Harry felt that he rose up from a very deep lake, his mind muddled and groggy. His whole body was so numb he wondered if he still had one. He heard people talking in low tones, but their words made no sense. The room was blurry. Someone had removed his glasses.
"Harry!" Hermione cried, but softly, as if they were all back in the Hogwarts library, except they weren't. They were … puzzled, Harry cast his eyes about the white-washed room.
"Where …" His voice came out as a croak. How had he lost his voice? He cleared it, trying again. "Where —"
"We're in St. Mungo's," said Hermione gently. She and Ron had scrambled from their chairs. They stood at his bed. "How much do you remember about yesterday?" she asked with trepidation.
"Yesterday?"
Ron shot a nervous glance at Hermione. "It's the potions," he said in an undertone. And then, looking back at Harry: "Mate, you were attacked."
"But you're going to be okay," Hermione said swiftly. "Healer Trimurti says you're doing really well. She doesn't even think you'll have much scaring."
Scaring?
A whip made of fire striking down across his back, his stomach, his legs. A burning, unending agony that sunk deep into his flesh. Into his very bones.
The numbness shifted like fog thinning over the sun and Harry felt it. The blistering and scorching. He looked down at his hands. They were heavily bandaged. His arms, his chest — he could feel thick wrappings everywhere.
Harry swallowed thickly. "Nott and Goyle."
"Robards got Goyle," Ron told him. "But they're still looking for Nott."
"Are you thirsty?" asked Hermione. "Do you think you could eat something?"
Harry shook his head and regretted the action. The room spun and he quickly closed his eyes.
"You sure about that?" A tease colored Ron's voice. "Because you've got nearly half of Honeydukes here."
For the first time Harry took in the bedside table. It was so packed with treats and get well cards that he was amazed the small table was still standing.
"And then there's a mince pie from Mum," said Ron, picking up a basket from beside the chair he'd been sitting in. "In case you don't happen to want cream-filled chocolates or liquorice wands or ice mice."
A smile tugged at Harry's lips and then he remembered what else yesterday had been.
"Your tournament!" he groaned. "Dammit."
"Don't you dare beat yourself up about that," said Hermione firmly. Her gaze softened. "It actually turned out better than I expected. I've only had a few Howlers, demanding reimbursement, but most have been sending get well wishes all day. People are so upset that you were attacked."
She glanced across the room. Nudging Ron, she said, "We'll tell Healer Trimurti that you're awake. She'll want to know."
Ron looked like he wanted to stay and help Harry explore his get well gifts, but he too looked where Hermione had. "Yeah. Be back in a jiff, Harry. Okay?"
Puzzled, Harry looked around. Arms crossed, leaning against the doorway, stood Tom. He shifted slightly to let Hermione and Ron pass and then he entered, closing the door behind him and sitting in Ron's chair.
Harry cleared his throat again. "See my glasses anywhere?"
Tom found them beneath a heap of chocolate frogs.
"What time is it?"
"Little past noon. Water?"
With Tom's help, he sat up and drank a cupful. Some of the grogginess lessened. He wondered if that meant the pain would return in full force.
"Robards retrieved your wand," said Tom. He held it out to him, but Harry, sinking back onto the pillows, shook his head.
"Hold onto it for me? I don't think I'll be using it any time soon."
Something flickered across Tom's face, but he slipped it back into his pocket.
"You'll be out of here before you know it," he told him, a strange formalness to his voice that Harry had not heard in a long time. Harry watched as Tom recrossed his legs, one black-shoed foot tapping … as he picked up a chocolate frog packet, turning it in his fingers. Tom was agitated. He wouldn't meet Harry's eyes. Suddenly, Harry understood.
"This isn't your fault."
Tom released a harsh laugh. "Isn't it?"
"You weren't the one holding that whip. Nott was. This was Nott's doing. It was his choice."
"A choice he never would have made if it had not been for me," said Tom in a bitter rush. "If not for what I started."
"Beating yourself up for the past won't do anyone any good," Harry countered.
"And the future?" Tom asked bluntly. "You are not worried about a future that includes me?"
Harry held his gaze. "No. I'm not."
Tom was startled. He clearly had not expected Harry to say such a thing. His eyes grew far too bright, the storm-cloud gray lightening to silver, and Harry felt that the room had suddenly grown warm. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat.
"Since we're on the subject about the past, I wanted to say sorry for what I said before the tournament. I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have put that on you."
"You're not the one who should apologize," Tom replied, again with a harshness that was not directed at Harry, but at himself. "I pushed you into participating without once considering the memories it would bring up. You had every right to say exactly what you did."
The uncomfortable heat that had flared up his neck vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving him unnaturally cold. He was exhausted, limbs dragged down with a weariness he suspected was only partially caused by Nott's whip.
"I'm tired of living in the past."
"I believe we both are," Tom agreed.
.
.
Harry stayed at St Mungo's. Hermione returned to work and Ron popped in during the joke shop's slower hours of mid-morning. Tom would close his book or roll up the paper and depart when they arrived, giving Ron his chair, almost as if they were changing shifts. How casually they did it unnerved Harry. He had wanted them to all get along, but he found it difficult not to stare when one evening, Tom and Ron began a game of chess. Hermione sat on his bed and passed him an egg roll. He'd missed the little restaurant in Ottery St Catchpole. The food at Mungo's was all right, he supposed, but there were only so many dried roast beef sandwiches he could stomach.
"He was petrified," she told him quietly.
"What?" said Harry.
Hermione jerked her head toward Tom. He and Ron were both so absorbed with the board that Harry was sure they weren't paying him and Hermione the slightest attention.
"I think he'd go to the end of the world for you."
Her words triggered a memory. Lying on a couch, Tom's weight pleasant and heavy on top of him. Harry had said words just like that, speaking of Hermione and Ron. Against all odds, Tom had joined their ranks.
Hermione cut her eyes at Harry. "So?" she asked, leading.
"So what?" he said, dipping the last bit of egg roll in mustard.
"So … what about you two?"
Harry stilled.
"There's nothing."
Hermione raised an unimpressed eyebrow.
Pinking slightly, Harry inspected the contents of another container, even though he knew it was empty.
"He wants to," he finally mumbled. He didn't think there was any need to clarify what he meant by 'want to'.
"And you?" Hermione asked.
Harry fiddled with the empty carton. "Things got so intense when we were…"
"Together?" Hermione supplied lightly.
"Yeah," said Harry quietly. "Honestly, I like where we are now. There's breathing room."
Hermione looked across the room, watching Tom as he ordered another piece in Ron's way. Her gaze was open, for the first time lacking the concern and worry Tom's presence usually sparked. "I can see that."
.
.
The window showed a brilliant sunny day and Harry was desperate to be gone from his hospital bed. For over a week he'd been cooped up.
"It won't be much longer," Ginny assured him. "Trimurti thinks you'll be fully healed in a few more days."
"A few more days isn't today," Harry grumbled, petulant. "And I'm missing your send off."
"That's why I'm here," said Ginny warmly.
The rebuilding efforts over the summer had paid off. Hogwarts was ready to open her doors. September 1st was tomorrow and Ginny, along with Luna, would be boarding the Hogwarts Express for their final year. Harry had been looking forward to seeing the scarlet train again.
"Do me a favor and don't get yourself killed," said Ginny. "I'd really like my last year to be uneventful and you are not starting if off well."
"What? Are you saying you didn't enjoy this?" said Harry.
"No," Ginny replied. "Not at all."
"Well, dang," Harry cursed, feigning disappointment. "And I'd had something big planned."
Ginny laughed. She shifted closer to him, sitting more comfortably on the bed and fished out another handful of Every-Flavor Beans. She was the only one with him. With frantic last minute purchases from school-age children, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was swamped and Hermione was once again working through her lunch hour with S.P.E.W efforts. Even with the handful of disgruntled viewers demanding their money back when the tournament had abruptly ended, the ticket sales had proved fruitful. Harry had not seen her so energized about her project since they were fourteen.
Ginny poked around the sack, searching for a specific flavor. "Your partner's cute," she said casually. "Is he seeing anyone? Unless that would be weird," she quickly amended, seeing the expression on his face.
Weird didn't even come close.
"Don't you think he's a bit old for you?" said Harry.
"Careful," Ginny warned. "One more comment like that and I'll start calling you Mum."
Harry's face burned.
"If it bothers you, I won't ask him," said Ginny.
"It doesn't—"
"Yeah, it does." She gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I've got to get going. Don't you forget to write."
"You know I won't."
With a wink, a smile and another quick scoop of beans, she left the room.
xXx
The girl stepped into the hall and nearly ran into him. "Oh. Hi!"
"Hello," said Tom.
"Harry's awake." She glanced down at the plastic bag he carried. Lunch from that repugnant Muggle shack he enjoyed so much. "We haven't really been introduced. I'm Ginny. Ron's sister."
She held out her hand. It took all of Tom's restraint not to crush her fingers. He had seen everything through the small window set in the door. How she perched herself on the bed, smiling and giggling and leaning so close she was practically in Harry's lap. How Harry had blushed. How she'd kissed him.
"Thomas Thorne."
The handshake ended.
"I shouldn't let Harry's lunch get cold. Nice to meet you, Tom."
Her red hair fanning out behind her, she strolled out of the ward, her trainers squeaking against the wooden flooring. Tom clenched his jaw and marched into the room.
"Hi," Harry greeted. He sat up straighter, an incredulous grin blooming into life at the sight of the bag in Tom's hand. "You ordered from the Golden Dragon?"
"And it will never happen again." Tom handed Harry his lunch and sat in his usual chair by the bed.
"You okay?" Harry asked. "You look a little preoccupied."
Preoccupied? Why, yes, one would appear preoccupied when one was imagining ripping apart Ginny Weasley, limb by limb.
"I'm perfectly fine," said Tom.
"How goes the manhunt?" asked Harry, taking a swallow of soup.
"Nott isn't at the former summer home his father once owned. Signs are pointing more toward Germany. He might have been spotted in Bavaria this morning. Parker, Shipling and Ketteridge have been dispatched to follow up on it."
"Not you?" asked Harry.
"I don't think I should allow myself to be within a yard of Nott," Tom stated. "Not if I want to continue being clear of Azkaban."
A slow smile grew on Harry's face. Tom wondered if he'd passed some sort of test.
.
.
Three days later and Harry was given a full bill of health. Though it was nearing four in the afternoon, he still chose to return to the office instead of heading straight to his cottage, something no one would have called him out for. Tom watched as Harry was surrounded and thumped on the back the moment he stepped into the Auror Department. It was impressive how effortlessly Harry slipped back into his daily routine. He had nearly died — Tom doubted that even Harry knew how close he'd come — and yet, he sat himself back at his desk, let out a heavy groan at the stack of memos piled high, mumbled something about tea and went in search for one.
Harry never once mentioned Ginny Weasley or the kiss she'd given him.
Since witnessing 'the moment' Tom had learned a great deal about the girl: youngest and only daughter of the Weasley clan, a gifted Quidditch player, an above average student. She had participated in the battle, though Tom could barely recall her. That, however, was not surprising. He'd been rather focused on Harry rising from the dead at the time. In her first year at Hogwarts, she had succumbed to the charms of his diary. Tom knew all about the little stunt Lucius had pulled, but he had not connected that the girl his Horcrux had possessed was the same one who tucked a stray bit of hair behind Harry's ear with the ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times before.
They had dated. It had taken no time at all to find that out once he started looking. They had dated.
"But not anymore," his gossiper had told him. "At least, I don't think so."
Tom was sure they weren't. If they were still together, the Daily Prophet or Witch Weekly would have splattered itself with headlines.
But none of this changed the fact that Harry had been with someone else. He'd let someone else touch him. Kiss him. Once the idea slithered into his head, Tom found it impossible to banish, picturing the two of them lounging on a sunny patch of grass on the Hogwarts grounds. They had both been on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. How many practices had run late into the night? How many sessions had been just between the two of them? How many isolated corridors had they hid in — Tom knew them all.
He had never let anyone touch him the way he allowed Harry to. Sex — a necessary tool, utilized when charm alone could not sway, but he'd hated every second of it. As Lord Voldemort, he'd shed the skin of his past, and with it, any reason to debase himself ever again.
Until Harry.
Constantly surprised in the Carcerem, intimacy had never been disgusting or vile with Harry. Not once. It had only ever been pleasure. Pure, endless, spin-tingling pleasure. The idea — the mere possibility — that Harry could receive such sensations from anyone else made Tom's blood boil.
The Prophecy.
Shared souls.
The Carcerem.
Fate wrapped them together, again and again. He and Harry were meant. They were destined. Tom would never let anyone take his place beside Harry. Just let them try.
xXx
Harry returned from the tearoom just as Tom was leaving the Auror department.
"Something up?" he asked.
"We've been summoned."
"By who?"
"Stew."
"Stew?" said Harry, dumbfounded. "Really?"
"He asked specifically for us."
"It's not another shark head, is it?" Harry moaned. Harry had been right all along on that front. It had been a badly executed mugging. He and Tom had tracked down the culprit two days later, nursing a poorly healed stinging hex over a pint.
"Only one way to find out," said Tom, winding his arm in Harry's and leading him to the lifts at the end of the corridor.
.
.
The entrance to the Ministry's mortuary was a vandalized storage container in a lonely and isolated junkyard. On the door's face was a spray-painted buxom brunette.
"Not particularly tasteful," Tom noted the first time Harry had brought him to it.
"Tasteful isn't something Stew strives for," Harry had explained. "Before I think it was just a big, purple M, but when Stew took over as Head, he felt it needed a change."
Now, as the rain-heavy sky overhead grew darker, Harry glanced about for any scavenging Muggles and whispered, "Auror Harry Potter."
The brunette's eyes shifted to him and gave him a cheeky wink. The container door creaked open and Harry and Tom entered a long, clinically clean and glitteringly white hallway. At the end of the corridor were three doors. They took the one in the middle, Stew's. The white walls, floors and ceiling made Harry feel immediately claustrophobic. A body was lying on a hovering stretcher in the middle of the room. Along one wall were numerous little doors where more bodies on stretchers were tucked away. The room was unbearably cold.
"Fellas!"
"Hey Stew."
Stew, as he preferred to be called, was a vampire, one of only a few who worked for the Ministry. He had all the characteristic signs: hooded gaze, emaciated frame, sickly pallor. Like always, he sucked on a blood-flavored lollipop.
"Out of the hospital!" Stew cried ecstatic. "Just in time for my welcome back gift. She rolled in a few hours ago. A dog walker found her. I've never seen anything like it. See if the Ministry's top boys can figure her out. I've got six sickles and a coupon for Madam Malkin's that you can, so don't let me down."
"We'll try," said Harry, amused in spite of himself.
With the air of a magician about to reveal the climax of a trick, Stew open one of the small doors and pulled out a body. Harry didn't notice anything strange about her. Save for the fact that she was dead, she looked perfectly normal. Peaceful, even. Puzzled, he looked at Tom and paused at the expression of astonishment on his face.
"How…" Tom breathed.
"I know, right?" said Stew, excited.
"And she isn't a Squib?" Tom asked.
"Nope. I pulled her records. You're looking at one Josephine Laurent, graduate of Beauxbatons Academy with honors, wand alder and unicorn hair, ten and a quarter inches."
Tom bent closer to the body. "Incredible."
"Erm, what's incredible?" asked Harry.
"Her magic's gone," said Tom.
"Of course her magic's gone," said Harry. "She's dead."
"Magic doesn't leave. Not all of it. Not even in death," said Tom. "Traces remain forever. They are a part of our cell structure — our very bones. Even when the body decomposes, threads of our magical signature still remain in the dust. Which is why this is impossible. This woman has been drained completely. There is nothing. Not a speck of magic. Can you not feel it?"
Harry had never been able to sense magic the way Tom and Dumbledore did, like plucking at invisible spider threads. The closest he'd ever come to experiencing anything remotely like it had been when he'd fallen inside one of the Elladora Works and seen magic like colored smoke. Sometimes when he closed his eyes at night, he could still taste Tom's magic on his tongue like the buzz in the air after a lightning strike.
"So, how did it happen?" Harry asked.
Stew popped his lollipop back in his mouth. "You tell me."
"Was the fact that she was drained of magic what killed her? Would that kill a magical person?" he asked, looking from Tom to Stew.
"Hard to tell," Stew admitted. "The Unspeakables might know more on the subject, but I've never heard of a magical being from birth suddenly not having magic. Can we survive if our magic is entirely removed? I don't know. I've checked for lingering traces from the attacker. There aren't any. No spell damage. No wounds. No markings of any kind. I can't tell you with certainty what killed her. Without breadcrumbs, I don't have a trail."
And neither do we, thought Harry.
"Where was her body found?" asked Tom.
.
.
They Apparated to a stretch of moor. Harry turned in a circle, the wind whipping his robes and hair, a light mist speckling his glasses. He spotted the hazy outline of a house very far in the distance, a blot on the horizon.
"Do you see the marker?" he asked Tom.
Tom scrutinized the overgrowth, his eyes narrowed against the wind. "There," he pointed.
Just visible, poking up above the battered heather was a small purple flag with two golden Ms. They made their way to it. The tall grass was tamped down, as if someone had been lying on their side.
"Stew thinks she's been dead for at least fourteen hours."
"Puts time of death sometime late last night," said Tom. "So what was our Josephine doing out on an unpopulated stretch of moor in the middle of the night?"
"Maybe her landlady will know," said Harry. After Stew, they'd returned to the Ministry to track down Laurent's next of kin, but the only name listed for any emergency contact on her Apparition license was Essie Page, who happened to be the owner of the house Josephine had been renting a room out of. A floo call revealed Page was out of town, visiting family and would not be back until next Tuesday. Harry had scribbled a quick note and sent it by owl.
Tom crouched down, inspecting the bent grass where Josephine had been found. He pulled out his wand and traced it lightly over the space.
"Nothing. There was no duel here."
"Maybe she was attacked somewhere else and dumped here?" Harry suggested.
They choose to separate and search for clues. The grass came up to Harry's knees and soon his robes grew damp. He walked, eyes scanning the ground — for what, he had no idea. He moved down a sloping hill toward a small copse of trees. He stopped, spotting something in the grass. Poking the blades aside, he revealed a bowtruckle. It was dead.
The crunching of leaves had Harry looking up. Someone was moving in the thicket. He pulled out his wand and slowly crept closer.
"Hello?" he called.
"Harry?"
"Rolf?"
A ginger head popped into sight around a tree trunk. "You're out of Mungo's!" Rolf cried. He and Luna had visited often, always with a plate of homemade cookies, which, to Harry's relief did not contain any Gurdyroots.
"Yeah," said Harry. "Released this afternoon."
"And already back to work," said Rolf with a laugh.
"I like working," Harry shrugged. "What are you doing here?"
"The bowtruckles in this area are dying," Rolf explained. "I'm trying to figure out why. You?"
"There was a body found up on the hilltop," said Harry, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
"A body?" said Rolf, startled. "When?"
"Today."
"Merlin," Rolf gasped. "What happened?"
"Don't know. We haven't seen anything like it. All her magic's gone."
Rolf's eyes sharped. "All of it?"
"Yeah," said Harry as the wind whipped harder, making the trees bend double. "You know about this?"
"No," said Rolf slowly, "I don't know what can remove all of a person's magic, just as I don't know what can do the same to a bowtruckle."
At Harry's look of confusion, Rolf continued. "We've been getting complaints in this area over the last month. Mrs. Bligh's prized puffskeins dead overnight. The grindylows in the marsh all found washed up on the bank. I came out here to look around and found half a dozen dead bowtruckles and an entire clan of doxies demolished. None of them had a mark on them, but they were all sucked dry of magic."
The wind turned fierce, whistling across the open moor. Harry heard Tom shouting in the distance for him.
Rolf glared upward at the darkening sky. "I'm going to look around a bit more, but it doesn't seem like I'll be finding much in a storm."
"You'll let me know if you do find anything?" Harry asked. "It sounds like we might be after the same thing. Be careful."
Rolf nodded and ducked back under the canopy and Harry, jogging, met Tom back at the crest of the hill.
"Find anything?" he panted as rain began to fall in earnest.
"No." Tom looked highly annoyed. "You?"
"Yeah. Rolf. I ran into him in a patch of trees on the other side of the moor." And Harry told him all about the dead bowtruckles and puffskeins.
"They were drained of magic too?" said Tom, frowning.
Harry nodded.
Tom pointed his wand upward and a see-through umbrella unfurled over their heads. It was large enough for the both of them, but Harry still took a half step closer to get more out of the rain.
"It seems our mystery entity has moved to larger prey," Tom observed.
Harry agreed. Clearly whatever had been draining bowtruckles and grindylows had stumbled upon Josephine or she had stumbled upon it.
"You have no idea what it could be?" Harry asked.
"I do know of one account that rings a bell."
"Really?" said Harry, surprised. "Who's?"
"Yours."
Harry blinked. "Mine?"
"You said when you fell into Nothingness that something within it latched onto your magic. That is consumed your magic."
"But that was in a mosaic," Harry argued. "A stained glass window."
"Which you entered and left," Tom pointed out. "Perhaps it did the same."
"But surely the Zabinis would have noticed if something strolled out of one of their prized Elladora Works," said Harry.
Tom shrugged. "Or they may be trying to deal with it themselves. If it got out that the Elladora Works were actually Dark Objects, they would be confiscated and their name irreparably stained."
"Looks like we need to pay the Zabinis a visit," said Harry.
"We could, but I doubt they'd let us browse the Works," said Tom. "Not without a warrant."
"Then how are we supposed to find out if something really has come out of Nothingness?" said Harry, annoyed. "Break into their house?"
Tom's eyes glittered. "Perhaps nothing quite so extreme, but it will take finesse. Regardless, not tonight."
Harry knew Tom was right. It was late and appearing at the Zabini's door with nothing but accusations and speculations would get them nowhere. He wasn't exactly on the friendliest of terms with Blaise and he suspected that Mrs. Zabini would be much the same. Smooth talking was in order and Tom was the best candidate for the job.
"My place?" Harry suggested as the rain grew heavier.
Tom looked surprised, but he made no argument against it. With a sharp turn and a crack, Harry Disapparated, reappearing outside his garden gate.
In the rain.
"Is all of Britain in a monsoon?" he grumbled.
"Apparently," said Tom, appearing beside him.
They hurried up the garden path. Inside, Harry pointed his wand at the fireplace. Flames burst into life, warming him instantly. He pulled off his outer robe and hung it on a hook by the door.
"Ron and Hermione are out of town tonight. They're visiting her parents, so I was wondering if you'd be okay with having dinner. We could cook. Like we used to. I've been eating too much takeout."
Again, Tom was taken aback, but he shouldered off his own robe, placing it next to Harry's.
xXx
This was unexpected.
Tom glanced sideways, watching Harry slice mushrooms. He'd rolled up his sleeves. It was the same green sweater he'd worn when he'd stepped through the holding cell's door a month ago and quite literally snatched the breath from Tom's lungs. He watched Harry's hands, recalling how torn apart they'd been from the fire whip. Healer Trimurti had done a stunning job. There was not a blemish on the skin — or, more accurately, nothing new had been added. The scars left from Umbridge remained. Tom had traced his lips over those etched words on many an occasion.
Quite suddenly, his brain flooded with memories. He and Harry cooking. A bottle of half-drunk wine on the counter. A fire crackling, spilling warmth onto a soft rug. Rain drumming against the windows. How this night mirrored so many before it.
It was the Carcerem, all over again.
"I really hope it doesn't attack anyone tonight," said Harry tersely. "I hate this. I hate knowing something is out there and no one else does."
"Danger surrounds us constantly, Harry. You cannot shield everyone."
Still slicing, Harry grumbled, "But I still wish I cou — dammit!"
He dropped the knife and grabbed his finger.
"What did I tell you?" said Tom. "Danger everywhere."
Harry glared at him. "Shut it."
Smirking, Tom took hold of his hand, inspecting the wound. "You could chop with magic."
"Lousy at it."
Tom snorted in amusement. He pressed his wand tip to the cut. The skin knitted back together.
"Good as new," he said, wiping blood away with his thumb.
Harry grinned. Their eyes met. They stood so close. Close enough to —
Blushing, Harry pulled away. "Sorry," he grimaced. "I — there's something I've been wanting to tell you."
"Tell me what?"
Harry's grimace deepened. He rubbed his forehead.
"I want to be friends."
For a moment, the rain against the window grew louder in the silence that fell.
"Friends?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
Harry looked thrown. "That's it. I just want to be friends."
"You just want to be friends?" Tom repeated.
Harry nodded.
"Bullshit."
Blinking in surprise, Harry said, "Excuse me?"
"You're actually going to stand there and lie to me?" Tom hissed. "Me?"
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are. And you're going to stop right now. I know exactly how you feel and there is nothing just friends about it."
Harry was stubbornly mute. Tom barely kept himself from grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him.
"This is guilt," he spat, disgusted. "You feel guilty."
"I don't."
"Bullshit." A fury he hadn't felt in ages made the very air sizzle. On the kitchen table, their wine glasses rattled. "You felt guilty in the Carcerem. That was why you wanted to end it then and it's why you want to end it now!"
There was no anger in Harry's face. Only sadness. A sadness Tom had never seen before.
"It has ended."
.
.
A/N: :(
p.s. I've started a tumblr where I'm literally dumping inspiration and aesthetics for Of Your Making and all manner of future tomarry/harrymort stories rattling about in my skull. It's hollyandyew dot tumblr dot com