the right moment.
And then she got it.
She jabbed Harry’s arm sharply, dragging his attention back to her. “Oi. Do me a favor.”
He blinked at her, still too rattled to form words.
“Ask him if Pansy’ll sign my tits.” Ginny said, completely deadpan, like she was asking him to pass the salt at dinner.
Harry choked. “What-"
“Please.” Her grin was wicked now, her voice pitched just loud enough that Tom, who was definitely close enough to hear, would catch it. “You’re closer to him. Go on. For me?”
And as if on cue, Tom started.
The room shifted with him, or maybe that was just Harry’s knees going weak. He set his glass down, smoothed the front of his open shirt, and crossed the space between them with unhurried steps. Each one landed heavy in Harry’s chest.
Ginny’s smirk was pure evil.
Tom stopped just in front of them. Close enough that Harry could see the glint of sweat still clinging to his collarbone. Close enough that the scent of his cologne, smoke and something sharp underneath, hit like a punch.
“Yes,” Tom said smoothly, voice low enough to curl in Harry’s gut. “She will.”
Ginny all but sparkled at him, then patted Harry’s arm with infuriating cheer. “Perfect. Thanks, Harry. I’ll just… go for that, then.”
And just like that, she was gone, already walking towards Pansy.
Harry’s stomach dropped.
Because now, there was no wall. No group. No excuse.
Just Tom. And him. Alone.