Somehow, Tom had known he would find Elizabeth here. In a great, sunken stone pit in the centre of the dimly-lit room was an ancient, crumbling stone archway. Rows and rows of stone benches cascaded down towards the pit on all sides. Beneath the archway hung a tattered-black curtain, fluttering softly in a non-existent wind. The air was still, and cold, and silent in the cavernous chamber; the only sounds were the softest, faintest whispers from beyond the veil. Elizabeth stood before the black curtain, staring into its depths. She wore wispy, flowing black robes and her hair fell carelessly, ragged and tangled, down her back. She was barefoot.
Far above, on the uppermost ring of benches, Tom watched her for a long while. She didn't seem to move, or blink, or even breathe; his sister just stood there, back turned to Tom, staring at whatever it was she saw beyond the veil, or searching for something she could not find. There were tears in her eyes. Tom was hidden beneath the folds of Lily's Invisibility Cloak, hastily handed to him as he fled. Potter and Weasley had been closing in, along with half a dozen others. Tom had known he would never make it on foot, so he had snapped his fingers, conjuring up a portable Floo-fire. As he dived inside, Potter's hands had snatched agonisingly close - but then Tom was gone.
He'd gone to Diagon Alley first. Tom had hoped to find a wand, but Ollivanders' was abandoned, the shelves dusty and bare. He had had to settle for the next best thing. In the back-rooms of a dingy, deserted shop named Borgin & Burkes, Tom had found a nasty-looking knife. Eight inches long, it drew blood as Tom ran the ball of his thumb along the blade. Now, it was stuffed beneath his robes, and Tom hoped to draw his sister's blood instead.
Well, there was no more point delaying. Tom took a deep breath, then started down the steeply-sloping stone steps towards his sister. Though he was invisible, and Elizabeth's back was turned, her attention raptly fixed on the fluttering veil, Tom winced at every squeak, every scuff of boot on stone. He had never before been more aware of the sound of his breathing, nor the rustling of his robes as he walked. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, as he crept down the stairs, he slid the knife from beneath his robes. Knife clutched tightly in his right hand, he stepped down into the pit.
Elizabeth was mere feet away. Still, she gazed at the tattered veil, her head tilted curiously now to one side in a strangely cat-like manner. As Tom came up behind her, some tiny part of him screamed to stop, that this was his sister, that this was wrong. Ignoring it, though his stomach was churning violently, Tom slid his knife from beneath the Cloak and struck at Elizabeth's milky-pale throat.
She whirled and grabbed the blade. Her scarlet eyes were gleaming, half-amused, half-angered, and hot blood of precisely the same colour as her eyes flowed from her fingers as Tom's knife bit into her cold skin. Tom tried to wrench his knife free, but Elizabeth's fingers tightened around the blade, yanking him close. With her other hand Elizabeth reached out and tore the Invisibility Cloak off Tom, tossing it aside. She must have been in agony, but her only concession was a small snarl. Beneath their feet, the stone was suddenly slick with crimson blood.
Elizabeth's face was inches away. Tom threw a clumsy left-handed punch at her; Elizabeth ducked it nimbly, then reached for her wand with her one free hand. As she brought it up towards Tom's face, Tom grabbed it and forced it away - just in time. The searing red blast singed his ear, and Elizabeth laughed. She was deceptively strong. Her fingers were slashed almost to the bone, but still she fought, kicking and punching and writhing as Tom forced his knife closer and closer to her exposed pale throat. The knife's razor-sharp edge nicked Elizabeth's skin - and then her wand suddenly grew blindingly-hot, scorching and scalding Tom's fingers, and he released the black-walnut wand with a yell.
Quick as that, Elizabeth slid her wand towards Tom's right hand, and a blinding-white blast sent his knife flashing away from him. It skittered across the stone, bounced once, then skidded to a halt at the edge of the pit. Grinning maliciously, Elizabeth turned her wand on Tom. There was no time to duck, or dive away, or snatch the wand from her grasp. Tom headbutted her. With a muffled, pained cry, Elizabeth staggered backwards, then found herself beneath the archway, unbalanced, tottering backwards towards the veil. She wheeled her arms frantically, recovered her feet - and then Tom was on her again. They crashed to the hard-stone floor of the pit, a rolling tangle of robes and limbs and blood.
Elizabeth clawed furiously at Tom's face with her fingernails, raking and gouging any inch of flesh she could find. It was all Tom could do to throw her off; in the moment's respite that followed he rolled aside and scrabbled to his feet. As Elizabeth rose to her knees, blood gushing from her nose and hands, they both saw it at once; Elizabeth's wand, cast aside a few feet away by the pit wall. Tom staggered towards it, stumbling, dragging an ankle sprained in the fall from the dais. He didn't see Elizabeth coming until she tackled him to the ground. They rolled once, twice - and then Elizabeth was on top of Tom, and her wand was pressed against his throat.
"Avada Kedav-"
Tom slapped the wand aside. As the blinding-green bolt flashed by his ear, he drove a knee into Elizabeth's stomach. She cried out in pain, and her wand fell from her lacerated fingers to clatter to the floor. Tom snatched it up - but then Elizabeth's good hand seized around his own, and her nails were digging into his skin, raising blood. Elizabeth forced Tom's wand-arm to the ground, so the wand was pointing away from herself - pointing across the pit, to where Tom's knife lay, forgotten. Accio knife, he thought desperately.
Elizabeth slapped Tom with her bloodied hand. A hot, metallic taste filled his mouth, and his vision swam for a moment - and then Elizabeth had her wand back, and it was levelled at Tom's chest. For the briefest moment, she seemed to hesitate.
"I missed you," she said. "When you were gone."
Tom smiled. "Me too."
The rattle of steel on stone filled Tom's ears; then all was drowned out by the deafening crackle, and the eyeball-searing red flashes, and the dull punches, one, two, three, in Tom's chest. Looking down, he saw his robes were flooding with blood, and fist-size holes had been torn in the fabric in three different places. Beneath, he could see torn ruined flesh, and rivers of blood spurting from his chest. As the numbing cold swept in, Tom drove the knife into his sister's side.
He didn't have the strength for another blow. His finger suddenly numb, the knife fell from his hands to clatter to the stone ground. Above Tom, as the knife slid from her, Elizabeth's mouth was a tiny, surprised 'o' - and then she slumped sideways to the floor, and Tom's vision was swimming, and the blackness was rushing up.
Tom wasn't sure how long he lay there, while life steadily seeped out of his chest. At some point, though, a weak cough from beside him jolted him from his daze. Glancing to his left, he saw Elizabeth, a few feet away, her back to the pit wall. Her eyes were rapidly glazing over, and there was a flush in her frighteningly-pale cheeks. When she noticed Tom's gaze she coughed again, and a thin trickle of blood ran down from the corner of her mouth to the floor.
"I missed you," she repeated, her voice high and raspy.
Tom looked down at his chest, where his sodden robes had parted to reveal the three fist-sized holes in his torso. "No, you got me."
She laughed, a childlike innocent sound, but the laughter quickly turned to coughing and blood. As Tom, teeth gritted against the sudden, spiking pain, eased himself to a sitting position against the pit wall, Elizabeth's slitted scarlet eyes found the veil once more. She stared at it for a long while, so still that Tom half-thought she might have died.
"You think he's through there?" she asked suddenly. "Father?"
Every breath hurt now, and when they came, they were rattly and wheezy. Tom took a few seconds to gather his strength before he answered. I don't care! he wanted to yell. Who cares about some long-dead maniac? Even now, he found himself raging at Lord Voldemort for doing this to his sister. For turning her into this. She could have been so much more. They both could have.
"Maybe," was all he said, following his sister's gaze to the tattered veil. "Maybe we'll see each other through there."
Elizabeth's lips twitched upwards coyly. "We're not dead yet." She jerked her head, a small pained motion, towards her wand, gathering dust on the stone floor six feet away. "Know any good healing spells?"
"Not any that would help me." Tom's lungs were punctured, his ribcage shattered, and he could feel his heartbeat slowing gradually to a trickle. "And while I do love you, Elizabeth, I'm not going to save you."
She chuckled. "Still. When you talk of dying, speak for yourself, Tom."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Elizabeth just grinned that coy grin again. "I have to have some secrets, Tom."
"Fine." With a colossal effort, Tom heaved himself to his feet. His head was swimming, and it took all he had to not crumple to the ground. From somewhere, he found some strength, and took one tottering step, then another. "If you'll excuse me, I won't die in this hole."
But when he glanced over his shoulder, she was gone. Eyes misted over, face frozen in a maddeningly-coy grin, fingers limp and lifeless. Tom snapped his fingers, and the Floo-fire burst into life - but he couldn't leave her here. With the greatest effort it had ever taken him, he turned away from the flames and hobbled back towards his dead sister. He tried to stoop, but his sprained ankle screamed in protest, and he relented. Instead, he held out his hand, and Elizabeth's wand leapt dutifully into it. Gently, he levitated her into the air, arms dangling limply, hair a ragged mess. Tom made sure to tidy it up, brushing it out of her eyes, before levitating her through the veil.
He peered around the other side of the archway, but she was gone. Elizabeth's wand fell from his suddenly-feeble fingers, and he almost fell. I won't die here, he thought again, staggering towards the Floo-fire. I won't. He half-leapt, half-fell into the flames. When he emerged onto the front lawn of Hogwarts, darkness had fallen. The castle's lights were a thousand tiny pinpricks in the night, and far away to Tom's left, the tall front doors had been cast open. Warm light was spilling out, and laughter. Tom took a step - then fell to his knees, a series of racking coughs overcoming him.
His vision swam violently, and suddenly Tom was face down in the grass, his heart hammering violently, irregularly, in his ears. His breathing was short, and ragged, and every gasp was an agony. He would die soon, he knew. Perhaps it was merely the loss of blood, but images suddenly flashed before his eyes. A blazing summer sun in the sky, and the streets of Diagon Alley were packed with shoppers once more. Excited children were everywhere, waving toy wands and chasing each other. Platform 9 & ¾, and the air was thick with smoke as the Hogwarts Express chuffed off into the distance. Bright happy faces were pressed to every window.
The Ministry, packed with workers, black-granite walls gleaming. Lily, sitting proud in a neat little office, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement emblazoned on a plaque on her desk. Two new recruits stepped in her door, handsome dark-haired siblings, a boy and a girl, and Lily rose to greet them.
"Build a better world, Lily," Tom murmured, rolling over with the last of his strength to face the stars.
It was then that he saw the cat. The first he saw of it was a pair of gleaming-yellow eyes, growing closer and closer in the darkness. Then it was a shadow, and then the shadow resolved itself into a slender black cat, its white-tipped tail almost luminous in the moonlight. It crept close, its yellow-slitted eyes fixed on Tom. There was a strangely-familiar hint of amusement in those eyes.
"Hello," said Tom, reaching out with a blood-soaked hand to stroke the cat's soft black fur. It miaowed softly in response, and slunk under the crook of his arm. It was warm, and comforting, and as the darkness rushed up, Tom almost felt at peace.