one shot, 1.7k, tomarry lesbians, meet cute
(or) They meet for the first time in a shop, and somehow Tom manages to give Harry the gayest heart attack on the history of humanity.
It was the third time she had tried on the dress, by her count.
The first time, she had come in to look at dresses with Hermione, who'd had a surprise work wedding pop up right into her schedule and had frantically called Harry for her opinion.
Hermione had found the brown dress by accident, where it had been mis-shelved with the long gowns in the corner.
It was a beautiful strapless, chocolate-brown dress with a skin tight bodice that reached her waist and a flowing pleated skirt that came down to her ankles. The cloth was thick and of good quality, and it moved like ripples on a lake every time she turned.
It was the kind of dress Harry would have never looked twice on her own, the kind she would have never thought to try on. But once it was on her body, it fit her like a glove. Like it had been tailored right for her.
It made her feel, strangely, like a ballerina.
Hermione had squealed the moment Harry pulled the curtain back. Even the clerk —who had been hovering nearby with several dresses draped over his arm— had gasped at the sight of her, a litany of compliments soon leaving his lips.
Harry had flushed on principle, not used to that kind of attention being directed at her.
But also… she turned to look herself on the mirror. The dress made her feel femenine, despite her collarbones and the back of her neck being on display. She had wiry muscle all around her arms and back from working out, but somehow it didn't look out of place in the soft, delicate dress.
Alas, she hadn't bought it. Where would she even wear it to? Besides, they had come to find Hermione a dress, not ponder the fragile state of Harry's self appointed femininity. (Or lack thereof).
The second time Harry had tried on the dress, she had seriously considered it. Leaving the store with it. Trying it on at home, wearing it down to a park. Or to one of her friend's lunches, or even on a pub night. She thought about it for so long she was almost late to the friendly football game with her coworkers.
(The same clerk had smiled knowingly at her as she handed the dress back, but had thankfully not pushed the matter).
Listen. Harry wasn't a dress girl; it just wasn't her kind of style.
(Maybe it was due to being dressed in her cousin's cast-offs for most of her life, but she would never know).
Either way, the third time was the charm, or so they say.
It just so happened that the prettiest girl Harry had ever seen in her entire life —oh God— was standing by the dressing rooms with the most bored expression in the world. She was tall, and oh, how Harry envied those long legs and effortless posture, even as the girl leaned on the wall, phone loose in her hand.
She was dressed casually enough, Harry supposed: loose high-waisted brown trousers that made her legs seem endlessly long, and a dark green satin blouse tucked neatly right into the waistband. Her hair was dark and curly, spilling down her back in a thick fall that easily reached her waist.
Harry had, in hindsight, stared for a moment too long.
The girl turned her head and unfortunately for Harry's rapidly deteriorating composure, their eyes met.
Brown eyes flickered with a maroon so soft it could be easily dismissed as a trick of the light, framed by long dark lashes set on a pale face. Oh god —were those moles?
Harry had the misfortune of being struck dumb where she stood, dress clutched in her arms and mouth (perhaps just a little) agape.
(A little, a lot).
She practically fled into the dressing room, pulling the curtain closed behind her, wishing with all her might —though she knew without needing to check in the mirror— that her face was not as red as it felt.
Harry's brain, unhelpfully, stopped working. It had vacated the premises. In fact, she could practically feel it spilling out of her ears.
She tried to breath herself into a more calm, collected state, praying to all gods that would listen that the girl would finish whatever she was doing and leave. Harry's face was not thick enough to survive whatever interaction that followed, after practically fleeing on sight.
She heard footsteps moving away from the dressing rooms, and low murmurs far off to her right, and sighed in relief.
She gazed down again at the dress, pondering.
Would it really be overkill to try it on again?
Maybe.
She did so anyway.
By the time she had the dress zipped up she had all but forgotten the awkward encounter with the beautiful girl, too busy looking herself over in the mirror. She wanted it. She wanted the dress like she hadn't wanted any piece of clothing ever in her life.
Without thinking, she drew the curtain back, hoping to get a second —well, third— opinion from the nosy clerk.
She stepped away from the dressing room, but the man was nowhere in sight.
Harry sighed and turned. The lighting outside the cramped little space beyond the curtain was better, and the soft contrast of her tanned skin against the chocolate brown dress took her breath away.
She turned her head this way and that, stray curls slipping over her shoulders and falling free from their place tucked behind her ears.
"Take it, girl," a voice said from right beside her, making Harry jump about a foot up in the air. "I've seen you try it on three times already. You should buy it, it looks gorgeous on you."
Harry turned in a swirl of chocolate-brown skirts.
It was not the clerk affirming her need to acquire the dress. It was, instead, the beautiful tall girl with the dark hair and pretty eyes.
(It did not even cross Harry's mind to ask just how in the world this girl had seen her try on the dress three times when this was the first time they had crossed paths. Harry would know, she had never felt more panicked about a girl before).
Harry blinked, mind blank.
Up close, the girl was somehow prettier, which felt deeply unfair. There was even a mole right at the corner of her red tinted lips!
(And because Harry had been staring rather avidly, she noticed when the girl's mouth curled slightly, clearly amused on her behalf).
"Yes?" she said, like she had not just fried Harry's brain simply by just standing there.
Harry opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Cleared her throat unhelpfully.
The girl's eyes dragged down Harry's body, as though she was taking her in for the first time.
Was she being checked out?
She was totally being checked out.
"I stand by what I said. You should buy it." The girl tilted her head a bit to the side, beautiful hair shifting over her shoulder as her eyes landed on the beaten up sneakers still firmly wrapped around Harry's feet. "Perhaps with a different choice of footwear? I think I saw a pair of burgundy Mary Janes by the gowns, and it would be a crime not to pair them up."
She turned, her gait graceful in a way Harry could never hope to imitate.
When she noticed Harry wasn't following, she turned to look at her with a raised eyebrow.
"Well? Come, Harry."
Harry tripped as she hurried to follow, face aflame. She was not usually this level of disaster of a person, but just being the sole focus of the girl's intense brown eyes made her feel… things.
Butterflies, or whatever.
Actually, make that an entire insectary crammed into the lining of her stomach, worker bees and moths and butterflies kicking up a storm each time the girl spoke.
(Harry, of course, had been too busy drooling to notice the fact that the girl picked up her exact shoe size without needing to ask).
(Or, perhaps more importantly, that the girl already knew her name).
By the time she left the store, she had a new dress, a new pair of shoes, and a new number saved into her phone.
(And a reason to wear the dress, next Friday at eight on the dot on her favorite Italian place).
Tom is unlike any girl Harry had ever met. In fact, she would go as far to say she was unlike any other human she had ever met.
They could speak for hours upon hours without boring the other, gossiping about their classmates and co-workers like it was no one's business but their own. In fact, during one of their first few dates, a concerned waiter had wandered to their table and asked if there was something wrong with their slice of cake, only to discover the girls had been so engrossed in each other they hadn't even noticed the fact that their dessert had arrived.
Tom was intelligent, sharp and witty. She was so far out of Harry's league she sometimes wondered just what Tom had seen in her to make her want to go out on dates.
She had it all. She was pretty, smart, and knew how to dress herself. She filled any room she walked into, confidence and charm dripping off of her pores.
Harry was sure she left a string of heartbroken men everywhere she went.
Tom was, after all, a ranging lesbian. (Or so she had whispered against Harry's skin during one of their date nights).
Harry wasn't entirely sure when (or how, or why) it had happened.
Somewhere between movie nights and museum dates where Tom narrated perfectly the story behind each painting, each sculpture.
Perhaps it happened during soft afternoons at the park, or after Harry had met Tom's pet snake, Nagini.
Perhaps it had been Tom's sharp smiles, or her clever comebacks, or the way she held Harry close.
Perhaps it was during the nights where Harry cooked for the both of them, or the weekends where she meal prepped for two instead of one.
Maybe it had been even earlier, during that first encounter in the dressing rooms.
