It started with a childhood cradled in the lush greenery of Geneva and its countryside, where the Riddle Estate prospered. Thomas Riddle Junior was brought to the world with a cry and the sudden snuffing out of his mother's life. Despite the austere beginning to his life, Tom quickly found himself growing into a doted-upon child, with a peculiar, disquieting charm about him.
It seemed at times he knew quite more than he let on, something that at first disturbed his father, but that he quickly grew to embrace when he realised it could be redirected to the plethora of studies available to Tom thanks to his status as heir to a prosperous family.
Thomas Riddle Senior was a man who believed deeply in education, and the importance of cultivating the mind, and as such encouraged Tom in his endeavours, providing books upon tutors of the finest knowledge of the natural sciences he could provide, as well as a robust insistence on the importance of curiosity and believing his own experiences above all else.
"Which is exactly why," Tom would often remember this conversation, held in the fire-lit drawing room, where Thomas Sr lounged in his armchair, pipe in hand, "between you and me, I've no patience for these Godly prattlings." The words were said with certainty, but Tom wasn't dupe to the uneasy shift in his father's eyes, as if admitting the words aloud would call forth some sort of divine wrath.
It was made even more amusing by their weekly church attendances, which were largely spurned on by the scandalised looks Tom's grandmother would admonish Thomas Sr with at any attempt to avoid it. Tom's father did not dare deny his own mother this small indulgence, and as such, every Sunday found him and his son dutifully seated on the family pew at her side, surrounded by their parishioners.
Tom quickly learned to make his own fun out of the visits; any kind of godly feelings had been sapped from his grasp quite early, and as such, the service was a great bore, and the sermons a rather silly thing to listen to. In fact, it was made all the more boorish by just how bemusing the characters were. Surely, if Joseph knew of his own greatness, one that very much reminded Tom of himself, there would have been no need for all this prattling about with God and wandering around Egypt. If he himself had been betrayed so, Tom reasoned, he would simply have killed his brothers, knowing he was the better person anyways, no fuss needed. Satisfied with his own answer, the rest of the long, winding tale became even more so tedious.
That was until Tom, during a rare absence of scolding looks to ensure his attention, had allowed his eyes to wander away from the altar, and found himself met with the face of an angel. The angel seemed just as thoroughly taken with Tom, and a deep, warm sense of satisfaction flooded through Tom's very bones, and he couldn't help the grin that pulled at his lips.
The boy was quite pretty, all dark curls and bright green eyes, and Tom had felt the sudden, urgent desire to touch, so he allowed his eyes to roam. He was terribly anxious to stay after service and find out his name, but life had its way, and Tom found himself swept up in the dramatics of some friend of his grandmother's, and by the time he was released from their grasp the angelic boy had already left.
Tom made for a temperamental child at times, and the loss of this new fascination made him particularly sullen the following days. These moods had come to a certain point where his father had largely given up on extricating the issues from his son, and would instead settle to let him stew in his own misery until they were resolved, usually a few days later.
As such, he took to ignoring Tom's despondent looks at the breakfast table, and leafed instead through a newspaper while proposing all manners of conversation subjects, none of which took. This time, it was something about some friendly relations he meant to impart on Tom. "I've a boy you ought to meet," his father said. "The Potter heir—a good family to keep in mind."
Tom nodded dutifully, but his mind still drifted to the black haired angel at the pews, and his jewel-like eyes, bright with a kindred curiosity that had simply devoured him whole.
"His father and I are old friends, you know. Met in university. He's quite a charming fellow, a good head on his shoulders, and the lad is the image of him, or so I've heard. You're the same age, I believe. We're to visit them this afternoon."
Tom grunted a little in response, and his father rolled his eyes, exasperated.
"Mind yourself, Thomas." And that was all the energy he had left to give to the conversation.
The estate, when they arrived at the Potters’ home, was rather grand, and the interior no less so, but the only thing that held any importance for Tom was the figure stood at the bottom of the stairs to greet them.
It was him. The angel.
Both boys stood in shock and fascination as their parents greeted each other, and only a quick glare from his father made Tom remember to bow politely.
"P-pleased to meet you," he murmured, and then cursed his tongue for the stutter, and his throat for the raspy tone of his voice, and his heart for being a traitor.
And the angel—Harry, he had to remember that name now, it was of utmost importance—smiled at him. "The pleasure is mine.”
Tom immediately wanted to hear more of his voice. It was a light, melodious sound, and his heart skipped a beat at the realisation that this would not be the only time he would have the privilege of listening to it.
"Why don't you show Thomas around the gardens, Harry?" Mrs Potter suggested, and Harry agreed eagerly.
Tom had to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent the ridiculous smile that threatened to split his face when Harry grasped his hand to lead him outside. Smitten. He remembered absolutely nothing of what Harry had shown him, could not have named a single flower in the Potters' garden. He could, however, remember the exact cadence of Harry's voice, and the precise angle of his wrist as he pointed things out, and the exact shade of his eyes in the sunlight. Tom had never seen someone so beautiful, and he had never wanted anything so desperately.
‘Wanting’ his newfound friend was a very clear sentiment in his mind, but what exactly that implied, and why exactly the feeling was so fervent, was nebulous at best for quite a long time. What Tom did know was that Harry was the most precious thing he had ever encountered, and his entire soul sang out at the thought of being close to him. It was a strange, all-encompassing feeling, and Tom would not have traded it for anything in the world.
"You are not paying attention."
Tom snapped out of his reverie. "I was."
Harry looked thoroughly amused. "Were you now?"
"Well, not entirely," Tom admitted.
The two were seated in the quiet shade of the large, ancient trees surrounding the Riddle estate. The sky was clear and bright, and the breeze carried a light chill that would soon make them retreat indoors, but for now, they basked in the freshness of the air. A book was splayed in Harry's lap: something about a shipwreck. In Tom's own, there was a rather interesting essay on the study of anatomy, now forgotten to the side in favour of the warm sun and the boy next to him.
Harry's head was tilted towards him, the sunlight catching in his hair, and turning the curls a deep brown.
"Clearly." Harry grinned, and the light caught his teeth, glimmering.
"I was thinking," Tom defended.
Harry raised his eyebrows. “And aren’t your thoughts always so interesting? Do share.” He drew his knees to his chest, propping his chin upon them, and Tom felt the warmth of Harry’s entire attention on him.
“University,” Tom replied, a little belatedly, after having taken the time to lose himself a little more in Harry’s eyes. His face rather soured at the mention, and he found himself clasping Harry's hand in his own. "Would your father not reconsider? My father could speak to him."
Harry shook his head, slowly, and his thumb brushed over the back of Tom's hand. "You know it is not possible. It is for my own good, and we have discussed it, and he will not change his mind."
Tom's lips pulled back in a grimace. "There are a great many things you would learn in Ingolstadt that would serve you well later at his side. Surely he can see that."
Harry sighed, tilting his head back, and Tom could see he was also rather annoyed with the whole ordeal.
"I could stay," Tom said, quickly.
"Tom!" Harry's eyes snapped back to him, a little taken aback. "No you could not!"
"I could," Tom insisted. "I will. If you simply say the word. To hell with my father."
Harry looked rather annoyed, now. "Do not put that kind of decision on me. It is not a responsibility I want."
Tom's fingers clenched tight, gripping hard on Harry's hand. "But you could have me!"
"Tom," Harry said, and Tom looked away, embarrassed at the emotion in his own voice.
"I simply do not want to be apart from you," He admitted, petulantly, and felt a flush rising to his cheeks.
Harry's hand slipped from Tom's grasp, and before Tom could protest, the other boy had wrapped his arms around Tom's middle, and was resting his chin on Tom's shoulder.
"And you shall not be," Harry murmured, his voice close to Tom's ear. "We will write. You will see. And I will visit. And you will return, surely, during the holidays. It is not so far away. Not really."
Tom allowed his body to relax into Harry's, his hands finding their place upon the other's shoulders, and he laid his head against the soft curls of Harry's hair.
"We've still a few days before your departure. Let's not waste them fretting."
Those days may have been the fastest of Tom's life. They tumbled through his fingers like fine grained sand, a blur of hours spent in Harry's companionship, from meals to walks to quiet, secluded moments they could simply share the same space, and Tom could listen to Harry read or talk, and lose himself in the melody of his voice.
Before he knew it, he was stood, stiffly, before a carriage loaded with his belongings, the driver waiting by the door, and the horses huffing impatiently.
Tom looked at Harry quietly. “I'll be miserable without you.” It came out a little more reproachful than he may have liked.
Harry laughed. “You'll be brilliant is what you'll be. As you always are.”
Tom scoffed, loud and stubborn. “I’m sure there’s enough brilliance to be had for the both of us there.”
Harry’s tone was chiding now. “You will arrive by sunrise tomorrow if you keep stalling like this.”
Tom let out a soft exhale, and squeezed Harry’s hand a little, still not quite wanting to let go. “Very well then," He finally conceded. “I will write.”
“You better.” Harry smiled at him, offering a squeeze back.
It was finally time for Tom to, quite painfully, pull away, and sit in his carriage, his eyes never leaving Harry. He could not help but to reach out the window and hold Harry’s hand close one last time. His heart stuttered a little when their fingers untangled at the cue of a cracked whip, the buggy lurching forward. He stared back at his companion, whose own eyes were wide and a little lost.
"Goodbye." Tom could only manage to say it quite softly, lest the words crumble with longing.
The responding "goodbye, Tom," was equally as tender.
The first week of his studies, Tom found himself quite swept up. There was much to do; a room to settle into, belongings to unpack, course mates and professors to meet, a brand new campus and town to familiarise himself with. It was his first time away from home on his own, and the faffing about such a move required left him quite dizzy.
As the days passed, the chaos slowed into a lull, and he was able to find his bearings a bit better. He began to take more notice of the people around him, the buildings, the classrooms, the library, to remember the twists of hallways and streets, and the names of his tutors.
His courses started, with lessons in a range of subjects, spanning across nearly every book he had ever eagerly devoured in Harry’s company back home. It all should have been very interesting, but he found the material largely within his grasp, with very little offered stimulation, resulting in frequent, long lectures during which his mind wandered.
It was his first time away from home, but it was also, he realised with a startle, his first time in over a decade away from Harry. The realisation subjected his blood to a deep, burning boil, and his mind, a frantic scramble. He did his best to focus on his studies, but the thought kept coming back to him. He had not seen his companion for weeks, and the absence was a deep ache in his chest. He attempted to fill it, at first, with frequent letters, where he found himself going as far as employing a dedicated courier for his correspondences to Harry.
Even this, he found with frustrated impatience, still took a week to get back and forth, and it did not satisfy the urge to simply be in his company. He could not hear his voice, nor see the way his face lit up in a smile at his frequent quips and indulgences. All he had were words on pages, unsatisfyingly close to what he ached for, but still ghostly enough to leave him more ravenous than sated.
"Trouble back home, Riddle? It seems you've taken quite a fancy to the postal services."
Tom's eyes snapped up. He was seated at his desk, pen poised over the latest letter, his eyes skimming across the page he had already written and rewritten a dozen times over. He had not heard the door open. A young man stood in front of him, with a head of shockingly pale hair.
If Tom were to be honest, he had absolutely no clue whatsoever who in the world this was. He had found that none of his course mates stirred any real interest within him, and blurred instead into a singular, aggravating blob at the edges of his consciousness.
"The anxieties of being away for the first time have quite caught up to my loved ones, I'm afraid." It came out curtly, bolstered by the deep desire to be left the fuck alone.
The man looked thoroughly amused, and, unfortunately, not in the least deterred. He leaned against the doorway and smiled.
"Well, that explains why you've been holed up in the library all day. Takes much to soothe the fretting of a lover, doesn't it?"
"My mother," Tom said, voice a bit clipped.
"Right," The man snorted. "Well, no matter, no matter. It's no use fussing over it now, in any case. Last I heard any route south bound is done for for the next few days; swept right clean by the storm."
Storm. Storm? Tom fought to not show his surprise. It had been storming? Wrenched from the endless din of his raging thoughts, he suddenly picked up on the pelting rain and rumbles of thunder. It must have been pouring since midday, and Tom hadn't even noticed.
"...I had been hoping it wasn't quite so severe," He tried, awkwardly.
The man raised an eyebrow. "Quite. In any case, I've been sent to you by Professor Slughorn; he's rather taken with you, I'm afraid. Rightfully so, I've seen some of the work you've done."
Tom did not answer.
"He's set on starting a somewhat more advanced class, after hours. Just a small group, of course, and a bit more personal. You're on the list. He wanted me to bring you along, seems you've been a wriggly eel to get a hold of."
"Ah."
The man continued. "I’m afraid we’re near late with the time it took to track you down, so if you would." He gestured back to the hall.
Tom looked down at his letter. If the roads were to be closed anyways, perhaps having something to distract himself would be good, keep him from the itch.
"Of course."
Tom followed the man back as he talked about a great many things, no doubt his name, amongst others, which Tom found escaping his full grasp once again. He was quite distracted still by thoughts of his letter to Harry, and the conversation was merely a pleasant buzz in the background all the way to class.
As advertised, the lesson offered a much more in-depth look into the Professor's subject, and in such a manner Tom found himself, quite suddenly, genuinely struggling with the material. The realisation caught him by surprise, and thoroughly captured his attention throughout the lecture and ensuing discussion.
He stumbled out of the class, mind full of a multitude of questions he would not even have been able to think to conceptualise a few hours ago, and the shock of having spent them fully involved in his task, without a stray thought to lose on the mournful altar of his own selfish yearning.
He felt full. Gone, for a moment, was the aching chasm in his chest, replaced by an intense, almost frenzied sense of accomplishment.
Back in his apartments, he pored over his notes from the class. He could practically feel his synapses fizzing with the new information, urging him to stay by candlelight, rushing along the words. It was a good few hours before he managed to pull himself away from the table and stumble into bed, and his dreams were a hazy mess of anatomical diagrams and the smell of wet earth.
The next morning, he awoke, for the first time since his arrival, from something other than strange, burning, longing nightmares. His night had been purely haunted by work and eagerness, a particular face never showing up to crush his chest into a breathless ache as it usually did.
The resultant emotion, once he was cognizant enough to realise this, was guilt. Violent guilt that slammed into him, leaving him feeling a little sick. He had spent a day without feeling the desperate urge to return home, the deep need to see Harry. He had, for the first time in months, not felt the crushing weight of his absence, the gnawing sense of something missing.
Guilt pervaded his being, at daring to forget, where it had previously harped on his longing.
Tom sat, for a long while, in his bed, and stared out the window. The stillness allowed the want to roar back in, a terrible beast. It clawed and gnashed and tore at his very being, a howling thing, stronger than before, bolstered by the guilt which left him raw and vulnerable to emotional sensibilities.
The storm raged still, outside, undeterred by Tom’s own turmoil, and lending to the air a thick, heavy quality that seemed to press down onto him further. He rose from bed, feeling pallid and sick. He found himself haggard, incapable of completing his letter to Harry, all words escaping him save for those that would express his betrayal and the ensuing despair. How could he have allowed himself to forget Harry, even for a moment? The thought clawed at him, and he spent the morning wrestling with a renewed sense of longing and self-reproach, listless, stumbling aimlessly between desk and bed, his papers and books and pen untouched.
He had not the energy nor the will to eat, and he was unsure how many hours passed by in his malaise. All too soon his room was awash in a grey, damp twilight, and there was a knock at the door.
"Riddle," the door had opened before he could move to answer, "any good notes on vitalism? I can't make heads or tails of what I've written, Slughorn was going too fast..."
Tom vaguely recognised the face from the night before. The man's voice trailed off, taking in the room, and Tom's state.
"I suppose it's that serious."
"Pardon?" Tom could only manage a hoarse whisper, his voice unused.
"About the lover."
"My mother," Tom insisted, but his voice lacked conviction, even to his own ears.
"Ah." The man gave him a rather knowing look, and then walked further into the room, pulling a chair up to Tom's bed and settling into it. "What's her name?"
"My mother?"
The man gave a short laugh. "Not your mother's, the name of the girl. The one who has you in such a fit."
"There's no one." Tom was beginning to feel quite tired of saying this.
"Well, you're lying, and doing a bloody awful job of it."
Tom stared at the man, at a loss for what else to say.
"You've got your own rooms and a private carriage, you've got more books than the bloody library and a family that spares no expense for the heir, and yet here you are, wasting away, and you tell me there's no one."
Tom suddenly wished he had remembered the man's name, if only to properly curse him out. "That is a rather presumptuous observation, don't you think?"
"Not at all. I would go as far to say it's a very charitable one, considering your state."
Tom was feeling quite vexed now. He did not need this, not now, not after the guilt and the loneliness and the yearning. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to be here, prodding and prying and making him feel like this. "What was it you came here for, again?" He seethed out, intent on getting this roach out of his chambers.
The man held up his hands. "Now, now. Don't get so hot-headed, Riddle. I can help."
Tom's anger flared even higher at the condescending tone, and he stood abruptly to search through the piles of notes haphazardly thrown about his desk. "I do not require your help," he snapped back, "in fact, as I recall it, you sought me out to request mine." Finally, he uncovered the notes in question, brandishing them up to the dying daylight. "So if you would-" His eyes settled over the words he had jotted down, and it felt as if gears had clicked into place, all of a sudden. He could see, so clearly, how he could have solved this problem, the problem he had not even thought to be a problem, a day ago.
In an instant his mind roared back into action, focused on the work. What ensued was what surely must have been a week-long, feverish, all-encompassing focus on the text. His brilliance felt God-like in this time, his understanding and knowledge soaring past his peers and his teachers, leaving him aflame with the need to keep pushing.
This obsession left no place for anything else, now that it had taken root, be it food, or sleep, or a letter or two to trepidating loved ones. He was not sure, even, when exactly his study had veered into the crazed idea of imbuing life into a creation. The turn had felt almost natural; fated. The simple, logical culmination of his godhood. He was not so far gone, however, to not realise that his current methods, whilst revolutionary and undoubtedly brilliant, were far too dangerous and complex to be shared, lest he be locked away, or worse. No, it was better for him to take the cover of night and candlelight during his trips to graveyards and morgues, the guise of the dark to conceal his work.
The days blended together, his sleep schedule was shot to hell, and his mind was constantly racing with the work, until, finally, he had created, by some mechanism of life and death and godhood, the exact process of divination of which was somewhat lost in his frantic excitement at Understanding with a capital u. It mattered not, in a manner, what exactly he did; what mattered was that he had done it.
This he told himself as he took a trembling step back from his operation table, arms dyed brown and green from cutting and stitching rot together, to gaze with an awed fear upon his creation; a creature. A beautiful, pallid creature, with a finely sculpted face and an impressive stature, long-limbed and dark haired and so, ethereally perfect.
And it stretched. Oh, it rippled. The spark he had fervently imbued within it took; it moved. The skin shifted against its stitching, pulling over muscle that twitched and coiled and unfurled. A raised hand. Tom’s heart thundered within his ribs. He took another step back.
The hands' movements were slow, but purposeful; they splayed themselves against the cold surface of the table. It meant, Tom realised, to rise up. There was the roll of a shoulder as to sway the mass of its torso, the heaving upwards of the head. Hair spilled across the shoulders. It was turning. To him. It was sat. And finally, its eyes open.
He had meant them to be grey. And perhaps, the lack of sleep or any real conversation with another for the last months had taken their hold. But as the creature sets its eyes - sickeningly, brilliantly red, bloodshot eyes - upon him, it dawned upon Tom, with instinctual finality, that it was not simply a creature he had created, never mind a human, as he had planned and hoped, but well and truly-
"A monster." The words left his lips of their own accord, and their echo throughout the room was as harsh as a clap of thunder, as if cementing the truth of it. Tom lurched backwards, as if stung, snatching a nearby scalpel from the table, brandishing it outwards.
"Do not come any closer!" His voice shook, his limbs trembled, and his grip was slippery from sweat and blood, and, oh, the fear.
The creature merely tilted its head, a curious, bird-like gesture. It made no motion to rise further.
"Get up! Stand away!" Tom tried again, desperation leaking into his tone. It did not occur to him in the moment that the creature may not have a conception of what his words meant; he ran on pure adrenaline, fear coursing through his veins, potent as any drugs, and roaring at him that the lack of compliance was simply a ruse, and the creature would strike him dead where he stood.
The creature still did not move.
"Up!" Tom's voice was a hoarse cry now, his breathing erratic, his vision blurry and dark around the edges. Leave - came the thought - I must leave before it can attack.
It was not a conscious decision, really, when Tom's arm drew back, and sent the scalpel flying, rushing out the door before he could even guess at where it had landed. The agonised, hoarse scream that trailed after him as he barreled down the stairs was enough to know he had hit his mark, but he did not stop, not when he had made it down the stairs, nor out the door, nor halfway down the steps, where he suddenly realised it had been raining still, and he found himself slipping on the wet stone, landing, with a sickening crack, upon the ground, where he went limp.
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Tom awoke with a shuddering start, to his utter confusion, in bed, wrapped in warm clothes and with a damp towel across his brow. His eyes immediately zeroed in on the only source of light in the room; a lamp by his bedside, next to an armchair, where a bespectacled young man sat, reading a book.
“Harry.” Tom's voice was laden with relief.
Harry smiled at him, and the resulting emotion Tom felt was so joyously ecstatic he suddenly feared this was another trick of his mind, and he abruptly made to sit up, feverishly intent on touching Harry, on feeling flesh and bone and warmth. Harry's eyes widened at the sudden scramble, and he immediately came to Tom's side at the bed, clasping a pale, shaking hand in his own.
Tom could've cried from the immediate relief that flooded through his very bloodstream. Harry was real. His hold had the quality only possessed by the living, by the physical; a tangibility that promised to not let Tom's own hand slip through, a vein’s hummingbird flutter in the hollow of the wrist, a soft massaging of worried fingers, a subtle trace of the other senses that solidified the presence; the soft shuddering breaths, the light fragrance of spice and rose water, the quiet shift of skin on skin.
“You're not well," Harry said.
This much Tom could have gathered himself.
“I found you collapsed on the steps of the university.” Here Harry lifted a hand to gently push curls away from Tom's forehead.
Tom closed his eyes. He ached to lean into the touch.
“And you're feverish.” Harry's hand pressed a little more insistently, and Tom gave in, letting himself nose at the warm palm.
“Am I?” Tom mumbled. Perhaps the flush he felt at his neck wasn't merely from the sight of Harry, then. He found he didn't quite care, and instead pushed more against Harry's hand, reaching up to hold his wrist.
“Tom.” Harry's tone was softly scolding. “It was raining. How long were you laying there? And whatever for? I arrived near midnight. What were you doing there?”
Tom only grunted softly in response. Now that he was a little more awake, he did indeed feel rather heavy-limbed and cotton-headed. He could feel the dull stuffiness at the back of his head that indicated some sort of cold or sickness.
“I don't know," He only said, and his voice was brittle enough for Harry to relent with a sigh.
“Your family worries for you," Harry said quietly. “Your father tells me you haven't written to them in months now. I had hoped I was the only one you had spurned, what with your lack of letters."
Tom's eyes immediately opened. "Spurned? You? No. Not you. Never you. Harry, surely you know, if anything, you would be the only one I would write to."
Harry's face took on a pained smile. "Why the silence, then, Tom?" He asked gently.
Tom only pulled Harry's hand a little closer to his face. The action, especially paired with his ignoring the inquiry, felt deeply selfish, but he did not care. "Have you come all this way to scold me in father's stead?" He murmured.
Harry grinned at that. "My father has relented; I have been allowed to commence studying in Ingolstadt as well."
"You're staying?" Tom whispered.
Harry's smile took on an indulgent, tender quality. "I'm staying," he affirmed.
Tom closed his eyes, and a deep, shaky sigh left him. His grip on Harry's wrist tightened a fraction.
Harry seemed content to simply observe him, and Tom basked in the attention, drinking in the warmth of his gaze like a plant in the sun.
"I missed you," Harry whispered.
"As have I," Tom answered. He opened his eyes again. "I was right. I've been quite miserable in your absence."
"Yet you've been brilliant as well, I bet," Harry retorted. "I look forward to meeting your professors. I'm sure they will be much less humble about your achievements."
Tom grunted a little, seized with a sudden nausea at the idea of diving back into discussions of the sciences and memories of what his study of them had amounted to.
"Later," Harry quickly soothed. "We've time. All the time in the world, my friend. First I must nurse you back to health. Then we shall speak of such things."
Tom nodded, and his stomach twisted with both sickness and fondness.
The ensuing domesticity they adopted over the following month only further deepened this conflict.
Tom found himself quite spoiled in a manner that made him ache with affection. He was not allowed to rise from his bed, and was served warm soup and tea. Harry read to him, and played cards with him, and chatted with him of all sorts of things, and Tom soaked it up like a sponge, his chest fit to burst.
As much as he knew Harry to be largely uninterested and untalented in the natural sciences, he still resolutely insisted on reading texts to keep Tom’s mind sharp, and even took diligent notes as he listened, and asked questions and argued with him as best he could.
It was all a little silly and very charming, and the ridiculously fond enthusiasm with which Harry threw himself into entertaining and nursing Tom carved an endless hunger into Tom's soul. He found himself wanting, wanting, and wanting, until his body was nothing but an insistent thrum, had a constant low buzz in his veins, a persistent, needy thing that drove him to distraction. And if, from time to time, he threw Harry helpless looks as to compel him to aid in a matter he was perfectly capable of executing himself, Harry did not call him out on it, and instead took to fetching him water, and wiping his brow, and laying him to bed when he began to fret about the state of his notes.
He felt almost like a child again, a cherished, delicate thing that Harry fussed over, and it made something both deeply warm and horribly bitter well up inside of him. He did not deserve this. Did not deserve the luxuriously loving attentions being so generously given. Especially not if it came from his angel.
Harry had the tendency to sit on the edge of his bed as they worked, and when Tom looked at him from the side, his form cut a striking, beautiful picture, and Tom longed. His chest constricted with an unbearable amount of pressure when he realised he would never be able to have this, not really, that this was something he would not allow himself to have. It was not his place, was not his right, and he hated, hated, hated.
He could not help the occasional touches, however, nor the lingering looks, and he was glad Harry did not remark upon them either. Perhaps he wrote them off as fever induced madness.
Perhaps, a small, hopeful part of Tom mused, perhaps Harry enjoyed this as well, and wished for Tom to touch him, and maybe even looked upon him with a fondness deeper than just friendship, but that was a dangerous train of thought, and Tom knew he ought not entertain it, lest it drive him mad with want.
It was enough to have Harry close, and safe, and within his reach. That was enough. That had to be enough. What other choice did he have?
And so he greedily soaked in every ounce of affection and care, and allowed himself to pretend, in the seconds during which Harry’s hand brushed his or tucked his hair behind his ear, that this was his to have.
"Tea?"
Tom looked up from where he had been clenching and unclenching his hands around the sheets. Harry's back was to him where he was pouring out two cups at the desk. Tom slowly rose from his bed, tightening his dressing gown around himself, and moved to his friend's side.
Harry looked up in surprise. "You shouldn't be up!"
Tom's heart squeezed a little. "You fuss over me so," he murmured.
Harry did not look impressed. "Must I remind you of the state I found you in?"
"Harry."
"I would be a poor friend indeed if I didn't worry," Harry muttered, turning back to the tea.
"Oh, my Harry," Tom said softly, and then, because the words slipped out, and he was tired and weak, and a little sick, "truly no one will ever love me quite as you do."
Harry stilled.
Tom felt a rush of panic, and a sudden, desperate desire to hide his face, and an equally strong inclination to press his lips to the nape of Harry's neck.
When Harry turned to him, it was with a soft, teasing look. "Perhaps they won’t, my friend."
And just like that, the panic was gone, replaced by a deep, aching sorrow.
"Most assuredly," Tom said. "You are too good to me, my friend." The word felt especially bitter on his tongue.
Harry only laughed, and handed him his cup. "Drink. It's still hot."
They stood together in a comfortable silence, leaning against the desk and sipping their tea.
Harry was addressing Tom with an odd little look. Tom knew he wondered; after all, how could he not? Given his sudden silence, most likely Harry had expected to find him unwell to some degree, but in such disarray... Still so, he never pushed, never asked past the first day.
"You do seem in better spirits today," Harry started slowly.
Tom stiffened. "Yes," he answered shortly.
Harry gave him a long, appraising look, and Tom felt his pulse begin to race.
"Tom," Harry said quietly.
"Yes?"
"Would you mind terribly writing to your father? I've been sending him letters in your stead, but, well, he yearns to receive one written by your own hand."
"Oh." Tom's shoulders slumped in relief. This, he could do. This was simple. "Of course."
Harry nodded, and took another sip from his tea. "I'm afraid if things were to continue he would take it I've been hiding your corpse." He laughed a little.
Corpse. Tom felt sick with the sudden thought of it; rot-soft flesh and decaying bone, a husk, an empty thing.
"Tom? Are you alright? You've gone pale."
"Just the cold," Tom whispered, and the lie tasted like bile on his tongue. "I'd best get to the letter before I'm taken by another spell. You are quite right, my dear friend. Father is probably worried. It's best if he hears from me."
Harry smiled at him, and something deep in Tom's gut writhed, but he smiled a tight-lipped smile back and set about the task.
Riddle Sr. was hasty to reply, sending a special courier of his own, who appeared on the steps of Ingolstadt University, panting, letter clutched in hand. The words within it burst with joy at hearing from Tom, warm and relieved, and a twinge of guilt even stirred within Tom’s gut as he read them. This was soothed by the smile upon Harry’s face at the reception of the letter.
“What has he said?” Harry inquired, leaning over Tom’s shoulder.
Tom tried to ignore the tickle of Harry’s hair on his cheek, and the light gust of his breath on his hand. His eyes scanned the page. “He is glad to hear from me, and attempts to chastise me for my silence.” His eyes skimmed the page. “He insists that I travel to see him forthwith.”
“So we shall!” Harry replied cheerfully.
Tom gazed up at him. He had not allowed even an instance of trepidation in Tom’s mind, a flicker of fear at being separated once more. He smiled, and gave Harry’s hand on his shoulder a squeeze. “So we shall.”
The carriage ride was pleasant. Tom felt well enough to travel, a feeling most assuredly bolstered by Harry's presence, and they jested and chattered and teased and talked for hours, the trip flying by. Slowly the landscape morphed into familiar territory, and before Tom knew it, the carriage had pulled up in front of the Riddle Manor, and he was stepping out onto the grounds.
His father immediately enveloped him in a tight hug, and Tom had the distinct, odd feeling that it was a rather rare gesture from the man.
"My boy!" His father exclaimed, and Tom had the odd, uncomfortable sensation that his voice was hoarse.
"Father," Tom replied quietly, and his father's grip on his shoulders tightened for a moment.
"I am glad you are alright."
"Quite alright," Tom said, and he could not have said the words more stiffly if he had tried.
His father's grip slackened, and he pulled back, giving Tom an assessing look. "It is good to see you, Tom."
"And you, father."
"You act so put off after having the whole household near believe you to be dead! Surely you must understand the worry we have endured these months!"
Tom looked away, and his father sighed, the corners of his mouth drawing down.
"But this is neither here nor there, and I will not have such a joyous occasion dampened by this. Come. The household is eager to see you, and there is much to discuss."
And so they did. The discussions in question seemed endless to Tom, but near every moment of them was spent in Harry's company as well, and it rendered the whole affair quite bearable, no matter how many times he had to talk his father down from having him sent to a sanatorium, and no matter how many times he was questioned about the nature of his ailment and what he had done to recover.
A further joy was when Harry had smiled at him, after lunch, a bag slung across his shoulder.
"Where are you going?"
"We," Harry corrected, "are getting you some fresh air. I have had enough of being cooped up inside, and so have you."
So they had wandered the grounds, and then ventured a little further afield. The air was crisp and the sky bright, and Harry led him back to a familiar grove of trees on the edge of the Riddle estate. Tom's heart stuttered a little when he realised Harry's bag held a tasteful collection of books.
It felt somewhat like his childhood, as they curled around each other, a shared book splayed upon their laps, fingers tracing out passages, lightly tapping words and phrases, compelled to lean in and whisper into each others’ ears their conclusions and questions, as if anyone was around in the lush greenery to intrude upon their intimacy.
They spent their days much the same, taking long walks or rides together, and spending their nights reading and playing chess or cards, or chatting and drinking brandy in front of the fire. Life felt so different, light and pleasant, under the open, rolling hills and skies of his home, unlike the seemingly endless rain of Ingolstadt. Tom's time at university seemed almost to acquire a dream-like quality. He had been unwell, he came to reason, during that time. Dragged down by lack of sleep, driven mad by a project too eagerly undertaken. Yes, yes, that had to have been it.
The looming shadow of his creation in his mind was a most uncharitable portrait; the creature was new to the world, and it was not yet acquainted with it, and so Tom should not have made such judgments on its character. In fact, chucking a scalpel at it had been in very bad form. He would have to apologise, if he ever were to stumble upon it again, which was a rather ridiculous and unlikely prospect.
However, there was a certain restlessness, a sense of unease. Tom felt almost as though he was being watched, and sometimes, when he woke, the sense was so overwhelming that he had the strange and unpleasant impression that something was peering through his window. He checked, and every time, was greeted by the cool, still night, and nothing more. Remnants of his bout of madness, no doubt. He was still recovering.
The sense was not so easily dismissed when Harry remarked on the same phenomenon. A glacial thrill ran upon Tom's spine. "I've not felt anything of the sort," he replied, easily. "It must be you who is falling sick now... Fussing after me so has finally taken its toll. I told you not to."
"Oh, no," Harry said. "No, that isn't it. It's a curious feeling. As if someone was watching us."
Tom hastened a shrug. "What a silly notion. Perhaps in the time you were in Ingolstadt, you became unused to the quietness of the countryside."
Harry raised his eyebrows. "In three months' time? While you have not, after an entire year away?"
"Well, you always were the more delicate one, between us."
Harry shot him a thoroughly bemused look. "You can not be serious in your assessment. My constitution is fine, as it always has been, and unlike certain people I shall not name. This is not the issue."
"What do you think it is, then?"
Harry sighed, and turned away. "I've not a clue. Only, it feels wrong."
"Very illogical approach. If you've no idea of what it could even be, there must be nothing," Tom said, hiding the light tremble of his lips behind his teacup. He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling, before opening them again to look at Harry. "Just make sure to rest well tonight. A few drops of laudanum, perhaps, will do you good.”
As soon as he was sure Harry was sound asleep in his own room, Tom settled himself amongst the rosemary bushes bordering the estate’s walls. He crouched, stock still, for much less time than expected; out of the night came a surprisingly graceful shadow, which slithered to the windows with a snake-like gait; all long limbs and a pallid, moon-like face which pressed to the glass of the windows. Tom could not move, frozen as he stared at the creature, for it was well and good his creature, peering into Harry’s room. Something about seeing it once more, in person, sent a cold wash prickling across his skin. Perhaps he had not simply been unwell. It well and truly looked malevolent, something inherently wrong in its countenance.
Seemingly satisfied with its ogling, it slipped back into the night, and Tom found himself stumbling after it, as if pulled along by a string. He followed along, through brush and cricket chirps, until it arrived, a few miles out, to the crumbling walls of an abandoned mansion. It stopped, abruptly, and slowly turned. Tom’s blood iced as he felt its eyes, still as sickeningly red as he remembered, fall upon him. Its thin lips stretched into a glacial smile.
“So, you have come.”
Its voice was odd, with sharp sibilants and a stilted, halting cadence. Tom felt the overwhelming urge to leave, only abated by a deep, morbid curiosity. He took a hesitant step forward.
“You talk," he murmured.
The creature moved like a shadow; it seemed oily and liquid in its gestures, as it rose and sagged, crept a little closer before backing up to the wall again. “No thanks to you. You have left me bereft, to learn all on my own. After attempting harm upon my person, no less."
"Well I do apologise for that. I was, ah, rather overcome," Tom said. He was still rather overcome. He crept closer still. He could not help it. The pull to uncover the beast, to observe how his handiwork had held up, all these months, was a physical need. He needed to see.
The creature eyed him warily. "I am not inclined to forgiveness. ’Twas not simple fear that drove your hand that night; visceral disgust was apparent upon your features."
Tom paused his advances. The monster was correct. "Well, the months of toil were quite taxing, and the sight was rather unexpected," he said, a little defensively.
"I do not believe that excuses you."
"Nor was I asking for an excuse. I simply was trying to explain."
"Trying to placate me," the creature snapped. "Do not take me to be daft. You yourself built me with the intent of having me be intelligent, and your wheedling words have no effect on me, not when I've already been witness to your disgust and repulsion at my person."
Tom bristled, and a flash of anger overtook him. "You have not the first idea what went through my mind. I have been ill, these past few weeks. I was not well when you were first created. Do not speak to me as if you have the slightest notion of what has occurred in the mind of a human. I could not possibly imagine what occurs in the mind of a monster."
"A monster." The creature's voice was dull as it repeated the words. "Ah. So that truly is how you view me. Me, your very own creation, which you sought to imbue with life and humanity."
"Do not speak of humanity! What humanity could there be within a thing such as you? Your eyes burn like pits of hell, your hands are withered claws. Your skin is rotting away before my very eyes. I have seen you, prowling in the night, skulking like a fiend. You have stalked the halls of my home, and peered in the windows of those whom I love," Tom spat, and took a deep breath, and his anger ebbed away, leaving behind a hollow, sick feeling. "Do not think, creature, that you are any match for man."
The creature seemed unmoved, as it looked at Tom with those awful eyes. "How ridiculous that you, of all people, are the one to have created me. You are so very proud, and yet so very stupid. Do you think I would not be capable of the same things as you? Of emotion, of feeling? That I do not feel loneliness, or sorrow, or despair, because I do not fit your fevered ideals as you stitched corpses together? Do you think I wanted to be this way?"
"You cannot feel, you are a monster, a beast! I created you in an image of my own. And I know myself, and I know that you are a twisted mockery of myself, and that I am not so wicked. You are a perversion of my work. An error, a mistake. Nothing more. No matter what I have made you, you are not human."
"A mistake!" The creature laughed. "What a costly mistake I shall be, then. Perhaps the most costly mistake you shall ever make. I know where you dwell, I know the ones you hold dear to your heart. I have observed the both of you, and I can tell, Tom, that you are very, very attached."
Tom felt a shiver run down his spine. "Don't you dare," He growled. "You will not harm them, if you value your own life. You will leave here, and you will never return."
The creature cocked its head. "Ah, there is something you require from me, after all, isn't there? No matter how wretched you think me to be. There is something I have that you need."
"I need nothing from you, I demand your departure, or I will not hesitate to destroy you," Tom snarled.
The creature smiled. It was a hideous sight. "Would you? Could you?" It advanced. Tom found himself backing away, almost instinctively. The creature kept coming. "I do not know how you could. You've no idea of my weaknesses, or of my strength."
"Do not think you will deter me! You will leave!" Tom cried, his heart beating fast. The creature was upon him now, looming. He raised his hand, which the creature grasped. It was ice cold, and hard, like marble, carved as a perfect manacle for his wrist. He remembered with distant horror the careful selection he had gone through, painstakingly hand stitching together the most robust fingers of his collection to create the monster's.
"I will leave," the monster agreed. Its breath was foetid. "I will leave, because it is clear there is no place for me here that you are willing to offer. But I will not be alone. I have spent quite enough time, alone, with nothing but your memory and my own thoughts."
Tom's stomach clenched, and the sense of dread increased tenfold. "You will leave him alone. You will not go near him."
"Will I not?" The creature mused, its eyes glinting. "Yet I find myself craving companionship, and I am rather good at getting what I want. Wouldn't you agree?"
Tom lunged, and the creature caught him, easily, holding him fast. Tom struggled, but the creature held him, its grip iron.
"You are so prone to temper, aren't you? How very amusing," the creature said, a sneer colouring its tone. "I can be reasoned with, unlike you. I can be bargained with. Do you think yourself a man, yet your actions are as those of a child's." The creature released him, and Tom stumbled back once more.
"What is it that you want, then? I assume you will not leave me in peace until you receive what it is that you desire," Tom spat, rubbing at his wrists. They had begun to bruise.
"You assume correctly. And what I ask is simple in a most infantile way; why, you've already achieved it once. I expect it will be even more simple a task for you to achieve it a second time." The creature smiled, and a chill ran down Tom's spine. "Make me a companion."
By the time Tom stumbled back home, the sky was rosy with the tinge of the rising sun, and his mind heavy with the promise he had made to the creature. Barely had he made it back to his room, sagging upon the bed, that a knock sounded on his door, and a familiar head of curls peeked through. Tom's heart squeezed impossibly.
You'd think he was dying with the way he scrambled at Harry, desperate and wild eyed. Harry let out a startled, worried laugh, and a brief scuffle ensued before they finally found themselves wrapped up together in a tight embrace.
"What's gotten into you?" Harry asked, a little haltingly, a little breathlessly. Tom felt dizzy at the sound. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."
"A ghost indeed," Tom murmured. "An apparition."
"Is it truly so bad? Surely it was a dream. Come now, don't fret. It was just a nightmare," Harry soothed.
"It was no dream," Tom replied. "Nor was it a nightmare. No, Harry. It was an omen."
"Tom, you really are worrying me."
Tom looked at him, a deep longing in his eyes. He cradled the soft curve of Harry’s cheek with a tender, gentle touch.
"Do you think the Lord above could ever forgive a man like me?"
Harry's bewilderment only grew. "What kind of talk is this? There is no need for forgiveness. Whatever have you done?"
Tom did not answer. He found an odd, desperate impulse to pray. To plead with an uncaring deity. To beg for an absolution he knew he neither deserved nor believed in.
"Tom," Harry urged. "You are worrying me."
Tom's grip tightened.
Harry's eyes roamed over his face, until eyebrows twitched over bright green eyes, as if something had mentally clicked in place. "Thomas."
It was surprising, both the use of his whole first name, and the seriousness of the stare. Seldom had he seen Harry's eyes so dark.
"Thomas," he repeated. "You've done something quite terrible, haven't you?" In those eyes glimmered something almost accusatory.
Tom ducked his head, unable to bear the weight of the gaze. What he felt was deep, dark, shame. How long had he been gone, enthralled in his deplorable pursuits, to forget so much of his most beloved friend? How could he, for even one second, ever believe that Harry wouldn't see right through him, right to the blighted, rotting core? Of course he had.
His own ambition, he knew, had gnawed dutifully at a place that had once been solely for feverish thoughts of his companion, replacing them with the soothing, wicked salve of something much more acceptable, yet much more terrible.
Tom reached a little blindly for Harry again, dizzy with the weight of his own stupidity, and Harry, bless him, let him. He allowed himself to be held, allowed Tom to wrap his arms around him, to rest his head on his shoulder. However he stayed sullenly stiff, and did not return the gesture.
Tom did not know what he had expected. Perhaps some sort of catharsis, a release, a soothing balm to the turmoil within.
All that was given to him was the crushing realisation of his own sin, the cold, unforgiving weight of his own deeds, the unbearable guilt that settled upon his shoulders like a leaden mantle, the sharp, bitter sting of his own tears.
"I-I have done- what I've done is- i-it matters not. It is too late."
"Tom," Harry's voice was quiet, but firm, and his hands gripped Tom's shoulder with a force that was startling. "Whatever have you done?"
"Something that can be fixed." The words rushed out, and he tried to pull himself closer to Harry once more. "I can fix it, I can undo what I have done. Please, just trust me. Trust me, and let me fix this. I can fix it. It is not yet too late."
Harry's expression was caught between bewilderment and fear. "Fix what? I don't understand."
"You trust me, don't you?" Tom's voice was low, suddenly, glacially sure of itself. His eyes bore into Harry's with a fervent, desperate intensity. "You trust me, yes? I need to hear you say it. You trust me."
"I-"
"Yes or no."
"Tom-"
"Yes or no."
Harry looked at him with an anguished, searching expression. Then, a resigned sigh. "Yes," he whispered, almost inaudible, a bitter look on his face.
Tom exhaled softly.
"But you trust me too, do you not? Then you'll tell me what it is that troubles you. I cannot help you if you will not tell me what it is that's the problem. If I do not know."
Tom could not, of course, tell him. "Oh, silly things, dear heart," he said quickly, gathering Harry's hands to his chest. "Worries about my family, and worries about the future. Things we've spoken of before."
Harry's brows furrowed. "I do not remember ever speaking about family and the future."
"Well, we have," Tom said assuredly.
"Have we?"
"Of course."
"Oh." Harry's expression seemed to say very clearly that he did not believe him, but did not argue further.
"I will fix it," Tom reasserted, pressing his lips to Harry's knuckles.
Tom found it a little dreadful, how simple it was to set himself back into his morbid work. He took up residence in the creature’s crumbling mansion, the monster all too eager to provide him with the appropriate tools for his endeavour. His hands had memorised too well the way they should stitch and carve flesh; the memory of his first mistakes was too vibrantly stamped upon his mind.Progress, despite his frequent shying away and running back to Harry’s side, was made in a timely manner.
He both dreaded the completion of his work, and was eager for it to end, for Harry to take back his rightful place as the sole object of his constant attention.
Yes, he told himself, as he stood, gloves and apron bloodied before a mangle of limbs aligned on his operating table, it would soon be over, and then, things would simply go back to what they were before. It would be that easy. The words resounded dull in his mind, and he noticed his surroundings to be dark; he had been standing over his work, listless, eyes empty, long enough for the sun to dip below the horizon and leave him washed in nighttime. He fumbled for a candle as to light his work.
“It seems you are quite incapable of separating yourself from your friend long enough to complete your project.”
Tom's head jerked up at the voice; in the coolness of the arched window, a dark form lounged, all long shadows and glinting red. Immediate anger and fear leapt within Tom’s chest. His lip snarled in disdain at it.
“Do not dare to lay your eyes upon him. We made a deal. Stay. Away." He levelled a scalpel, spattered with brain matter and bile at the creature. "Do not think to approach him."
The monster laughed derisively. "What a familiar scene.” It slithered closer. “Do you think yourself any more deserving of him than I am? Perhaps you have deluded yourself further than I had anticipated, Tom. Look at yourself. Steeped in guts and depravity once more. Tell me, what would your beloved Harry think of this?"
Tom let out an inhumane snarl, a sound that tore out of his chest with ferocity. "His name, you villain, you will not speak it! Your bone-deep rot keeps you from a soul, and I will not let you taint his! Keep his name away from your putrid maw, lest I rip it out with my own hands!"
"Better these hands be used for something useful before I decide I've enough of your wavering. The sooner you finish this task, the better. My patience is wearing thin. I long for companionship. You will provide it. I grow tired of seeing your pitiful fumbling about."
"You can not expect me to go about this without qualms!" Tom snapped. "It is one thing to have created you, when I was still blind with eagerness, but now that my mind is no longer clouded by naive ignorance, I simply can not fathom making another- another-'' Tom faltered, jaw clenched tight, a hand wound through his hair in frustrated, poorly restrained rage. His eyes, ringed with a maddening lack of sleep, were bright with fury.
"Do not hold your tongue for my sake." The monster's smile, as always, stayed a cold, pallid thing. "You voided your right to any kind of moral anguish the moment you sparked life into my veins. It is now a time of action, Tom. I care not for the reason behind your reluctance, nor do I care for the cause of it. I will not suffer these petty, self-flagellating fits. The humanity of them is wearisome at best, and as you have so kindly reminded me at every turn, I have no right to humanity. Neither have you."
A deep rage bubbled in Tom's chest. "Beast! Abomination, you are a-" he dropped to a crouch, head in hand, forehead pressed to his knees. His entire frame trembled. "A nightmare."
"And you are the dreamer," the monster scoffed. "Do not forget it."
"What have I done?" Tom whispered. "Oh God, what have I done?"
The monster watched him for a moment, then heaved a deep sigh. "Your pitifulness sours my mood. I will leave you to your brooding, but be aware of my impatience. I will not wait much longer. I will not accept an eternity of solitude, nor an eternity of waiting. Believe you me, I will not hesitate to force your hand."
It swept out the room, a dark, hulking form, and Tom could not help the shudder that ran through him at the sight of it. A deep retch trembled through him as he set his gaze back onto his table, back onto the new horror he had wrought. The selection of rotted limbs with their dirt-caked nails appeared particularly gruesome, all of a sudden.
With slow steps he came to a stop at the table, gazing down into the face of his creation. It was half-done, pursed lips dead with cold and blueish, eyes and a for now still missing. Tom let his hand wander over the accursed hills and valley of flesh, and briefly closed his eyes. He froze. There was an uncanny, fearsome familiarity to these shapes. His eyes snapped open and he turned upon the jar of liquid in which a crowd of eyeballs floated, ready for transplant; green. Every one of them were a brilliant green.
“No.” The protest came weakly, shakily. “No. No.”
It had not been his intention. At the very least, it was what he told himself. How could it have been? Had this been why he had been so carefully selective about the new pieces he was using? To make sure the new creature would resemble Harry?
It became, of course, impossible to finish. Within the hour, he was sat on the rolling green hill across the abandoned mansion, taking swigs from a dusty bottle he had found within the cellar, and watching flames lick the bricks to a tar-black char. He wore the apron, soaked with guts and blood and a damning guilt that pervaded his senses still, lost in the drink and bone-deep chill of the night on his skin. The smoke that rolled off the castle seemed to disappear into a suddenly much darker, starless sky.
It took a few hours before the creature appeared. It stayed afar, on the other side of the mansion, silhouetted by the embers sparking off the crumbling building. Its features were unreadable, but there was a palpable feeling of disappointment, perhaps of disgust. It did not advance, and as the ashes started to smoulder, it turned, swallowed by the ink of night.
Tom closed his eyes, tilting his head back. So it shall end, he thought. The creature will take him. And what could he do? Nothing. The logical conclusion of his hubris, he supposed. Acceptance came cold and easy, a strange relief after the days of frantic anxiety and guilt. It would be better this way. Perhaps his only regret was the years he would not be able to spend by Harry's side. He rose, heavily, and started his way towards his horse, which he had left tied to a nearby tree.
He would have to leave. Tuck himself in a corner where the creature may end him in peace, away from Harry's gaze, from the world's. He would allow himself one last indulgence, he decided. A last day trip. One last look at Harry's face, his bright smile.
As he saddled his horse, his vision swayed, dizzy from the drink, and the weight of the evening's events. He pulled the horse away from the tree, and set on his way, back to the Riddle estate.
Harry was more than happy to accompany him, come morning, in a quiet walk through their childhood village. The streets were empty and quiet, a few early risers just coming out their homes. They stopped to admire a garden full of roses. Tom, despite himself, was distracted, his thoughts wandering to his inevitable demise. Harry's soft admiration for the blossoms and frequent comments on the state of the house's inhabitants just barely managed to pull docile emotions from him. He tried, in vain, to keep his mind off the monster, to enjoy these moments, the shift of Harry's skin against his hand as they wandered the sleepy, dawn washed streets.
However, he soon started seeing it; the flickers of hulking shadow in his peripheral. His heart sank, leaden. So this was it. The end. He squeezed Harry's hand in his own, and felt a pang in his chest at the responding pressure, at Harry's bright smile, the curve of his lips. He could not die before him; as much as he selfishly wanted to spend his last moments in Harry's embrace, he had to brave the terrifying fear of being alone, and send Harry away.
"Shall we go to the church?" Harry asked, gaze drifting to the spires in the distance. "It is a beautiful day."
Tom nodded. "Let us go."
"It's not far. It won't take us long," Harry mused, a hand on Tom's elbow. "It will be nice, I think, to remember the time we spent here, in our youth."
"Mhhh." Tom's gaze distractedly shifted back to the winding streets, the horror flickering deep in the alleys. He would have to part ways with Harry now, before his fear was too evident in his eyes.
Harry paused, frowning at Tom. "What is it?"
"Nothing, nothing." Tom shook his head. "But I've an errand to run, first."
"An errand?" Harry's eyebrows raised. "Very well. Where are we going?"
Tom shook his head. "I must go on my own."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "...What sort of errand is this?"
Tom couldn't help but tuck a strand of hair behind Harry's ear. "I shall fix things, as I promised. This is the end of it. Afterwards all will go back as it was. You will see."
"I do not know what you are planning, but it does not feel right. Let us go together."
"You don't trust me?" Tom's smile was weak.
"You truly must stop with that nonsense. We've been over this a million times. I would have you know I'm starting to find it rather offensive." Harry's eyes were sharp and hard, his tone biting. "Tell me, what is going on."
"I will," Tom quickly promised. "We will meet at the church; I won't be long. And I will explain everything then. It will make more sense. Indulge me? Please."
There was a quiet, tense moment, during which Harry's eyes, bright and inquisitive, seemed to bore into his own, before he sighed. "Very well."
"Go on, then." Tom squeezed his hand, and, when Harry started away, reluctantly released his hand, a pang in his chest.
"You will be quick?"
"You won't even have the time to miss me," Tom murmured.
"I always miss you, Tom," Harry laughed softly.
"Of course." Tom gave him a small, weak smile. "I will be there soon."
Harry nodded, and started down the street, away from Tom, for the last time.
Tom felt bile rise to his throat as he watched him disappear around a corner. He closed his eyes, and set on his path towards his end. He picked his way through all too familiar alleys, to the deepest, darkest parts of them, hoping to garner as little witnesses to his fate as possible. He felt strangely at peace.
It took longer than he expected for the creature to appear. Tom's gaze flicked down to its chest and arms, and his heart stuttered a little; they were soaked in blood. A horrified, instinctual thrill assured him it was not its own.
“What did you do?” He could feel his voice pitch up in terror.
The monster let its eyes lazily trail away from Tom, to a point past his shoulders. Tom followed them to the peaks of the church. His heartbeat picked up.
“In my time amongst people,” the monster started slowly, “I've come to learn it is quite bad manners to leave your betrothed at the altar.” Its eyes settled back onto Tom. “Wouldn't you say so?”
Tom tore into a sprint before the monster had finished its sentence, the harsh, bitter sound of its laugh following him as he raced down the street.
Of course, Harry laid on the tiled floor. Of course, it was empty, save for his shivering form. Of course, blood pooled around him. How he had managed to construe the monster’s intentions into spelling out its revenge in any other way was beyond him. A remnant of the overly conceited sense of godhood that sparking that first moment of life had manifested within him.
Yet in the moment he stepped through the door, Tom found himself incapable of even feeling guilt, too deeply crushed by an unbearable sense of defeat. The eyes of a dozen glass-wrought saints and marble-carved angels followed him as he took one leaden step after the other, between the pews, to where his very heart lay before the altar of a weeping Jesus Christ.
“Harry.” The lack of tremor within his own voice surprised him.
Harry opened his eyes to turn them up to him. They were bright with pain, yet his voice was full of relief when he spoke. “Tom.”
Tom found his movements mechanical as he carefully lowered himself, lifting Harry to lay in his arms, the smear of blood against his skin ice-like. He had to close his eyes briefly to suppress the shiver he felt when he was reminded of the last time viscera had slid against his hands like so.
"I’m bloody.” Harry seemed more upset about getting Tom dirty than the state of his own body.
"Hush." Tom's voice finally cracked. He futilely swiped a trail of blood from Harry's lips. "Harry..." Tom's hands trembled as he applied pressure to Harry’s wounds, his own heart pounding with helpless urgency. But even as he worked, he knew it was futile. “I just… if I just… I just need to…” he babbled a little uselessly.
Harry let out a low groan, squeezing his eyes in pain. “That- gods, Tom, that hurts, please don't-”
Tom immediately withdrew his hands, opting to cradle Harry closer to his chest instead, tuck his face to his neck, try and inhale the smell of skin instead of the smell of blood. “What have I done.” His voice came out in a defeated tremble.
He could feel Harry's chest tremble, and felt a pang of guilt; it must have been a sob. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Harry's next words, however, made him snap his eyes open again. "How could you lie to me?"
Tom drew back to look down at Harry's face. There was betrayal written across it.
"I did not mean for this," Tom whispered, feeling tears start to prickle his eyes.
Harry gave a weak shake of his head. "Why would you not tell me? Why would you let it happen? You could have-" Harry's words were interrupted by a violent cough, and a spurt of blood spilled from his lips. He paused, panting through the gurgle of his ragged throat, before continuing in a whisper. "-told me. We could have fixed it." His eyes sparked with anger.
"It was a mistake," Tom murmured. "I thought it would fix everything, if I were God."
Harry snorted bitterly. "I think you've played God quite enough."
The words stung, but Tom supposed he deserved them. He closed his eyes and held Harry a little closer. He felt, in his very bones, a crushing, all-encompassing sense of failure.
Harry sighed, a soft, wheezing sound. "I... I wish you had trusted me. I wish you had let me help you."
"D-do not say that- it is not that I do not trust you, I-" Tom's eyes opened to meet Harry's gaze. He found the other's gaze filled with a sad sort of resolve.
"You do not believe I would have followed you anywhere, no matter how far gone you were?" Harry smiled a little, the corners of his lips trembling.
"It is not that- I could not risk your life. I could not have lived with myself if something had happened to you."
"Something did happen to me, you fool," Harry murmured, but the words were less chiding, and almost more morbidly amused.
"You know what I mean. It's not the same."
"It's exactly the same," Harry said, a little exasperated, eyes squeezing shut. "You are so selfish, Tom, so caught up in your own mind. You can't see beyond yourself, sometimes."
Tom pressed him closer to his chest, as if he may squeeze him back together. "I-I know. I am a foolish, wicked man, and you were always much too good for me. You are a better person than I am."
Harry laughed, soft as he was able to, his breath slowing further. He seemed to bask a little in Tom's warmth. "That is not the point."
Tom shook his head a little. "The point is that I should be the one dying, choking on my own blood. You were always deserving of a much more dignified death than this."
"Men hardly ever get to choose their deaths, do they?" Harry murmured.
Tom went quiet. Blood continued to drip, sullen and echoing throughout the hall of the church.
"I would have wished to marry you."
Harry opened his eyes for this. "To marry me? What a thing to say in a church."
"Churches be damned. I care not for a so said holy building which would let such massacre through its doors. Our God has very little regard for his own property."
Tom could tell by the stuttered rise and fall of Harry's chest and by his slightly opened mouth that he was laughing. His teeth glimmered between his lips, slick with blood. Tom wished he could wipe it all away without the knowledge that the bright stains would immediately be replenished, and his heart broke a little more.
"I truly would have, you know. With a whole ceremony, and cake, and a bouquet, and everything."
"Tom... What you say is madness," Harry muttered, a few tears sliding down his cheeks.
Tom's thumb glided gently against soft skin, wiping them away. "I promise to you I would have. I swear on my life to you I would have. You would have had the loveliest life by my side. You will always be my most beloved companion, Harry Potter."
Harry closed his eyes again, lips trembling. "As will you," he replied hoarsely, and the sound was barely audible, more an exhale than words. Tom pressed a shaky kiss to Harry's blood-damp locks.
"I am so sorry, Harry. My Harry."
Harry only sighed, a soft, pained sound, and Tom's chest stuttered with a gasp.
"I love you, Harry. I do." His voice grew brittle.
Harry opened his eyes one last time, with a light, fond crinkle at the edges, ever bright and green and loving. "I love you too, Tom. I do."
A sob rattled up Tom's throat, and he cradled Harry ever closer. "I love you," he whispered again, fervently. "I love you. I love you. I love you." With each iteration Harry seemed to fade more and more, until all that was left in Tom's arms was a corpse, a soft, quiet thing that had once been a person.
"Harry?" Tom asked, voice thin and reedy. There was no answer, and Tom felt his chest squeeze tight, tighter than it had before, and he felt as if he would never be able to breathe again. "Harry," he whispered, and the word sounded so horribly small and lost in the cold stone of the church.
Angels looked on, features carved for mourning, from the alcoves crowded around them. Sunlight dared not filter through the stained glass scenes of bright anguish. Tom made a sound most pathetic, and the only answer the room had for him was a faint echo of his own wretched cry.
He leaned down, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. Another sob bubbled up in his chest at the tender, cold yield. He kissed again, desperate for some kind of response, and his mouth tasted of iron and salt and the scent of roses and spice.
"Please," he whispered, brokenly. "Please."
There was no answer.