Part 7

In the end, mind healing did not matter. Tom could try all he wanted to repair his mind, his soul, or even his body. Any change he made could not be permanent, would not carry over when was forcibly reset at the end of each day.

There were no more books to read, no spell or ritual he could cast without destroying the last of his magical core. There was only the hell that was Saturday. The pain of waking rapidly worsened, his soul falling to pieces, and Tom was forced to concede that the constant remerging was taking its toll.

Soon there would be nothing left of him but a cold, empty shell.

Harry kept him company, mumbled comforting words as Tom shuddered and sobbed his way into wakefulness every morning.

But when the pain wasn't so bad, they would make their way to the roof of the school and spend the day there. The grounds were beautiful, the skies clear and bright. They could even watch the Quidditch match if they wanted, though by now even Harry was sick to death of the repetitive outcome.

Tom laid on his back and watched the clouds float by, at peace for the first time since the loop had begun, and listened to Harry's occasional ramble about one thing or another.

Then, one morning, Tom did not wake up right away. Agony lacerated every vein, every muscle, every bone in his body. He thrashed and screamed for what Harry would later tell him was a period of several hours. The pain burned on and on, incrementally worse with each passing second, until Tom wished for death. He wished he would die just so the pain would end.

After it was over, Harry could not embrace him. He could not support Tom into a sitting position, could not fetch him a glass of water. Harry sat silent and still and gazed in misery at Tom's shivering, traumatized form.

When Tom was finally able to speak, there was one question left to ask.

"Tell me how you died, Harry."

Another silence, and then Harry rose from the chair next to Tom's bed. He levitated one knee onto the mattress, then the other. He laid down next to Tom, his ghostly form emanating a frosty air that Tom barely felt in his near-catatonic state.

At this distance, Tom could imagine the colour of Harry's eyes—green, like his photograph—and how the world might have been if Harry had been alive, tangible and real, to hold in his arms.

"I didn't have a happy childhood," Harry said, his eyes fixed on Tom's chest. "And when I arrived at Hogwarts, that did not change. My aunt and uncle, they—" He broke off, inhaling deeply. "They didn't like magic. They didn't like me. They would punish me—" Harry frowned, his eyes misty and pained. "They would punish me," he repeated. "No food, no water. They'd force me to serve them, and when they thought I misbehaved, they would beat me."

Tom did not like where this was going. "I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it.

Harry offered a weary half-smile. "It grew worse as I got older. Summer was the furthest thing from a vacation. My cousin and his friends thought it was funny to kick me around. My aunt and uncle, at least, knew where to stop. They knew not to go too far. But Dudley—" Harry sucked in an unsteady breath. "He didn't know when to stop."

Tom placed his hand between them, wishing for the ability to touch. "I understand," he said. "At Wool's—the orphanage—" Tom, too, inhaled shakily. He pretended it was because of the pain, a result of the fractured soul that was slowly rotting him from the inside, but the truth was that this came from a different place. It was a different pain he thought he had buried long ago. "They said similar things," he finished lamely.

Harry nodded as though this made sense. "At Hogwarts," he continued, "there were people like Dudley. Bullies. And the professors, they—" Harry swallowed. "They knew. They knew it was happening, maybe not how bad it was, but they knew, and they didn't—they never—"

"They did nothing."

Harry seemed to curl in on himself. "I tried," he whispered. "I tried to fight back, you know, and I gave as good as I got, and maybe if I hadn't—if I'd gotten—" His eyes squeezed shut. "Maybe if there had only been more time, I could have made some friends. Gotten away from that."

To this, Tom had no response. There was no more time. Not for Harry, and not for him.

"Then," Harry said, his voice gaining some strength as his eyes reopened and he stared at Tom, as though the sight of Tom could help him in some way, "then the day before fifth year, Dudley followed me to King's Cross Station." Harry paused. "It was strange that he did, actually. He'd always been scared of magic. I'd never thought he'd follow me to a place with so many wizards about."

Curiosity could be a powerful thing, Tom did not say. It wore on him to speak, and he felt it would be better to save his words for the end, where they would have the most impact.

"So he followed me," Harry continued, "and he—he—" Another, longer pause. "I don't know why he did it. Why he was so angry. Maybe it was just another thing his parents had blamed me for. I wouldn't have been surprised if it was. But he kicked my chest in." Harry ran a hand over his ribs, gesturing to the spots that must have suffered the most damage. "It was bad. The bones cracked. I thought if I could just make it to Hogwarts, then I would be fine. But that wasn't the only thing that went wrong."

Tom tried to picture it. Harry hunched over, probably bleeding as he staggered onto the Hogwarts Express and collapsed into the first empty compartment he found. Would he have passed out right away? Would he have considered calling for help?

"I don't remember a lot of the details anymore," Harry mumbled. "But no one came in. Even if they did, I'm sure none of them would have bothered. If Harry Potter was passed out on the train, who would care? They probably would have hexed me for sport just to make it more exciting." Harry shrugged. "So that was it. I laid there as the pain got worse and worse, and then I died. I know I lasted long enough to anchor myself here at Hogwarts, but that's all."

Tom felt colder than usual, hands numb and throat dry. "Did they look into it?" he asked. "The professors?" A student dying on the train… no one knew where Harry had come from or how he had died, but if he had died on the train, surely an investigation would have been done. Surely someone would have wondered why.

Only—

Children died in schools because there was incompetence.

"I think they did," Harry said, his hands moving to the hem of his worn, baggy jumper. "And I think—" He exhaled slowly. "I think they believed it was the bullies. They didn't know about how it was—how my family was. They didn't know. So it had to be the bullies, and they couldn't let anyone know they'd let students get away with murdering each other on the train. Not when it was their fault for doing nothing."

Where there had previously been no energy, there was now rage. Tom felt rage. Rage on behalf of Harry, who had been left to die alone, who had been erased from Hogwarts to protect some cowardly, snivelling brats. There were no words that could fix this, nothing Tom could do—he could not even offer to slaughter the cousin, who was out of reach, and his strength had dwindled to the point where he could not succeed in an assault on any of the remaining professors here, either. Still, Tom wanted to try.

"People don't talk to me," Harry said suddenly. "They don't look at me. They don't see me. Not when I was a life, and not… not after, either. But you would talk to me, sometimes." His eyes flicked to Tom's face, and his cheeks were darker than usual.

Tom had never properly expressed his gratitude for Harry's companionship. Harry had watched him from the very beginning, from his very first year at Hogwarts. Harry had watched him repeat Saturday over and over again.

"When I die," Tom said, and when Harry's lips parted in protest, he continued forcefully, "when I die, we'll be ghosts together, won't we? We'll be here together." He swallowed. "We won't age."

"We won't grow up," Harry corrected sadly. "We won't ever be anything more than who we are now."

"That's not true," Tom whispered. "You've changed since the start. You've learned things. You've grown as a person. You've even—you've shared your story with me. You didn't want to, before. You never wanted to."

Harry had once claimed to be in love with him, though ghosts were not supposed to change, to feel beyond the limits of what they had known in life.

"I don't know, Tom. Maybe I always did. Maybe—" Harry glanced down at Tom's hand and broke off, looking sad again. "That's okay. I don't want you to die, Tom, but I'll—I suppose I'll be happy if you can stay with me. I hope you don't mind me thinking that."

"I don't," Tom mumbled. His energy was fading again. "I don't mind. I'd like that."

Harry had, dozens upon dozens of times, attempted to save his life. But there would be no more saving, and perhaps there never had been, in this Saturday that seemed never ending—this Saturday that now had one end and one end only.

Harry smiled this time, a tiny thing that made his face younger, more boyish. "Okay," he said. "Then I hope it comes quickly. That it doesn't hurt."

Tom was fairly sure it would hurt no matter what, but perhaps they could make it come faster. If this torture lasted much longer, there would be nothing left of him by the end of it. But if there was a way to speed it up, to end it swiftly…

"I think," Tom said quietly, voice rasping like sandpaper against his windpipe, "I think tomorrow, we'll do something."

Harry's eyes grew round with concern. "Tom, I really don't think—"

"We'll do something," Tom repeated. "We'll finish it."

The look of concern expanded, distorting Harry's features almost comically. "No, I don't—" His voice broke. "I don't want to see you in any more pain, Tom, I really don't. I couldn't bear it, I—" He stopped again, sounding near tears. "I can't do anything to help," he said miserably. "I can't help you, I can only watch, and—" He shut his eyes, looking more like a frightened child than Tom had ever remembered seeing him before. "I don't want to."

"It's alright," Tom said, with more gentleness than he would have thought himself capable of. "It will be quick, I promise. It'll be over soon."

Harry's hand reached for his, cold and empty and not truly there. His eyes were troubled, glossy, and Tom found himself wondering how Harry would look to him once they were both dead.

"Promise?" Harry asked after a moment.

Tom offered a smile in return. "Promise."

It took three days for Tom to have the strength to rise from bed. It was a rare good day, likely the last good day they would ever have. Tom dressed without bothering to wash up and departed directly for the girl's bathroom.

"So what is your plan?" Harry asked as they left the common room.

"I follow the day like normal," Tom said. "And then, when the Basilisk turns on me, I let it."

"And then you die."

"And then…" Tom exhaled to steady himself. "And then I die."

Harry pursed his lips for a moment and said nothing else.

Tom wanted to believe that existence after death could offer more than a dull imitation of life. He and Harry would be the exception. They would defy the laws of magic that dictated ghosts and portraits could never capture the true souls they'd once been.

They would not live forever, but they could exist forever, the closest to immortality Tom would ever get.

The path that followed was familiar. To the second floor, to the girl's bathroom, to the chamber. Each action was perfectly rehearsed. Harry shadowed his steps, a true ghost, and gave no comment as Tom opened door after door with Parseltongue.

Below ground, the air was filthy and clung to his skin like oil; Tom felt the echoes of it, a dozen layers of grime that he would soon be free of.

For the longest time, death had been the enemy. The inescapable entity that threatened to snatch hopes and dreams, to cut short the magnificent life he had yet to live. To Tom, death was the end of all endings, the only horror truly worthy of fear.

Even now, Tom felt that fear very closely. In the hairs on the back of his neck, in the unsteady pound of his heart. In his cold, damp palms and the unwilling twitch of muscle that came to him with each phantom memory.

Death was the enemy—perhaps the final enemy—and Tom was to deliver himself into its clutches.

There was some peace to be found in this decision. Surrendering to death. Not conquering that fear but accepting it. Not content with the course of his life but acknowledging the choices that had led him here.

Upstairs, Myrtle was using the bathroom stall, washing her hands at the sink, checking her hair in the wide, circular mirror. She was going to die today, as she had so many times before. She was going to die.

Tom was also going to die, and if he was lucky, it too would happen today.

After one deep, steadying breath, Tom summoned the Basilisk.

He, Harry, and Slytherin's monster ascended the pipes together. They paused as one at the final door, and Tom could hear the soft, muffled sound of Myrtle Warren's stifled tears as she wet her hands and face at the sink.

After spending nearly two weeks of the same Saturday with her, Tom would have gladly named her the most irritating person in all of Britain. She was prone to over-attachment, plagued with self-pity, and possessed a high, piercing voice that ruined eardrums of anyone within range.

It would be easy to kill her. It would be easier, even, to lay part of the blame at her feet, for it was her presence—wrong place, wrong time—that had allowed him to split his soul.

Tom stepped away from the door and left Myrtle Warren to her crying. He turned to the Basilisk, the mighty beast with its great yellow eyes shut tight at his command, and gazed upon its ancient form with new understanding.

Basilisks could live for hundreds of years, but the lifespan of this one had been extended by an enchanted slumber. Frozen and forgotten in a deathless state.

Was it lonely, living forever? Was it a horrible thing, to wake after so much time had gone by?

The massive serpent was foreign to him now, crazed with bloodlust he could no longer stomach. Tom laid his hand on its snout, felt the flare of its breath over the back of his hand. There was no Horcrux to create today, no lives to be bartered for power.

The only life left to forfeit was his own.

Tom looked to Harry, the cornerstone of his soul, the only part of him that could be truly called good. He was certain, then, that he had made the correct choice.

"I'm sorry," Tom said. For all of it. For everything.

Then he looked upon the Basilisk and spoke the single word that would end his life and close the loop.

"Open."

Tom saw yellow, and then he saw no more.

Sunday morning, Tom woke up.

At first, he did not know it was Sunday. His chest seized with irrational terror, his body braced for an unending pain that did not arrive. Hysterical and half-blind with panic, Tom forced himself out of bed and glanced wildly around for Harry.

Harry was not there, but that was not what scared him.

The room was different.

Tom, who had woken to the same sight of this dormitory for months on end, knew every iteration in position of every item in the room and the intricate way the shadows on the walls could move as the hours ticked by. But now, the room was different. The bed across from his was slightly askew and the things on the desk next to it had been moved around.

It took Tom several moments to realize that indeed it was Sunday, and with that realization came impossible, unbelievable joy. They had done it. They had broken free from the loop.

"Tom, is that you?"

Before he knew it, he was running. He released whoops of delight at each new sight, every change he saw as he tore through the castle, searching for Harry.

Students stared at him. Some of them shouted for him to stop. Tom ignored them. He needed Harry. They needed to celebrate this moment together, to shout and rejoice and laugh until they could laugh no more.

"Riddle?"

But Harry was nowhere to be found. There were no ghosts in the library, or in the Come-and-Go Room, or at their spot on the roof.

Slowly, the joy Tom had woken with turned to a sick, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Harry must have been awake for hours already. Where would he be? Why had he not come directly to Tom?

Then it hit him. If the day had truly reset, if they were free from the time loop, then Myrtle Warren had died in the girl's bathroom, as she was meant to.

Harry must have gone to see her, must have been held up by the professors who had uncovered the body.

Yes, this made sense. This was something that Harry would do.

Reassured, Tom changed directions, heading for the second floor. More people gawked at him. Prefect Riddle on a mad dash through the hallways; he was sure it'd be quite the topic of conversation until the news of Warren's death broke.

"Is that Tom Riddle?"

But when Tom arrived, the girl's bathroom was empty. There was no blood, no body, no sign that anything had happened there at all.

Confusion warred with fear inside of him. Tom circled the bathroom and stared at the sink that hid the Chamber entrance. For a second, he was frozen in place, utterly unmoving, and then—

"Tom?"

Harry's head floated up to greet him, and Tom could have collapsed with relief. Everything was fine now. Everything was the way it should be.

"We did it!" Tom exclaimed, grinning widely. "We're out of the loop."

Harry did not grin back. He looked as though he might be sick. A low noise of distress escaped him as he buried his face in his transparent hands and sank to the ground, fading from view.

Tom dropped to his knees. "Harry?" he called. Then, more angrily, "Harry? Get back up here!"

Harry's hand flashed back through the porcelain, seized Tom by the front of his school robes, and hauled him head first into the sink.

Tom flew through darkness, desperately clutching at nothing as he tried to slow his fall. His fingers closed around Harry's sleeve and he clung to it, fully expecting to land in a crumpled heap on the floor.

The impact never came. Instead, Tom found himself upright on solid ground, his grip on Harry's forearm tight enough that it must have hurt.

"Harry?" Tom asked, barely a whisper.

The open hole above them offered the dark grotto a minimal amount of light. Harry was pale and trembling as he lowered his hands and stared at the ground. "Tom, I—I'm sorry."

Tom's eyes followed the path of his gaze, and—

—and he lay on the ground, limp and lifeless, glassy eyes fixed unseeing upon the high cavern ceiling, the lower half of his body mangled beyond recognition, flesh torn away and bones shattered—

Tom recoiled with a cry, scrambling backwards. His head swam, and he covered his eyes with trembling hands as the sight of himself—dead dying dead—melted away.

"No, no," he muttered. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening." He smelled blood and death and decay, and he wanted to be sick, to expel the dread building in his stomach, but his body refused to obey him.

"I'm sorry," Harry said again. "I know, I'm sorry, Tom, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

Tom couldn't take it anymore. He had to get away, had to get out of this place. He rose to his feet and ran blindly into the darkness, Harry's apologies following him all the while.

"I sealed the Chamber," Harry said miserably, floating after him. "I couldn't let it escape, not when I wasn't sure what it would do."

Tom wasn't listening. He was crossing to the other door, he was hissing, "Open," only it wasn't working, it wasn't working because he was—

"OPEN!" Tom screamed, voice cracked and desperate, and although his anguish was deafening, it did nothing to move the solid round door that blocked off the Chamber from the rest.

"I ordered it in," Harry continued in a quiet voice. "I remembered how you spoke to it before, and it took a few tries. I was just lucky it couldn't kill me."

"Shut up!" Tom snarled at him, whirling on him. "Shut up, Harry, shut up shut up shut up—"

Harry flinched and said nothing more.

Tom laid a hand on the chamber door and instantly recoiled. His skin was pale blue and tinged with death. He remembered the feel of Harry's sleeve, the material rough and worn—secondhand like Tom's—against the tips of his fingers. He remembered the terrified stares that followed him as he ran through the school.

( "Tom, is that you?")

Slowly, Tom pressed his hand into the door. One by one, his fingers sank into the stone and vanished.

"The sooner you accept it," Harry said from over his shoulder, "the better."

"Let me go!" Tom shouted, pushing him away. "Let me go, I have to get out of here—" He pulled his hand out of the door and staggered back, barely noticing when Harry caught him by the arm and held fast.

"Tom, please…"

Tom groped for his wand, but it was not there. Instead, his hand made contact with a small, leather-clad book. He pulled it free of his robe pocket and stared at it. His diary. The Horcrux he'd tried to make—

The Horcrux he'd failed to make.

Tom sank to his knees with a pained gasp. Though his breaths were rapid and laced with panic, his chest felt no strain. Though his head was spinning, his vision was clear.

"No," Tom whispered. "No, I can't be." He couldn't be. But the ground beneath him felt uncomfortably warm as Harry cautiously wrapped solid arms around his shoulders.

"It's alright," Harry repeated, and though he sounded apprehensive, there was also a hunger in his bright eyes as they roamed over Tom's face. "We're going to be together now," he added quickly. "Forever. Like you said."

Tom wanted to deny it, but the words wouldn't come. He thought of the unchanging future that stretched ahead of them, this cruel immortality he'd achieved at the expense of everything else, and he wanted to cry, but he could not.

Instead, all he could do was lean into the warmth of Harry's embrace and allow himself to be held.

Forever.

.

END.

A/N:

here is the original prompt that i derailed from:

Tom Riddle dies on a day like any other. In fact- this day is so "normal", he doesn't realize he died. He goes on with his "life", none the wiser what happened that day- bullying minions, being the teachers pet, and planning his future. Then, after some time passes, Tom Riddle visits the place of his death and sees his rotting corpse.

somehow, this story ended on a bit more of a depressing note than i expected. despite knowing that this story would end with tom's death, i managed to convince myself that him getting to be with harry somehow made the ending okay jsdklsdds

ANYWAY, please go on to imagine ghost tom and ghost harry living the rest of their ghostly lives at hogwarts, having a good fun time being dumb teenagers forever and ever.

if you're subscribed to my profile, this is the second work i've wrapped lately, and i'm going to aim for some more before the end of the year. 'less overthinking, more finishing' is my new motto for old WIPs.

thank you all for reading, please consider dropping a review if you enjoyed!