Chapter 3: What Belongs to Him

Time did not pass quickly in the orphanage, but it did pass quietly, and in that quiet, things changed in ways no one noticed until it was already too late to call them small. Children grew, habits formed, and roles settled into place without anyone deliberately assigning them. Harry became something the others gravitated toward without understanding why, while Tom remained something they instinctively avoided without knowing the reason.

And yet, between the two of them, something entirely different existed.

By the time Harry was six, Tom no longer watched him from a distance. He stayed.

It began subtly, as most things between them did. Tom would sit near him, not speaking at first, simply existing within the same space as though testing something invisible. Harry never objected. In fact, there was a quiet shift in him whenever Tom was near—something softer, less controlled. The carefully crafted ease he showed others remained, but it became unnecessary with Tom. He did not need to think before speaking. He did not need to decide how to act. He simply was.

But the orphanage was not a place that allowed anything good to exist without resistance.

It started with whispers.

Harry was strange. Too quiet. Too calm. Too… different. Children noticed things adults ignored, even if they didn’t understand what they were seeing. And when something couldn’t be explained, it became something to blame.

The first time it happened, Harry didn’t react.

A boy shoved him hard enough that he stumbled back, his shoulder hitting the wall. Laughter followed—sharp, uncertain, testing. They were watching him, waiting for something. Anger. Tears. Fear.

Harry gave them none of it.

He simply straightened, brushed his sleeve, and smiled—a soft, harmless expression that made it look like nothing had happened at all.

It confused them.

It irritated them.

So it continued.

Small things at first. Pushing. Taking things that belonged to him. Words said just loud enough to sting but not loud enough to be punished. Harry allowed it. Not because he couldn’t stop it, but because stopping it meant something else.

It meant losing control.

And Harry did not trust what would happen if he lost control.

So he endured.

Quietly.

Deliberately.

Tom noticed immediately.

He always did.

At first, he observed. He watched the way Harry didn’t react, the way he accepted everything without resistance, and something about that sat wrong with him in a way he couldn’t ignore.

Harry was not weak.

Tom knew that.

So why—

The answer came the third time it happened in front of him.

A boy snatched something from Harry’s hand and shoved him harder than before. Harry stumbled slightly, catching himself, and for a fraction of a second—just a fraction—something dark flickered behind his eyes.

Tom saw it.

And something cold settled in his chest.

The next day, the boy fell.

Not near Harry.

Not anywhere close.

But he fell—hard enough to draw attention, loud enough for the matron to come running. And when blame was demanded, it did not fall where it should have.

Because Tom was careful.

Always careful.

It didn’t stop there.

Things went missing. Accidents happened. Rules were broken. Punishments were given.

Never to Tom.

Always to someone else.

Because Tom did not tolerate what was happening to Harry.

Not openly.

But effectively.

Harry noticed.

Of course he did.

It took him longer to say anything.

“You need to stop.”

Tom didn’t look at him immediately. “No.”

Harry blinked. “Tom—”

“They shouldn’t touch what’s mine.”

The words settled heavily between them.

Harry stilled.

Something warm and unfamiliar curled in his chest, but he pushed it aside.

“It’s fine,” he said softly.

“It’s not.”

Tom turned to him fully now, his expression controlled but his eyes darker than usual.

“They hurt you.”

“Not really.”

“That’s not the point.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then Harry shifted closer, their shoulders brushing lightly.

“It’s enough,” he said gently. “You’ve already done enough.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “I’m not finished.”

“I know,” Harry said softly, almost fondly. “That’s why you have to stop.”

Tom looked away.

“They’ll keep doing it.”

Harry shook his head. “No, they won’t.”

“How do you know?”

Harry smiled faintly, a hint of mischief slipping through. “Because they’re already scared.”

Tom paused.

That was true.

“But that’s not why,” Harry continued, softer now. “If you keep going, it won’t stay small.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened. “Let it grow.”

“No,” Harry said firmly. “If it grows, they’ll notice you.”

That made Tom still completely.

“And I don’t want that,” Harry added quietly.

Something shifted.

Tom exhaled slowly, forcing the anger down.

“…fine.”

It clearly cost him something.

Harry smiled, warmer now. “Thank you.”

After a moment, Harry leaned into him slightly, resting against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Tom froze for a fraction of a second.

Then—

He didn’t move.

“You’re still angry,” Harry murmured.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“…maybe.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re terrible at lying.”

Tom glanced at him. “Only to you.”

The moment softened.

Settled.

“You’re doing it again.”

Harry looked down.

The toy in his hand floated.

“Oh,” he said.

It dropped.

Tom moved closer, taking his wrist. “You’re not controlling it.”

“It listens,” Harry said.

“That’s reacting. Not control.”

Tom’s fingers tightened slightly—not hurting, just grounding.

“Intent,” he said quietly. “Not emotion.”

Harry stilled immediately.

“Look at it.”

Harry did.

“Now decide.”

The toy lifted again.

Steady.

Controlled.

Harry’s eyes lit up. “That felt different.”

Tom’s voice softened slightly. “Yes.”

Harry smiled at him—real this time, unguarded.

“You’re good at this.”

Tom didn’t answer.

But he didn’t let go.

Because beneath everything—

Control.

Logic.

Distance—

There was one truth he did not question.

Harry was his.

Not owned.

Not controlled.

But chosen.

And this—

Whatever it was between them—

He would protect it

I love this tom isn't it cool

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