Chapter 25:
Weasley woke slowly, eyelids fluttering as if exhausted by the weight of the world.
It's not like Harry would wake up.
Harry would jolt into consciousness, like a man surging gasping from cold water, or the terrible nightmares which haunted the green-eyed man's dreaming hours. His body would be a taut line of tension which he could run his fingers down, chased by his lips as he watched the other shudder.
His victim now is flaccid. A limp smudge of stirring limbs and veins and bones and muscles - nothing extraordinary. He doesn't want to claw beneath his intestines, splicing his care like a knife between the ribs or breathe in every small scent and shift and flicker of emotion.
But he can feel the urge under his skin nonetheless, even in this displacement. The writhing darkness that twisted inside of him, itching and twitching beneath a friendly smile until it could lash out and he could be himself, as he is supposed to be. A creature of wrath and monstrous beauty.
He watched sky-blue eyes focus on him, so different to the ones he wanted to see - too pale, not bright and broken enough. The dissatisfaction pinched in his chest. Maybe it had been doing so for a while now.
"Riddle?" the Auror demanded, incredulously, starting to sit up - instantly realizing the restraints he was under and going still. Noting the way his arms and legs were spread. It only took a second, but maybe this was the bit that Tom enjoyed most.
He saw the horror filter in, the rage, the complete and utter fear which couldn't be denied. They were always so scared when they woke up, though maybe he could have some admiration for the way Weasley's jaw clenched around pleas for mercy unspoken, teeth gritted with rage.
He smiled, pleasantly.
"You're Voldemort." The horror was manifested now, such sweet horror. "Harry doesn't know."
"Don't they have intelligent tests to allow you into the Auror department?" He should be composed, he normally is, but there's a...rush. He knew this man was close to Harry, could envision in detail the effect, scratch at piece after piece of the rest of Harry's life until it belonged solely to him, without some red head or a mudblood laying claim to what was and would always be his.
"Why are you doing this?"
It's a pointless question, one Weasley shouldn't need to ask but which they always do - though this one has a chin which juts in defiance and clenching fingers in their shackles.
"...because I can?" It was the most honest answer he could give. "Because everyone needs a creative outlet for a healthy and sane mind? Harry agrees that I'm quite the talented artist. He pretty much told me so."
"You sick-" Weasley began, viciously.
"Oh no, no, no…" Tom purred. "I'm perfectly healthy. Don't worry. No need to be rude."
He hummed, turning away from the specimen, letting his fingers run over his equipment as he contemplated.
Of course, he didn't need to have a variety of knives and other medieval assortments lined up in front of his victims, and he didn't even use most of them - but the fearful effect they created really was rather delicious.
He'd have to fact dinner in.
Harry tended to stop eating when he got upset.
He could feel the Auror thrashing and struggling behind him, hear his rabbit-heart fluttering frantically in his chest. Not that it did the man any good. He was too well secured. There was nothing he could do, and Tom was certain they wouldn't be interrupted this time.
He turned again, noticed the ugly sweat pooling against his prey's t-shirt, the slight belly born of paperwork and sugar in tea. Contemplated his options, everything already sterilized and prepared beforehand in the space between Harry's departure and waking up.
He could have picked Granger, of course - she'd always posed a greater threat with her intelligence, and with wiped memories crumbled in her head. But this was much more to his preference, and Granger was more tolerable than most.
"So what type of butterfly am I going to be?" Weasley tried, acidically. Whilst reactions were art in themselves, which final moments catalogued against the thing they couldn't escape, and he could, the Auror was starting to ruin his buzz with his voice.
He let his smile only broaden.
"Oh, you're not going to be graced with such beauty, Mr Weasley."
Then there was blood, and screaming, and the only real happiness and freedom he ever felt.
Harry knew he should go back to his flat after leaving Tom, get some of the rest his body desperately pleaded for, but...well, he couldn't.
There were many differences between his bed and flat, and by all accounts he should reasonably prefer his own.
He doesn't.
His own flat seemed too cold and sterile, a parody of a home - never lived in, barely used as the months slipped by without the Voldemort case being solved. He was barely ever there, and all that is there is more work.
What used to be a spare room is a stripped down web of images and articles, exactly like his office, to peer at scenes of bloody murder in the night because if he shut his eyes he'd be doing so again in a far more intimate, less lucid way.
The fridge has some stale milk, and a half used tub of butter. A carton of Orange Juice and a the cupboard some bread. Some cakes Mrs Weasley had sent him a months ago, in a care parcel, from when he'd first started seeing Tom. There are the remnants of the dinner he'd made Tom still, a small touch of activity in an otherwise frozen snapshot.
The only thing he has in any significant quantity is beer and firewhiskey, and he doesn't like to think what that says about the man he's become.
The entirety of the flat is clinical, something which may have been homely a long time ago but which had faded along with him until it was a place to sleep, and sometimes not even that.
Tom's house, by comparison, was warm and elegant, with soft sheets and a kitchen that was always full of delicious looking things and a recently used, well cared for atmosphere. Everything was gleaming and clean, and whilst he wouldn't necessarily say the man's house was anything but as immaculate as the psychiatrist himself, it fits Tom.
There are signs of life, of rich classical symphonies played on record, and of no dust beneath the cabinets. He's never seen Tom's bedroom, and the thought now made something seize up and spasm in Harry's chest, but he imagined that would be less stiff than his own creased sheets.
Maybe the crux of it is that his flat was empty, and Tom's had...well, Tom.
Hell, in recent days, it was a toss-up if he spent more time stewing in Riddle's office, or his own.
Either way, it would surprise absolutely nobody that he went back to his office instead, slipping into the darkened Ministry, far more familiar with the vacancy of everyone having left it more or less than employees really should have any right to.
Initially, Scrimgeour had kicked him out, told him to go home - but when it was more than obvious that he was just lugging books and case notes back to his flat and continuing there, they relented and figured he may as well just stay in his office if he was that desperate.
He settled at his desk, rubbing his bleary eyes, feeling the photos around him and his memories smear across his vision. He didn't know where he stood with Tom now, and it left him uneasy, cursing his own stupidity in bolting like that.
He'd been trying to protect the other, but it seemed Voldemort wasn't the only one capable of hurting people. He was already intimately aware of his own capacities for destruction.
He flicked open his book on Geneology once more. Didn't think about Tom's lips crushed against his own, and the heat coiling down his spine, the breath puffing against his pulse at the heady intent in his psychiatrist's eyes as he leaned in close to him…before promptly gesturing him out of the door.
He tugged at his hair. Tom was too distracting. He should be focused on Voldemort, because the sooner he caught the killer, the sooner everything would get better.
The sooner he could sleep.
He froze on the page he was about to flick past, going back.
The Gaunts. Very old family, fallen off the scale.
He'd decided to focus on the less known purebloods, bypassing the Blacks and Malfoys because whilst they were mostly a long line of Slytherins both, he was also certain they would not make such a heritage secret.
His eyes narrowed down the trace of names…Medea…many others…Marvolo…Morfin…Merope…
And then it cut. The book, an old pureblood text, just seemed burned and charred. It was supposed to be self-updating, it should have been easy to find the pureblood Slytherin Lord.
Unless…unless of course Voldemort himself wasn't a pureblood. His eyes moved to Merope Gaunt again, thoughtfully. The time date would work, though Voldemort would be older than any of them expected if that was the case.
Then again, he remembered those scarlet eyes, the snakelike visage and bone-white skin. Inhuman. He also remembered wondering if that was the Dark Wizard's real face, or a glamour. It could be anyone. A half blood male, who he was convinced to be in some way related to the Gaunt family…
Definitely time to do some more thorough research into the family history, and what had happened to Merope Gaunt.
He was just standing when a dizzying sense of happiness, and violence surged through him, alien. He could have moaned, sinking to the ground, his head spinning. It was unfettered, unrestrained, and he clawed at it faintly – would have followed it if he had the Mind Arts capabilities. Could only breathe in and out, clutching the leg of the table trying not to pass out beneath the overwhelming sensation, to remain within himself and not feel the hot blood dripping across his hands.
He felt his breathing grow shallower, eyes widening, blank and glazed, fixed on a point in the wall. He wished he could stop himself from shuddering all over. He wasn't asleep, wasn't dragged into the murder so easily, maybe he was even being blocked, he didn't know…
Everything was hazing around him, images flashing in his eyes. Red hair, red skin stained and…oh god…oh god…
He was glad he was already sitting down when he blacked out.
He'd known that the crime scene was coming, of course, but…nothing could have steeled Harry for it either way.
No immediate deductions would come to mind, just the onslaught of emotions again, that wild happiness surging in his chest so at odds with the bile in his throat.
His mind felt fragmented, buzzing with white noise. Even Gaunt didn't matter right then. He stared, face slack and his eyes hollow.
He'd first met Ron in first year, and they'd been best friends ever since. The other had always been there when he needed him, in his own way. He'd been the first friend he ever had, the first to make him feel like maybe he was normal.
And this…this was his fault. He could hear people saying it wasn't, but it was.
He breathed in, out. Could feel people buzzing around him, taking photos of the crime scene, the dingy back alley.
He couldn't think of him simply as the 'victim', he couldn't. Whilst he'd never been able to disengage himself from Voldemort's crimes as he would have liked, in the recent months it had all got so much more personal.
Sometimes he wondered if he should succumb, give in, lay himself down at the bastard's feet and beg for the mercy of not killing anyone else. He'd give anything to have the crushing burden lifted from him, to see vacant eyes spring to a familiar life again, with a warm smile tugging at lips.
A choked sound caught in his chest.
The message was clear enough, even in shock. He clutched his arms tighter around himself, protectively, unable to pretend anymore that everything was fine.
He was sinking. Barely even noticed when he was sitting on the floor, all professionalism moot and discarded. Maybe he'd never had it.
Nothing about this was fine. Absolutely nothing!
He had to make the bastard pay for this. He just had to. Stop him. He squeezed his eyes shut. Heard someone yell about contaminating the crime scene. None of it would make sense in his hears.
He flinched and startled, the world sounding like it was being issued from underwater, when a hand came to rest on his shoulders. He opened his eyes. Blinked. Looked up at her. At the blood on his hands where he'd automatically caught himself.
"Harry?" Tonks eyed him worriedly. His mouth felt dry, didn't want to form the words "Get him off the scene, for god's sake!" he heard his fellow Auror cry.
He wondered how he must look to them, how weak, that even Scrimgeour didn't protest after everything. The pity wanted to make him sick. He couldn't tear his eyes away, even when someone grabbed him by his shoulders to steer him away, hauling him up, dabbing at his hands with a dump cloth.
He could hear Tonks screaming at their boss for even bringing him in the first place. Felt too numb to appreciate it. Kept one foot going in front of the other. Felt the demand for analysis, just like always, perched beneath his chin.
The body looked rotten, covered in what looked like maggots crawling in and out of him and his ravaged chest. On closer examination, he found they weren't maggots at all. They were catterpillars. Hundreds of catterpillars.
Not yet butterflies.
Maybe the victim of choice screamed out the reason.
He wondered if Voldemort knew of his deception, and was punishing for it. Let out a shaky breath. Maybe he should cry, feel the hot tears swell across his cheeks and burn down in a trail but there was just – just nothing.
He wasn't sure he had anything left to give anymore.
At times it felt better, he'd revitalise, pull on his reserves of strength and convince himself that he could bring Voldemort to justice. Another murder should provide him with more evidence, more and more opportunity for a slip up, and he had Gaunt now – but…
Every time he crashed. Something like this would happen, and it would. All. Just. Crash. A hopeless rage he didn't have the eloquence to verbalise, heart feeling too faint and too raw at the same time to make any sense.
Just sensations and impressions.
"Caterpillars. Not yet Butterflies. He's a link to such things. He's my old life. Who I currently am. A tie. Voldemort took his heart and put caterpillars in its place. I'm moving too slowly. Not growing. Stuck decomposing instead of becoming what he wants me to be."
"Harry-" it was Kingsley with him, he noted it absently, voice low and soothing. "You don't have to talk. It's okay."
It wasn't okay. He wanted to scream at the useless attempt at comfort. He pulled away, barely refrained from sprinting away from his problem again. Running and running as if he could escape everything happening and never look back.
He stopped instead, shuddering.
Gaunt.
Maybe Hermione would hate him for this.
He hated himself for it too.
He didn't understand anymore.
Didn't know how long he sat in his office, unscrambling his mind, setting himself to rights for the final battle. He could practically taste Voldemort's identity. Heard the door creak open, didn't want to deal with Hermione's tears. Ignored Smethwyck too as the man offered his condolences and his starched repulsive version of pity and sympathy.
Didn't say a word. Let his mind drift away from Ron, to Gaunts and the story he was tracing.
Still knew the second Tom walked in, obviously called in to deal with the broken Auror. He gave a bitter laugh at that, disconnected.
"What's wrong with me?" he asked, quietly.
"Excuse me?"
"What's wrong with me? What's so bad about me that I…bring out such violence and hate in somebody?"
He kept his eyes on his notes, stiffened as a hand slipped around his waist.
"Let's get you home," Tom murmured. Harry shook his head, drew strength, the scraps of it and mashed it into sword and shield, straightened.
"No. I have something I need to take care of."
Maybe he was broken. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it had never mattered to anyone but himself.
He needed to track down Merope Gaunt, and the last known location was Little Hangleton.
Time to end this.