Deceiving
Pity is a dull, unwitting weapon, yet even a dull sword can break bones. Tom has found that those who wield it most often like to pretend that it’s harmless; it is not.
“Here, my dear,” Madam Pomfrey says gently, smiling consolingly at Tom as she hands him a jar of shimmering ointment. She always tries to hide her pity behind soft words, “Professor Snape has been trialling some new potions to help with the scarring.”
Tom refuses to give in to anger simmering in his chest as she gestures vaguely at his neck.
“Thank you,” he looks away to hide his contempt, “Do you think it will ever stop hurting?” Tom pretends to wipe at his eyes, feeding the illusion of a hurting child.
Sighing sadly, Madam Pomfrey sits next to him on the sterile hospital bed. She doesn’t reach out to comfort him, though Tom knows she longs to.
“It might,” she admits, “But you have to be prepared for the possibility that it won’t. Curse scars are notoriously unpredictable; while phantom pains are commonplace, treatment is varied.”
“I don’t want a Mind Healer,” Tom says, still looking away, “I refuse.”
“I know how you feel about it, Tom, but please consider it. You aren’t dealing with just physical pain at the moment,”
“I am fine,”
“What about a professor, then?” Madam Pomfrey offers, “Professor Dumbledore is an accomplished Legilimens. I know that he has only just returned, but I’m sure he would be more than happy to help.”
It takes everything in Tom not to snarl at that, not to whip around and spit poison. He refuses as politely as he can and leaves the Hospital Wings with the jar of ointment clutched tightly in his hand.
As soon as he arrives back at his dorm, Tom throws it to the ground in a fit of rage. The jar shatters, spilling shards of glittering glass and shimmering ointment across the floor.
Tom’s mind feels as fragile as the fragments littered on the ground.
He can feel his composure beginning to fracture.
(His scar aches.)
~
Before
Harry throws himself down on Tom’s bed, ignoring the way he groans when a pile of loose parchment shifts around. They are alone in their dorm; Theodore and Abraxas know better than to disturb them.
“You’ll never guess what Dumbledore tried to do today,” Harry says, staring up at the fabric ceiling of Tom’s bed, “Seriously, try.”
“Finally admitted that he is insane and retired in disgrace?”
Harry rolls his eyes, “He pulled me aside while I was with Ron and Hermione to try and warn me about you.”
Tom freezes where he is sitting at his desk, ink dripping from his quill onto his Potions essay.
“He was all: Madness runs in the blood, Harry!” the green-eyed boy says, his voice lowered in a mocking imitation of their professor, “And: A person’s true nature is easily concealed!”
Tom allows himself to scoff; he doesn’t hide his rough edges from Harry. He waves his wand at the rogue ink on his parchment.
“As if I haven’t spent the last five years of my life sleeping in the same dorm as you! He’s been nice to me and all, what with my parents, but seriously, does he think I’m an idiot?”
“Aren’t you?” Tom says, hiding a smile.
Harry throws a deep green, silk pillow right at his face. Tom catches it with one hand; he had been expecting it.
“I think he knows you’re the Heir of Slytherin,” he groans, “Though he has no proof. And now he’s trying to get me to distance myself from you.”
“He’ll be disappointed, then,” Tom smiles, “Won’t he?”
Harry’s voice is velvet, so assured.
“Of course,” he says, “I’d never leave you.”
~
The bones taunt Tom from their place in the ritual circle. They are being kept pristine-guarded from the elements- because while the Chamber is secure, it is decidedly not clean. Whispers of dark, rotten magic permeate the walls.
Tom has been staring at the bones, he knows he has; he can’t seem to stop. There are too many emotions welling up inside him, and Tom thinks he has lost the ability to tell them all apart.
Excitement and fear can feel the same if you ignore context.
“You need to get up, Tom,”
He ignores Harry and sits, unmoving, on the cold stone floor and continues to stare.
“It’s been hours,” Harry is somewhere behind him, “I’m getting worried.”
Tom pretends that he isn’t there. He won't allow himself to give in to the urge to turn around, turn around, turn around.
~
Harry won’t stop following Tom. Tom can feel his burning gaze on him as he sits in class, as he eats in the Great Hall, as he leaves for the shelter of the Room of Requirement.
“Cease this,” Tom warns, the warm air of the Room bringing a flush to his pale cheeks, “You can’t stop me.”
“I know,” Harry’s voice sounds resigned as he regards Tom with something akin to pity.
“Then why do you insist on following me like a dog?”
“You know the answer to that question, Tom,”
Tom glares at him, sneering with derision. He turns away from Harry and summons the thin piece of chalk lying haphazardly on the desk in the corner of the room. Walking over to the large, empty area of bare stone, Tom begins to copy runes from a thick, black book. The ritual circle must be perfect, each run drawn with precision.
Feeling those cursed gemstone eyes watching him, Tom refuses to be distracted, to be drawn in like a magnet. He can’t allow himself to orbit Harry as the Earth orbits the Sun; not anymore.
Onto the stones below his feet, Tom writes the runes Halgalaz, Jera and Raido. They mean disruption, cycle and journey, respectively. Runes are complicated and used seldomly, for they rely on the ability to precisely and accurately curate combinations to achieve an outcome. Yet their innate ability to channel magic in great quantities makes them perfect for Tom.
Crouching on the floor, Tom sees Harry’s shadow come to stand beside him, stopping in front of Naudiz- need.
“Do you think Pandora would have opened the pithos if she had known what she would release?” Harry asks softly, “Would she have resisted the temptation, the need?”
The story of Pandora is well known. Burning with curiosity, the woman had opened a jar she’d been forbidden from touching and released evil upon the world. Tom knows that Harry is not talking about Pandora, not really. He is staring down at Tom’s delicate rune circle and posing a question of morality.
“It was always Pandora’s fate,” Tom carefully connects two runes, the chalk gliding over the smooth stone, “I think she could not have escaped it, even if she tried. The ending was written for her.”
Is it fate that Tom has ended up here? Was it written in his story that he would chase the unnatural magic that his ritual seeks to unleash?
“Fate,” Harry laughs, and oh, if it isn’t so bright even as it borders on mocking, “Is that what it was? Or was it simply a matter of her nature?”
Harry’s words sting.
“Fate or nature,” Tom says, “Either way, do you blame her?” he is really asking if Harry blames him for what he plans to do.
“I believe I do,” Harry answers plainly, “I dislike the idea of fate, and one’s nature is not indomitable.” He continues, “The responsibility for her actions lies on her shoulders.”
Tom is silent, for a moment, before he replies.
“Then it is a good thing that hope remains,”
~
Harry won’t leave Tom alone.
“Go away!” Tom throws a curse at him, but Harry dodges.
“I won’t,” Harry says with a feral look in his eyes, stalking forward, “You know I won’t.”
Tom casts another spell, and the damp stone pillar behind Harry cracks. Dust drifts down from the arched ceiling of the Chamber. When the spell doesn’t land, Tom all but hisses.
“Go!” Tom spits, ice creeping into his voice, “I don’t need you!”
“You do,”
Shaking, Tom steps back, but he can’t escape Harry.
Harry has always been so beautiful when he is like this, all fevered gaze and desperate voice, “Do you think you could beat Death without me?”
“I could–”
“No! I’m what makes you whole: you told me once that,” Harry is so close that Tom can make out the freckles usually hidden behind his tanned skin. Tom could draw a map of the stars with those freckles; he knows them by heart. “You can still make me suffer, cut me down to the bone, and I’ll let you, as I always have. Just keep me close,” Harry’s eyes burn as he says again, “You need me.”
It’s such a simple thing to let Harry’s poisonous words seep into the cracks of his mind, of his heart. It always has been.
Tom falters, “I…”
Perhaps Tom and Harry have always been like this; trading hurts back and forth and letting them grow bigger and bigger. Somehow, they can’t seem to stop. They seek this torture and chase after it. Pain has been written into their bones; they’ve known nothing else but its lingering embrace. Tom can’t forget all that Harry has done to him, and yet… and yet.
“You need me. You can hate me all you want, but let me help,”
“What could you possibly have to offer me?” Tom snarls, “What help can you give?”
“Balance,” Harry replies, his gaze imploring, “Without me, you won’t succeed.”
“I am not unbalanced,”
“You are,” Harry says, glaring, “I know you are suffering, as am I!”
Tom has been suffering. He feels on edge, unable to sleep and unable to concentrate fully. Phantom pains haunt him, and Harry is right; he feels unstable.
Tom refuses to let the vulnerability he feels creep into his voice, “I won’t play along with your games, not anymore.”
Harry shakes his head, a smile growing as he senses Tom’s wavering resolve.
“I know we can’t go back to what we were,” Harry says, a gleam in his once-beloved eyes, “But you can’t keep running from me.”
“I can,”
“Oh, Tom,” Harry laughs cruelly, “You won’t,” he leans in close, “You’ll go mad without me.”
Tom has no defence against Harry; he never has.
“You need me,”
When Harry betrayed Tom, the sun died. In its place rose the moon; it is a pale imitation. But it is all Tom has. And so, with such masochistic intent, Tom lets his walls crack. Just enough to let Harry sink his claws in.
(Tom can feel phantom blood weeping, gushing from his throat. It’s warm and wet, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.)
~
Before
“I’m here,” Harry whispers over and over and over again, “I’m here, Tom, I’m here.”
Tom can’t breathe. He’s just killed his father, and he can’t breathe. He’s just made his second Horcrux and he can’t breathe.
This is worse than the first time, somehow, when a young girl found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time and Harry helped him place the blame on a younger student’s pet acromantula. Harry had looked so pale, then, and he does again now.
“Please, Tom, we have to go,” Harry wipes at the blood congealing on Tom’s lips and chin and chest, “We need to go.”
Tom stumbles as Harry drags him away, a black stone set in a gold ring clutched in one hand. The ring seems so much warmer, now, and Harry holds it with such reverence. A few steps away lies the body of Thomas Riddle Sr; there is a gaping cavity in his chest.
“Tom, come on!” Harry grabs his jaw, forcing him to look down into gemstone eyes. Those eyes burn as he snarls, “I refuse to leave you to the wolves, so pull it together!”
He slaps Tom across the face, his hand coming away stained wine-red. And Tom, seeing the blood sticking to tanned skin, can finally breathe.
“I’m sorry,” Tom gasps, taking one of Harry’s hands in his, allowing him to hold Tom’s ring with his other, “I’m sorry. Let’s go.”
Finally, he feels safe. Death can’t touch him now.
Only Harry can.
~
It’s on a mundane, seemingly unremarkable day that he finally understands what Harry used to write with a rushed hand beside dying firelight as Tom watched.
“The Deathly Hallows,” Tom breathes, “Grindelwald wants to become the Master of Death.”
Harry’s notes painstakingly document times the Hallows have shown up in history, tracking the Elder Wand from owner to owner and the Invisibility cloak along the lineage of his ancestors. Tom finds a sketch he had previously disregarded and stares hard at the depiction of the Gaunt ring that sits on his finger.
He realises that this was Harry’s plan on Yule, to take the Elder Wand from Grindelwald and destroy him. But did Harry want to become the Master of Death himself? No, Harry would never; he didn’t prize immortality.
But Tom could do it. He looks down at the Hallow on his hand and wants. He could it, he could become the Master of Death. For a moment, there is such a visceral yearning in him. He could do it, he could–
And then it stops. He has two Horcruxes; they were the only reason his healing spell had repaired the damage to his neck long enough for the Mediwizards to save him. Not only that, but the ritual he is planning has the power to bend Death to his will. He doesn’t need to walk alongside Death when he already walks ahead of it.
He is immortal. But Harry, who was never afraid to walk with Death, is not.
When Tom had discovered the existence of Horcruxes, Harry had been so resistant to the idea of living forever, even when Tom promised and promised to always be at his side.
But Tom no longer cares if he wants it or not. Because Harry is right; he needs him. If Tom has to spend eternity hating Harry, then so be it. But he refuses to waste immortality with instability- with the growing itch he cannot shake when Harry is gone. Tom refuses to suffer this life without him. These past months have been what Tom thinks hell might be like.
It does not matter if Harry will forgive Tom for gifting him immortality. Yet, perhaps he might, if it means ripping away the object of the Dark Lord’s obsession- if it means Grindelwald suffers. Harry always did hate Grindelwald with such murderous beauty.
Oh, how Tom will make him suffer.
~
“Tom!” comes Evander’s deep voice as he practically runs into the Great Hall.
Tom looks up from his food and gestures for Evander to sit beside him.
“What news?” he asks, an elegant brow arched, “Has Vinda contacted you?”
“Yes,” Evander sits, out of breath, “Grindelwald is attacking the Ministry in three weeks. He intends to send a message to the Minister and Dumbledore if my dear cousin is to be trusted.”
“Excellent,” Tom sips his tea, “Good work, Evander.”
The blond young man smiles, his face flushed at Tom’s praise. Around them, Tom’s Knights chatter excitedly. Tom will write to Lord Hua later in the day and request that a visit be scheduled.
Tom is so close to bending Death to his will that he can taste it. There is ash and sweet blood on his tongue.
It’s time to break into the Department of Mysteries.
~
Before
They are running beside the lake, giddy with the freedom that comes with the end of their Sixth Year exams. Harry tackles Tom by the waist, and they come crashing down onto the soft grass. Tom falls flat on his back, Harry’s weight above him.
“Harry!” Tom laughs, reaching up to take that sharp, treasured face between his hands, cupping his cheeks, “You’re insane!”
Harry laughs wildly, still holding Tom by the waist, “Always,”
Gemstone eyes sparkle in the bright sun, and Tom basks in Harry’s delight. Dark hair falls around his face in untameable curls, and Tom longs to brush his fingers through them. So, he does.
Looking down at him with such a soft expression, Harry presses closer. Their hips are flush, Harry’s hands on his waist, Tom’s hands tangled in Harry’s hair.
A breath ghosts over Tom’s lips before he closes the gap, pushing up on his hands to meet the young man above him. Their first kiss is sweet, so heart-achingly sweet; it’s the antithesis of everything they are.
With Harry’s lips captured between his own, Tom thinks that this is where he belongs. Lying in the sun, beside a castle that belongs to him, with Harry in his arms. Harry is his; it is only right that this is where they have ended up.
Harry is his sun, the light and warmth in his life. Perhaps Tom is Icarus, whose love for the sun brought him to ruin. Tom would gladly be ruined for this love.
Harry makes such sweet sounds, laughing against his lips when he tries to pull back and Tom follows, chasing. He’s not ready to let Harry go yet.
(He never will be.)
~
“This way!” Tom yells at Theodore and Alphard, leading them deep into the bowels of the Department of Mysteries as spellfire rages around them.
“Are you sure we need this Grim blood?” Theodare asks, barely dodging what he is sure is an illegal entrail expelling curse, “I’m not certain we’re going to make it out of here; Grindelwald has the Ministry surrounded!”
Tom doesn’t deign to answer him, instead running through shelves of cursed oddities and alarming objects. They are so close that Tom can feel his heart pounding from more than just exertion. A shout from behind them alerts Tom to the presence of one of Grindelwald’s Acolytes. Tom kills them without hesitation, watching their face go slack halfway through saying a spell. A sick sense of satisfaction fills him.
“Here,” Tom turns left around a sharp corner, finally reaching the stores containing what he needs, “Alphard, come with me. Theodore, watch the door.”
In and out, that is the plan. It is simple, as all plans should be, with minimal room for error. By the time they secure the Grim blood, the foundations of the Ministry are shaking, and screams fill the air.
Tom feels so alive.