Dark. Implied non-con. Tom/Harry. I don't own them. Thanks go to Ishmael.
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Everything was over.
And almost everyone was gone.
They were too many names for one list. Harry needed a piece of paper as long as the world, as big as the sky. But they repeated in Harry's head, endlessly over and over. Relentless. He'd carved them into his arm. Scabbed quill scratches, because even though there weren't any students left, there were quills everywhere. Whenever one name started healing too much, he redid it. He thought it would help.
At least everyone on Voldemort's side had gone too. Or almost everyone. Harry didn't care too much about them. The world was a better place without them. But fewer bodies sure would have been nice.
The Hogwarts grounds had been littered with them for weeks. Everyone, meshed together. Lying on top of each other. It was good for the Purebloods to hobnob with the Mudbloods. But the rotting stench began to creep down the halls of the castle. It bothered Harry. His wand was gone. He couldn't make it stop, so he added another remembered name. Jimmy Peakes. A few more days and the bodies began to fade. Maybe Hogwarts itself was absorbing them into the ground. Harry didn't know. Or care, as long as the smell went away.
Ron, Hermione. Ginny… Almost everyone. Except him. And Tom. Tom. Weird, poetic justice, somehow. Like how Sisyphus pushed and pushed, but couldn't make it up to the top. No matter how hard he tried. More peculiar, Tom had stopped trying. Harry didn't even bother anymore, despite his daily ritual visit to the Astronomy Tower. He was told that he was company, if not good company. While Tom ran his thin, teenage fingers through his unwashed, matted black hair.
In the beginning they fought. Harry yelled. Harry threw things. Harry bit and scratched and did his best to rip Tom to tiny little shreds and spread them all over Hogwarts. He got close, a couple of times. But Tom had better wandless magic than Harry did. He was always able to stick himself back together. He'd even tried healing Harry's bloody arm. But the spell never lasted for long.
Tom fought back, of course. With words that made Harry curl in on himself and whimper. Words about Ron, Hermione, his parents, Snape, Dumbledore. How Harry had killed them all. Allowed Ron to be killed, blocking Avada Kedavra. Forced Hermione to die from Sectumsempra after she'd killed Ron. Imperius. Worse than a lifetime of torture, he hissed into his ear.
And Tom fought with spells that pinioned Harry to the cold of the stone walls, left him vulnerable and terrified until Tom walked from Harry's bloody, grasping hands. Fought with traps that locked Harry into dark, empty rooms until Tom decided to release him.
Harry hated the blackness. He hated the chill. He hated being alone most of all. Abandoned to the faces floating on the inside of his eyelids and their dying gasps booming in the silence.
Eventually Tom let Harry out. Maybe some of the wildness had gone. But in the feeble light from the hallway, the walls were coated with figures and faces and grimaces of dead friends. Tom didn't want to think about what they'd been drawn with. Harry was lying in a corner, shivering.
Tom left him there.
After all, no one would find him. Not even the ghosts.
They were gone too. Somehow, with the death of all the castle's inhabitants, they'd disappeared too. Along with the portraits.
They were blank. The waving, jeering, whispering paintings were frightening. But the stark white canvas was worse. Harry couldn't walk past them without gritting his teeth. If they were filled, Harry wouldn't have to imagine. Or remember. Remember when they'd been captured. Remember Hermione's shrieks turning to sniffling. When MacNair sliced across her chest and stomach with his knives. Before he ripped her up on the inside, too. Before they painted designs on his body in blood and come. The runes haunted him. That giant frame at the end of the hall. Wouldn't they look pretty in it? Harry clawed at his arm in the silence. He reveled in feeling the wet warmth under his fingernails.
The itch was gone. A relieved sigh. Desperately, slowly, gently, fingers painting the canvas and the walls. Tom would just scour them later.
Scour them he did. And Harry. Forced food down his throat. The kitchens were buried in food. But Harry wouldn't eat. So Tom tied him up, wandlessly. And oozed strawberries over Harry's lips. Mashing all the red together. Juice, spit, dribbling down his chin. Looked like something dead. All over him. Tom licked it off while Harry squirmed and tried to bite him. Until Tom backhanded him across the face. And snarled. And told him how he would turn Dumbledore into an Inferius. And Dumbledore would yank out his toenails. One by one.
Then Harry went limp. Except for his red lips. Screaming. Wild. But that didn't bother Tom, who moved from strawberries to mashed potatoes.
The shower after was long overdue.
Harry hated water. Tom loved it. Loved that Harry hated it. Loved to hate him. Hated to love him. Loved to love him? Doubt it. Tom didn't dwell on it, especially when he had his arms full of squirming Harry, under fat droplets of water in the Gryffindor showers. It reminded Harry of blood, when the sky opened in the last battle and he was stained red for days, despite the scrubbing. His final voluntary act of bathing. Rain reminded him of Ron. The way he hated it, pulling his hood up and sprinting until Hermione took pity and cast an umbrella spell and they'd smile and kiss. And, as Harry was gently fondled and pushed against the tile wall, it reminded him of being filled.
He couldn't breathe. Despite the way Tom was urging him to take deep breaths.
In the empty dormitory, Harry fell asleep almost immediately, wrapped up in Tom. He couldn't ever sleep otherwise. And this way his dreams didn't last long. Whenever he started tossing Tom either slapped him or kissed him. Depending on the weather. Maybe depending on nothing.
Nothing. Nothing everywhere. Nothing. Not prying eyes staring at him from corners. Not even whispers. Not even curses spitting from Death Eater wands. It was terrible at night, when he woke up and everything was nothing. He was caged by Tom's arms. Tentative fingers stroked a pale left forearm. No Mark. Another hand tangled with his fingers. Harry squeezed back. Tom's young thumb rubbed across the back of his hand.
How'd it happen? He didn't know. He didn't think Tom knew either. Tom tried to read about it in the library every night. But the books didn't cooperate. Strained at their chains, nipped him, shrieked enough to vibrate the castle walls. The transition from Tom to Voldemort was a lot more straightforward than the other way around. At least Tom was a bit less sharp. He didn't have the razor edges, yet. Or the same coldness. Or the same mercilessness. He was just cruel.
Yet Harry relaxed in his arms and fell back asleep.
Mornings weren't any easier. Harry always forgot things. Had to start over. Not for long, but for a moment. And in that breath, he expected to roll over, push his Gryffindor curtains back, see Ron. Bleary-eyed, tugging on pants, excited for breakfast. Tom hated breakfast. Harry hated eating. A perfect match.
But Harry was getting thinner. And thinner. And thinner. Maybe Tom had already lost too much of his humanity to lose weight. Not that they could go to St. Mungos. Not that they would come here. If the healers weren't still healing themselves, they'd be fixing the Ministry, or what was left of it. All of Wizarding England had been wasted. The rest of Europe was wrapped in its own chaos. Licking its wounds.
Harry ran his tongue along his mangled arm. Salty. Better than Tom.
He'd given up on hope for rescue. No illusions on that count. No illusions anywhere, except when he looked into mirrors and his face morphed into Tom's. He didn't think Tom ever saw his face. Not that he asked.
His arm itched where his spit was drying over scabs. He scraped it with a quill. Watched it gush over the pale sheets. Contrast.
Maybe later he'd go look for the Mirror of Erised. It should be here, somewhere. If only because Harry was here. Dumbledore was wrong, about the wisdom of dwelling in dreams. Especially when no one was left.
Or almost no one.