"I've had so many knives stuck into me,

when they hand me a flower I can't quite

make out what it is."

Dark times reveal both the best and the worst in people. Someone had taken an old gramophone with them to play soft music in the underground. It was comforting … while it lasted. The owner of the gramophone and another man got into an altercation, where the other man found no recourse other than to smash the device on the floor.

Meanwhile, Harry and Tom jumped on the subway rails to flee the station and sink into the tunnels. They only stopped to rest once the light of the station became a small white dot in the darkness of the subways. If they hid there no one would come to disturb them.

Tom would sometimes create tiny wisps with his magic to light up their surroundings. They would float for a few moments in the air like bright silver snowflakes.

"Tell me how. In detail. Right now." Harry groaned as Tom touched the bloody hole in his chest. "Does magic make me invulnerable too?"

"Err… Magic can do a lot of things. But not this. It has its own laws and limits." Harry closed his eyes to think clearly. "In short, if you get shot in the heart like I did, don't expect to be able to breathe again."

"So why you, and not me?" Tom pointed out with an angry frown and his voice laced with jealousy.

Harry chuckled. "Poor life choices, I guess?"

Harry licked his dry lips and tried to summon the bullet out. He felt something move in his chest, and a sharp hiss of pain escaped his throat. Yeah, he'd rather suffer than focus on the riot of his thoughts. He was rushing into an existential breakdown, wondering if he'd become the new catalyst for Tom's obsessive behavior toward death.

"You don't die, but you feel pain," Tom noted, his head cocked to the side, as if he were looking at the most fascinating sight on earth right now.

This time, Tom extended his own magic to graze the wound. Shadows followed the lava stream of Harry's magic around the silent heart, and searched inside for all the answers Tom didn't have. Without warning, the bullet made its way out. It was propelled at full speed and hit the opposite wall. Harry bit his fist to stifle his pain-filled scream.

"I need to understand something," Tom continued as if nothing had happened, "you didn't pass out this time. So why—"

Harry swore. "That bloody hurt! You could have warned me!"

"You were hesitant. I only helped."

And like any other human being devoid of empathy, this idiot just smirked. His ability to cover himself behind a service rendered to inflict pain on others was beyond Harry. It left him dumbfounded.

"Don't do that again," Harry grumbled.

Tom ignored him. "Why did you black out at church? I saw you struggling with the priest. Did he hit you on the head? Because I assumed that even if you do not require a beating heart, you do actually need a brain."

Harry blinked. He visualized himself with a half open skull, still able to walk like a zombie. He made a mental note to tell Death about this issue… Just to be sure.

"I have a fairly good pain tolerance—" Harry saw Tom's gaze sweep across his scars with mixed feelings on his face. "There I tried something… And failed 'cause I asked far too much of myself. I was exhausted, from a magical standpoint."

At that, Tom frowned and looked away. "… Yet, I felt your magic afterwards."

"Well, think of it as an overheated engine. Magic never leaves us." Harry laughed weakly as he spotted Tom's figure coming closer, somewhat interested. He continued to babble, "remember when Dumbledore came? He used a wand. It supports our powers. Not many of us can wield our magic without it. It takes a lot of conditions and training—"

"Your parents. They had magic too. That's how you can tell."

A sad smile spread across Harry's lips. He couldn't help but hear the hint of jealousy and anger in Tom's muffled hiss. "Yes … but they weren't the ones who explained to me how our world worked. I never had a chance to meet them. Alive, at least."

Tom fell silent, his bad mood oozing into the air. All the bright snowflakes he had created crashed to the ground one by one, deepening the darkness of the tunnel.

Harry searched for what he could do to cheer him up, but, as he moved to sit properly on the floor, the rustle of paper in his pocket reminded him of something.

"Lumos."

The little ball of light flickered dimly. It hovered over Harry's head as he held out the Hogwarts letter belonging to Tom. The other boy didn't react immediately, so Harry explained, "When I was looking for you, I started in our room. Then I realized you weren't going to get your stuff back like you planned and … anyway, take it. Tomorrow you'll need it for our shopping trip."

Tom's eyes shone possessively, he tentatively reached out a hand but quickly retracted it. He squinted, suspicious. "What do you want?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

"What. Do. You. Want. In. Exchange?" Tom insisted as if Harry was a complete fool.

"... Nothing?"

"No one gives something away for nothing. There's always a price to pay."

Harry's blood boiled in his system. His ball of light flashed like a tiny sun. His anger was not directed at Tom, but towards the world. This world, which was never kind enough to a child and only taught him the hard way.

Screw you Dumbledore, Harry thought furiously as if his thought could reach the realm of Death or the current living professor. I'm going to do the right thing: feel sorry for Voldemort. I'm going to cry so hard for him that I can only comfort myself by using your fucking beard as a handkerchief!

How could people be surprised by the rise of a bloodthirsty Dark Lord if he's always been treated like a monster?

"If it makes you happy to have it, then take it. It's more than enough."

Tom squinted and grabbed the letter as quickly as a snake striking its prey. He clutched it to his chest, looking defiantly at Harry to make sure he wouldn't go back on his word. Harry said nothing, just smiled sadly.

He knew the emotional value of the first Hogwarts letter. After his first year, he had kept his with him every summer at the Dursleys, as if to have a physical reminder that it wasn't all a dream. Or a hallucination caused by Dudley or Vernon hitting him too hard and putting him in a coma.

For the two orphans, magic was all they owned.

Harry watched the other boy read his letter again. He gently stroked the golden Hogwarts Express ticket, then focused on his school supply list. It was only by his furrowed brow that Harry guessed he had a problem.

"Is it the toad or the pointy hat that bothers you?"

"Neither," Tom answered quickly. And then after a long silence interrupted by a quiet sigh, he confided, "both… And the broomstick."

Then tiny lights spread around them. Bright ice crystals hovering around the penny-sized sun Harry had created. In the dimmer light, Harry saw Tom's pale skin begin to bloom with bruises on his face. There were also several cuts of varying depths on his hands.

"Come near me, please." Harry patted the spot next to him with a smile.

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Just to fix you up."

"I can do it myself."

"Not properly," Harry snorted. "The only healing magic you can do on yourself is to get some rest. Otherwise, it will only be superficial."

With no movement from Tom, but his dark eyes fixed on him, Harry took this as an invitation to expound. Harry sighed, every pleasant thing was turning into something excessively complicated with Tom. He needed some time to find the right words.

"When someone else heals you, they add a little of their own magic into you. They make up for what the other person lacks," Harry explained, using his quite limited knowledge of healing magic.

Limited specially because healing involved the realm of life… Although it was intrinsically related, it didn't completely fit with his status as a Master of Death.

"... So, if you heal me, I will keep some of your magic in me?"

Harry checked the 'magpie-like' box on his list of Tom's exquisite qualities.

He laughed weakly before answering, "pretty close. Yes."

"Do it," Tom ordered, as he hurriedly sat closer to Harry.

Slowly, Harry held out his hands to Tom. He didn't comment on the fact that the boy flinched defensively at first. Even more slowly, Harry placed his hands on Tom's hollow cheeks and he warned him, "the feeling is funny, but it's normal."

Then, when Tom nodded, Harry whispered the incantation, "episkey." Immediately afterward, he felt his head spinning and his limbs tingling, but he saw Tom's wounds disappear one by one.

He released Tom to lean his back heavily against the tunnel wall. His own magic was busy sealing the gap in his chest. Maybe healing Tom wasn't the smartest choice? Too bad. Harry didn't care and he certainly wouldn't regret it. By tomorrow morning, he'll be better.

"What does that mean?"

"Huh?"

"Ehpistkee. Or Luhmoos," Tom repeated tentatively.

Harry found Tom's acute curiosity both adorable and exhausting. He also couldn't deny that the other boy was paying attention to every detail. Despite being exhausted, Harry cracked his neck to gather his last bit of strength and began correcting the pronunciation of the incantations. Then he would go on to a long lecture on the usefulness of spells. Judging by Tom's attentive gaze, Harry couldn't stop, so he continued. The subject of spells drifted to wands, then books, writing on parchment scrolls, and the horrible handwriting you get with your first try a quill… In the light they had created, Tom glowed with life, because Harry did more than making him dream. He promised him another world.

The next morning, they knew they had overslept because of the rumble of the tracks.

They quickly went from huddled together to upright. The lights they had created the night before had long since faded, so they screamed when they saw two huge headlights speeding towards them.

Harry could see only one way to prevent the subway from crushing them. Even if it had already failed… He held on to Tom. He directed all his might at the Leaky Cauldron.
With the hook in place behind his navel, Harry allowed himself a split second to hope his body could handle the strain this time.

"Watch out! Hold on tight!"

They were pulled back. Tom yelped in surprise. And then they appeared in another place. Harry's vision was blurry for a few seconds, but it was a miracle: he hadn't passed out yet and managed to hold everyone's limbs in place.

Tom staggered for a moment—his face was so pale you'd think he'd forgotten his blood underground—and before Harry saw it coming, Tom threw up on his shoes.
Well, if he still dared to become a Dark Lord after that, Harry would gladly blackmail him with that memory preserved in a Pensieve … if only future wars could be stopped by one innocent childhood memory. After all, hope brings life.
Tom continued to sway on his feet, almost on the verge of falling, so Harry rushed to support him.

He managed to croak, "Never again. Ever…"

"Woken up by the Tube? Totally agree."

Harry let out a laugh as Tom grumbled out curses through clenched teeth. Harry was sparing the information that apparition was a common means of transportation for wizards… Tom would find out soon enough.

At first, Harry thought he had miscalculated. The street was totally different from the one he knew: the houses still in flames and the piles of rubble were a big part of it, but, after taking another look, he saw the much more familiar wooden sign of the Leaky Cauldron. He pointed it out so Tom could see it too.

"Everything is ruined here. How can you be sure it's not the case on the wizarding side too?"

Harry shrugged. "Magic? Give it a try."

Though Tom didn't loosen the frown on his face—not really convinced— he took the lead and entered the inn first.

Inside, unlike the street, everything was exactly as Harry remembered. Even if the Leaky Cauldron he knew was fifty years in the future … the timeline sometimes gave him headaches. Anyway! As always, the Leaky remained small, dingy and welcoming! Nothing had changed, except for a much younger version of Tom the bartender. He threw a tight smile at the two boys, pity softening the corners of his eyes. Yes, those two were probably not a pretty sight. While Tom was full of soot and gore, dressed in his ragged Sunday clothes; Harry had his too-small shoes full of vomit and a ravaged chest… Definitely not a pleasant picture to behold.

Suddenly, the warm air of the inn felt like an arctic breeze as a woman stood up and rushed towards them. Harry's jaw dropped to the floor.

This woman was the perfect embodiment of a Pureblood who was halfway between a mother drowning in grief after losing her child at birth and a bride found hanging after the groom left her at the altar on her wedding day. All this was enhanced by a dusty and precious Victorian fashion style; her face veiled by a richly ornamented mourning lace which only revealed her lips painted in a deep red.

"Harry!" Death screamed in a tide of ruffles and lace.

The woman's body grabbed Harry to lift him off the ground and spin him around in a tight, bone-crushing embrace, exactly the same force a mother would use when she found her child after he had been missing for years. Death was in a maternal mood, right? It's not something common, but it's not unheard of. Harry could deal with that. It was disconcerting at first, but now—especially now—he welcomed it warmly.

"Hands off," came the slow warning behind Death, who continued to strangle Harry with her affection. Harry choked on his own saliva because of Tom and his gall to tell Death anything.

Without releasing her grip, Death stopped spinning around. She leaned down to Tom's eye level, with a very sweet smile on her lips—no one is strong enough to resist Death in this mood— "and you are a sweet little threat, aren't you?" she cooed softly.

Tom's eyes went wide, his mouth closed, and he… blushed. "I'm not—!" He glanced frantically at Harry, but he didn't notice, too busy hiding his face and laughter in Death's icy neck.

'Sensitive to Death's praise,' box checked.

The immortal being held Harry's scrawny body in one of her arms and placed a feather-light hand on Tom's shoulder, to guide them into the booth she previously occupied.

She presented them with a key. "Harry, I have something to tell you about today … but first, both of you, get comfortable. A shower, fresh clothes, a little more sleep if you want. Take your time and come back here when you feel like eating."

See? Mother hen. Harry gave Death a peck on the cheek, picked up the key, and gently slipped out of her embrace. He was ready to run for a shower, but Tom stood frozen in place, staring at Death with an indecipherable expression… Harry could describe it as shocked. He grabbed Tom's hand and dragged him to their room. Closing the door behind them was the counterspell that broke Tom's daze.

He shook his head, his eyes still wide. "Who is she?!"

"An old friend."

Harry threw off his shirt, and saw that his chest had not a trace of the bullet wound. His own magic couldn't have fixed that overnight. There was only one person left who could have done this.

"You healed me?" asked Harry, a tad stunned.

"Yes. Only to practice." After that, Tom made a tactical retreat into the bathroom.

Harry rolled his eyes. "If you say so…"

He sat down on one of the beds and tossed his shoes in the same corner where his shirt laid in a ball. He vowed never to wear anything gray again—including in the lives that would follow this one.

When Harry opened his eyes again, he assumed he had fallen asleep, because Tom was already washed and wearing a fresh set of wizard's clothes.

Wait a minute. "What exactly are you doing?"

Tom didn't move his hand away from Harry's chest. "I am feeling your heartbeat again."

If someone had told Harry that there would be a day when Voldemort would seem to appreciate that he was alive… Harry got up, found some fresh clothes, and walked out of the room to take a well-deserved shower. After that, Harry came out of the bathroom drying his hair so as not to wet the clothes he was wearing. Tom watched him for a long time from the threshold of their room, a deep frown pinching his lips.

"Is everything okay?"

"No." Tom's scowl deepens. "That's what I thought…"

"What?"

"Your face."

"What about my face?" Harry frowned as he placed a hand on his own cheek.

"It's better with blood on it."

He turned and walked through the door back to the busiest floor of the Cauldron where Death was waiting for them, a scowl still on his lips, obviously very displeased. Was this … a threat? Or just the kind of compliment that only Tom and his twisted mind could make? Harry didn't have the answer, and he wasn't about to look for it now.