The rain hammered against the windows of Grimmauld Place, a relentless rhythm that mirrored the tempest inside Harry. He sat hunched on the threadbare sofa, his emerald eyes dull and unfocused, staring at the flickering flames in the hearth. The aftermath of the final battle had left him a hollow shell, haunted by memories and weighed down by a grief that seemed to consume him.
He hadn't seen Tom in weeks. Not since… since the moment the final curse had rebounded, leaving Tom a shadow of his former self, broken and stripped of his magic, tethered to Harry by a bond neither understood nor could sever. Now, Tom was just a man, scarred and vulnerable, hidden away in a magically warded room, a secret kept even from the Weasleys.
A soft click echoed in the silence, and Harry’s head snapped up. Tom stood in the doorway, his once-imposing figure now gaunt, his dark eyes shadowed with pain. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, his usually immaculate robes rumpled and stained.
“You’re awake,” Harry whispered, his voice hoarse.
Tom’s gaze flickered to the fire, then back to Harry. “I could say the same for you. You look… unwell.”
Harry scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “And you look like you’ve been dragged through a Bludger match.”
Tom’s lips twitched, a ghost of his former smirk. He moved slowly, each step a visible effort, and sank into the armchair opposite Harry. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words and shared pain.
“Why?” Harry finally asked, his voice barely a breath. “Why did you come here?”
Tom’s eyes met his, dark and intense. “I… I needed to see you.”
Harry’s heart clenched. He wanted to scream, to rage, to demand answers for all the pain, all the loss. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he simply stared at the man who had been his greatest enemy, now reduced to a fragile, broken figure.
“You’re hurt,” Harry said, noticing the faint tremor in Tom’s hands.
Tom shrugged, a dismissive gesture that belied the wince that crossed his face. “It’s nothing.”
Harry didn’t believe him. He rose, his movements slow and deliberate, and knelt before Tom. He gently took Tom’s hand, his fingers tracing the lines of scars that crisscrossed his skin. Tom flinched at the touch, but didn’t pull away.
“Let me see,” Harry said, his voice soft.
Tom hesitated, then reluctantly allowed Harry to examine him. Harry’s fingers found a deep gash hidden beneath the torn fabric of Tom’s sleeve, a wound that pulsed with dark, corrupted magic.
“This… this isn’t healing,” Harry murmured, his brow furrowed.
Tom’s eyes darkened. “It’s a remnant of the curse. It won’t heal.”
Harry’s heart ached. He knew the feeling, the lingering taint of dark magic that refused to fade. He looked up at Tom, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and pity.
“We can’t just… leave it like this,” Harry said. “There has to be something we can do.”
He stood and walked to the kitchen, returning with a vial of Dittany and a roll of bandages. He knelt before Tom again, his touch gentle as he cleaned the wound. Tom watched him, his expression unreadable.
“Why are you doing this?” Tom asked, his voice low.
Harry met his gaze. “Because… because I can’t watch you suffer.”
He applied the Dittany, the pungent scent filling the air, and began to bandage the wound. Tom hissed softly as he pressed the bandage tight. Tom's gaze never left Harry's face.
"You should hate me." Tom said.
"I tried." Harry replies, not looking up. "It's harder than it should be."
When he finished, he looked up at Tom, his eyes filled with a strange mixture of emotions. Tom’s gaze held his, and for a moment, the world seemed to fade away.
“Thank you,” Tom whispered, his voice barely audible.
Harry nodded, his throat tight. He sat back on his heels, the silence stretching between them. The rain continued to fall, a steady, mournful rhythm.
He reached out, his hand hovering over Tom’s cheek. Tom leaned into the touch, his eyes closing. Harry’s fingers brushed against the soft skin, tracing the lines of his face.
“You’re not alone,” Harry whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
Tom’s eyes opened, dark and intense. “Neither are you.”
And in that moment, amidst the ruins of their past and the uncertainty of their future, they found a fragile connection, a shared understanding in the quiet comfort of their shared pain.