A/N:

tw suicide, character death, dub-con kissing, depictions of violence!

Chapter 4

i wasn't letting up until—

The days till Christmas Eve dwindled to zero. Harry continued his routine of following Tom around. He withstood the weight of Tom's searching gaze, stared unflinchingly into the dark eyes of the monster he hoped to soon bury in the cold winter ground.

Prior to his conversation with Tom, he had been reluctant to give in to Tom's overtures, but it was clear now that there would be no other way. Tom was obsessed with him for whatever reason, and this obsession grew stronger the more Harry engaged with him. It was clear that only one lure would work in this case, and that lure was Harry.

Harry kept close to Tom throughout the week, but on the day before Christmas Eve, he stayed home. He hoped that his absence would drive Tom mad; more so because Tom had planned a rather public gathering at the town hall to celebrate his company's—and consequently the town's—good fortune this year.

Such a blatant snub would drive Tom to seek him out, just as he had following their conversation at the house. With the upper hand, Harry would lead, and Tom would be forced to follow.

Christmas Eve found Harry once again at Padfoot's bar. The atmosphere was quiet but joyful—Sirius had put up a truly excessive amount of lights and decorations. A few patrons had come out to celebrate the festive evening with a drink, and they kept Sirius busy at the bar while Harry tucked himself into his and Ginny's regular booth.

Harry tapped a restless finger on top of the dog-shaped salt shaker. This bar would be the first place Tom would go looking for him, and if Tom didn't wind up poking his head around these parts, Harry would show up on the man's doorstep himself. Either way, he thought, tonight would end it for good.

But Hermione had mentioned Tom asking after him at the town hall party, so Harry felt there was a good chance that Tom would show up here tonight. Despite having no affection for Ginny, Tom had still known her, and he had known her well enough to make her unhappy. Well enough to spin a tale about her that was blatantly false, despite what everyone else seemed to believe.

The hours slid by, and the bar slowly emptied out. Sirius, dressed in a bright red apron patterned with tiny cartoon reindeer, came over to sit with him.

"Did you want anything? Remus told me you didn't eat."

Harry shrugged. "Wasn't hungry."

"You've got to keep your strength up," Sirius chastised. "You'll catch your death in this weather, Harry."

Food was not high up on his list of priorities at the moment. When Harry wasn't preoccupied with analyzing Tom's behaviour, he was worrying about what he planned to do. Objectively, Harry knew murder would be a difficult task. Or at least it would be for someone like him who genuinely cared about human life and was loath to see it go to waste.

Harry could not imagine what the violence he'd seen in movies would feel like in real life—the gurgle of blood in dying lungs, the snapping of fragile bones under the harsh blow of a metal bat. Not that he planned on doing anything as crude as that, but—

Sirius shot him a patient look that was loaded with sympathy. "Well, I'm really glad you came out. I know we're not family, Harry, but I still consider you to be part of mine. There's no one else Remus and I would rather spend Christmas Eve with." He gave Harry's hand a light pat. "You'll have to tell me how you like our gift, yeah? I spent about five hours wrapping it and everything. Remus was this close to strangling me with the ribbons because of how long it took."

"Sure, sure," Harry said, attempting a smile, trying to sound enthused. "You'll have to let me know what you think of mine."

It did sadden Harry to know that, in all likelihood, he would not get to know what Sirius thought of his gift.

"Don't rile me up," Sirius warned. "I wake early for presents. Unless you want a six am wake up call, you best retract your hasty statement, kiddo."

"I swear, I don't mind."

Sirius squinted at him. "Listen, I know it's a shitty Christmas this year—"

"C'mon, Sirius, I really don't—"

"Hey, no. I want you to listen, so you're going to listen. I know it's been shitty, and I know you've been feeling it for weeks now." Sirius grimaced and cast a weary glance around the empty restaurant. "People—they say what they want, sometimes. And it's fucked as all hell, but you've gotten this far. You're not a quitter, Harry. You're a good kid, and I'll be damned if I see the town run you into the ground over this. Whatever happened with Ginny, it is not your fault."

If only Sirius knew. Harry's insides twisted with guilt. It hurt him to not confide in Sirius. It was a physical pain in his chest that felt worse than his anxiety over dealing with Tom. Sirius had seen him at his worst, so why was this suddenly different? When had he let himself slip so far away, so out of the reach of the few people who cared for him?

Harry did know why, though—he was better off alone. If he was on his own, then no one else would be hurt because of him. If he was alone, then no one would have to miss him once he was gone.

But before that, there were more plans to lay. A trap to build.

"Tom hates me," Harry said dully. "He blames me for Ginny running away."

Sirius drew back, likely thrown by Harry's bluntness. "Tom? I don't think—"

"He came by my work the other day to harass me. Asked to speak to me. He blames me," Harry repeated, holding his voice steady, forcing the lies out even though they tasted like bile. "He thinks she only married him to make me jealous. We got close to throwing fists, but I think he realized he wouldn't be able to take me in a fair fight."

A pause. A frown. "I suppose I can understand why he feels that way," Sirius muttered. Then his eyes fixed upon Harry again. "But that is not your fault. Do not blame yourself for that."

Harry shrugged as if it didn't matter one way or the other. He had given Hermione and Seamus the same story. Most people had already heard about his altercation with Mrs. Weasley. Harry hoped that all of this would be enough to cast suspicion on Tom if things went horribly wrong—if Tom got to him first.

"Maybe what you need is to get out of this place," Sirius suggested. This time he gave Harry's hand a firm, comforting squeeze. "Just drive as far away from here as you can. Travel to new places, meet new people. You're young and you don't have anything keeping you here. I'll even loan you my bike, how about that?"

"I—" Harry couldn't do it. He could not, in good conscience, say yes to this offer. It would give Sirius the false hope of a happy future that Harry was never going to achieve. It would make his inevitable departure worse.

"I really think it would help. When I was your age, I was out there experiencing the world." Sirius' hand was too warm, his voice too kind. Kinder than Harry felt he deserved, given what he was going to do. What he had already done. "Don't let this town hold you back, Harry. You've got a good head on your shoulders and your whole life ahead of you."

"I'll think about it," Harry said quickly. He forced himself to shuffle out of the booth. He grabbed his coat and struggled to put his arms through the sleeves. "I think I need to go home. To think. Is that alright?"

"Yeah, that's fine." Sirius watched him with sad eyes, then shook the melancholy away, a veil of cheer falling over his face. "So long as you keep coming in, okay? I haven't seen enough of you lately."

Harry half-smiled in return, but it must have fallen flat because Sirius did not look reassured. There was little that Harry could do now to muster up the energy to fake a convincing response.

"Take care," Harry said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears—he hoped it was passable. "Tell Remus I said 'Merry Christmas.'"

"Will do."

Harry turned away, the sight of Sirius' concern suddenly too much to bear, and headed to the door.

The parking lot was deserted save for Sirius and Remus' car parked in the far corner. Tom's car, with its new winter tyres, was nowhere to be seen.

Harry blinked blearily at his surroundings, feeling the cold seep into his bones.

It was disappointing to realize his original plan had not worked. Tom had not shown up. His backup plan—if it could even be called that—was to show up at Tom's house, but it didn't sit quite right. Harry had come to Padfoot's to find closure from losing Ginny, but he had failed there as well.

Memories of Ginny's dimpled smile brought fresh waves of despair. Harry stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers—purchased secondhand and the world's ugliest colour, according to Ginny—and tipped his head back, wishing the sky could give him answers.

There was one other place for him to visit tonight. Harry had not been there in years, but tonight he could be persuaded to make an exception. It was a long walk from here, but he had the time. The town was sliding towards midnight, but the hour felt less important now that he had a new goal in mind.

Harry wound through the main streets of the town he'd grown up in, past the homely neighbourhoods of small families with children, past the plots of farmland owned by the Diggorys and the Macmillans.

The main docks were a decent walk from his childhood haunts, but that had never deterred him, and it had certainly never deterred any of the Weasley children. They had wandered these spaces together, having adventures and battling imaginary monsters. They had grown up here.

Well—some of them had grown up here. One of them had not.

A chill crept over him. The air grew colder and colder as he shuffled step by step into the darkness. Every shadow flickered ominously in the peripherals of his vision, and every crunch of snow beneath his boots was eerily loud. In his right jacket pocket was the cold weight of a handgun. It didn't feel right to have it there, but then again, every step he took felt like a fresh shovelful of dirt laid on his own grave.

This year, the weather was far too icy for holiday celebrations to be held comfortably out on the water. The wooden dock was frosted over with ice. Harry sat down on it anyway, tugging his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. The moon illuminated the slow rush of the river beneath it.

Harry tugged the hood of his coat over his head and exhaled a faint puff of condensation. He gazed down at the pitch-black ice water, the sight of which sent a tremor of unease down his spine. It was too dark for him to glimpse his own reflection; a small mercy. No doubt he looked something awful. He'd been caught up in the misery of his own making, skipping meals and forgetting to shower.

"Hey, mate," Harry said to the river. "It's been a while." He lowered a hand to the dock, to the frozen plank of wood. The cold nipped at his fingertips. "I dunno if Ginny ever came by while I was gone…"

As children, he and Ginny had sat here and talked to the water. They had come here every year. Then they'd grown into adults and Harry had started making excuses. Eventually Ginny had stopped asking. The guilt of avoiding this place was nothing compared to the guilt he felt once he was here. He had done all that he could to avoid coming here. He'd done all that he could to forget about the river.

The waters lapped against the surrounding boats, their bobbing motions quiet and judgement-free.

Harry closed his eyes. "She's gone." He let the words hang in the air, imagining the response. Then he added, "But maybe you know that already. Maybe she's with you."

It was a nice thought. A far kinder thought than Harry deserved to have. In a fair world, a just world, Ginny would be with her brother. Two of the people that Harry loved the most, together once again.

Harry opened his eyes. Clarity was trickling into his mind, drenching his memories. Memories of him and Ginny struggling to close the gap that lay between them, the gap that Ron had left behind.

That was what they had done, wasn't it? They had filled the gap for each other. Harry had taken on the role of Ginny's older brother. He'd been the boy who would tease her when her mother forced her to wear pink, the boy who would get into fights at school with the boys who tried to kiss her.

And Ginny—she'd become his best friend. She'd worn overalls and chopped off all her hair with scissors and told Harry's bullies to fuck off if they knew what was good for them. She was the only one who'd had any right to forgive him for anything, and now she was gone.

If there had ever been a chance for them to become something more, something like lovers, it had been lost when Ron Weasley died.

Harry sensed the approaching footsteps before he heard them. The soft thunk of heavy boots on the docks, the crackle of ice echoing through the air like the sound of bones snapping.

"Hello," Harry said, not daring to turn around. The gun in his pocket was as heavy as a stone, dragging him down.

The footsteps came closer. Harry tensed, waited, and was relieved when Tom dropped down on his left side. The side without the gun.

"Good evening, Harry. Nice night for a walk?" Tom asked lightly, angling his head to the sky.

"Something like that."

Tom was humming softly. It might have been a Christmas song, but Harry could hardly hear over the buzzing in his head, the static of anxiety that clouded his senses.

"I never understood the appeal of a coastal town," Tom said eventually. "Lazy weather for lazy people, my father used to say."

Harry didn't answer. He didn't dare move, either.

"I missed you yesterday," Tom continued, maintaining his conversational tone. "At the town hall party. I asked after you to no avail."

"Sorry to disappoint. Wasn't feeling quite that social."

"Mmm. There is, of course, more value to be found with an intimate conversation." Tom paused, shifting his body so that he could glance in Harry's direction. "Have you given more thought to what I said?"

Harry bit back an impulsive, sarcastic response and said, "And if I have?"

"I'd love to hear what you have to say."

The words were so genuine. Tom's eyes glittered earnestly, the curve of his smile as beguiling as the crescent moon. He was made more gorgeous by the moonlight, pale skin flawless like that of a marble statue.

"I want to ask you something, first." It slipped out without much thought. Harry pressed his lips closed, the better to still his chattering teeth.

Tom raised a brow. Then the brow lowered, the slight expression of surprise melting away. "Ask away, darling."

"Why did you marry Ginny?"

"Ah." Tom shifted back, hands clad in black leather gloves splayed out on the dock as he shifted his weight onto them. "Ginny was a means to an end, as I'm sure you've realized."

"A means to an end," Harry repeated numbly. He was driven only by his need to know, to understand the motivations of this murderer. Maybe knowing would give him the courage to draw his gun and pull the trigger. "What end?"

"I came here with the intention of setting my roots down in a small, coastal town, to seize the opportunity for power and wealth. But a private space like this required, shall we say, a compassionate touch. Small towns can be so fickle, you see." Here Tom scoffed, making clear what he thought of the community he had chosen to infiltrate. "To endear myself to the masses, I required an opening. The Weasleys were the perfect choice—influential but poor, traditional yet amicable to strangers wooing their youngest daughter." Tom smiled dangerously. "The title of husband does wonders, transforming even the most dubious of outsiders into charming young men ready to rear hordes of screaming brats."

"So you didn't love her."

The derision returned to Tom's fine features. When he spoke again, his voice was cold. "My love is not to be wasted on the insignificant."

It was different to hear the truth aloud, that Tom did not love Ginny. Harry had to force his lungs to work, to pull oxygen into his body. It infuriated him to know that Ginny's legacy would be reduced to someone who was to be pitied. He hated that she would be remembered as the poor, unhappy girl who had failed to make the most of her circumstances.

Most of all, Harry hated that he would be remembered as the man who had pushed her away, while Tom would be remembered as the good man who had lost her. Tom did not deserve someone as kind as Ginny. Harry also did not deserve her, but he had tried, vainly, to be a good person.

Ginny did not deserve either of them, but it was Tom who had squandered the gift of Ginny's love. He had made a mockery of her heartfelt affections. He had killed her.

"You're a sick bastard," Harry seethed, scrambling to his feet. He was shaking, his vision spotting black and blue around the edges. "You killed her. I know you did."

"Harry, Harry, Harry." Tom clicked his tongue in a disappointed manner. When he rose, it was graceful. Predatory. "Little Ginny was sweet, but she could hardly hold my interest. Not the way you can. From the moment I met you, I knew you were special. I knew she would have to go, to make way for us to be together."

"Us?" Harry was frozen in place, rushing water roaring in his ears. He was motionless as Tom took his hand and held it in a gentle grip, thumb brushing over the back in a loving caress.

"You see, Harry," breathed Tom, his eyes alight with fervor as he bent his head and pressed a tender kiss to Harry's knuckles, "for the past two years, my only desire, my true desire… has been you."

"No." Harry would have stumbled back if not for Tom's hold on his hand, if not for the terror that shot through his veins.

Tom only smiled. "I asked after you, Harry. I asked my darling wife about you, and then she opened up to me so easily. You were her everything before she met me. But once she had me, suddenly there was another person to confide all her troubles in. She told me all about her sad, stressful childhood, about being misunderstood and growing up poor." Tom tugged on Harry's hand, yanking him forward. A smirk slid over his lips. "She even told me about her dear, dead brother."

"No." Harry was horrified, unable to believe what he was hearing. "No, she would never—"

"Yes, she did," Tom continued, his voice lowering to a level that was barely audible. To Harry, he might as well have been shouting what he said next. "Poor Ron Weasley, drowned at Godric's River. Such a terrible tragedy."

The darkness was closing in. Harry couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move. "It was an accident."

"So defensive," Tom purred. His gaze was mesmerizing, his irises like deep pools of black ice. "But I believe you, Harry. Do you believe me?"

Harry shook his head, tried to pull his hand out of Tom's grasp. Tom was too close, too close, too close. "You're a liar."

Tom's other hand rose slowly like an ocean wave, caressing the left half of Harry's face. His thumb swept just underneath Harry's lower lip, the touch cool like ice. Harry felt he must have been drugged. That explained why he could not think clearly, why Tom's presence did such strange things to him.

"If I am a liar," Tom asked quietly, "then what does that make you?"

"You're a murderer, too," Harry spat. He twisted his face away from Tom's hand and pulled back.

Tom laughed, half-mad, his expression full of delight. "And you've lured me out here for a moonlit stroll, is that it? You've hardly a leg to stand on, my love." Then Tom was looming over him, moonlight catching on his cheekbones and tossing shadows over the lower parts of his face. "You have impressed me by coming this far—I didn't think you would have the nerve. But I have learned you are simply full of surprises."

Harry had never felt such contempt in his whole life. Not even for the Dursleys, who had hit him and left him in the cupboard under the stairs to starve. Harry stared, his heart beating so fast he could barely breathe. Tom was staring back at him with a wild smile, white rows of teeth bared.

Deranged, that was the word that came to mind.

"I like surprises," Tom mused. His eyes narrowed in on Harry's eyes, the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips. The scar on his forehead, normally covered up by his unruly hair. "I like you."

Harry didn't want this psychopath to like him. He didn't like what it implied, that he was someone a psychopath would like. It made him feel sick. His heart was rotting, caving in on itself, giving way to decay.

Tom drew closer. Tom was a sickness, too. A plague upon this town, but in a different way. The misery and death that Tom wrought was subtle but intentional.

If they were alike, he and Tom, then maybe it made sense for Tom to want him.

"Beautiful," Tom declared, with reverence, as if his inspection of Harry was now complete. His gloved hand traced the line of Harry's jaw, the plush leather soft against Harry's cold skin. "You are beautiful," Tom said gently, and Harry's mouth opened in protest, but he was too slow—Tom descended upon him like a lion, and Harry was too weak to resist.

Their lips met. Harry struggled, but Tom's breath choked him, lips sealed over Harry's mouth. The oppressive heat of Tom's breath was searing, scalding and warping the flesh that it touched. Harry's body contorted, bending backwards, but Tom's grip was ironclad, unstoppable. He was too strong, too fast, and Harry's mind was too confused to fight back. Harry felt his skin burn as Tom's fingers squeezed down, hard enough to bruise. Tom's hands were everywhere, on his shoulders, wrapped around his neck, buried in the thick mass of his hair.

Harry couldn't breathe, but he could feel the heat of Tom's hands winding through his hair, gloved fingers knotting in the curls. His throat felt raw, and all he could think was how good it was, to be held, to be touched, to be kissed and cradled. It was so good, and it was so wrong. Harry was drowning in his own lust, a lust he hadn't felt in years—he hadn't felt this alive in years.

Tom drew back, breathing in gasps, his eyes so intense that the desire radiating from them was warmer than any blazing fireplace. Then Tom leant forward, as if to kiss Harry again, but shockingly, he did not. Instead, his hands rose to cup Harry's face. Tom's fancy gloves had vanished at some point—it was now Tom's bare palms that caressed Harry's flushed skin.

"I'm going to make you feel good, Harry," Tom said, his voice soft and tempting. "I'm going to take good care of you. I'm going to help you forget."

Harry swallowed hard, blinking back the tears of frustration that welled in his eyes. "I don't want to do this." He didn't want to be a monster, but he already was one, wasn't he? And even if he wasn't, killing Tom was going to make him into one. But Tom had to be stopped. Harry couldn't let him get away with killing Ginny, so he would have to kill Tom. It was the only way.

Harry slid out of Tom's grasp and staggered backwards.

"It's alright, darling. You don't need to worry anymore." So sweet, those words. Like deliverance, like damnation. "I have the perfect place for you to go, far away from this town and their callous, uncaring ways."

Tension was building inside him, filling his chest with an unbearable pressure, but he wouldn't let it get to his head. Tom was watching him carefully, waiting for him to do something. So Harry would do something.

"You were right," Harry said shakily, "we are alike." Then he pulled the gun from his pocket and levelled it in Tom's direction.

Tom's eyes widened, surprised, but he didn't move. "You're not going to shoot me," he said.

Harry said nothing. He clicked off the safety. He was trembling so hard that it was a wonder his hands were steady enough to hold the gun, for his finger to curl around the trigger.

"For all your bravado," Tom said slowly, "you are not a killer."

Harry felt his fingers go numb. "You don't know me."

"If you were a killer, I'd be dead by now," Tom said in a wry tone. He took a step forward; Harry took a step back. "Lower the gun, my love. You wouldn't hurt me."

Harry raised his arms. The gun was now pointed directly at Tom's face. "You don't fucking know me. You think this is a joke to me? A game for you to live out your fucked up power trip fantasies? You're a fucking psychopath. You're a murderer and a monster. You deserve to die for what you did to Ginny." His voice was cracking, and his vision was flashing in hues of blue. "Don't fucking stand there like you have any moral high ground."

Tom's eyes were cold, bloodshot. He stared down at the gun. "It's not your fault, Harry. I understand that you did what you had to do to survive. But another pointless death at Godric's River won't bring your friend back to you."

"Shut the fuck up!" Harry's entire body was convulsing, rattling apart at the seams. "You killed Ginny."

Tom was relentless. His eyes flashed with displeasure as he said, "You want my body in the river? You want the water to fill my lungs, burn me, drown me—"

"Shut up!" Harry was screaming now, desperate, almost hysterical. He wanted to cover his ears, to block out what Tom was saying, to block out the distant sounds of the river. Harry wanted to throw up, to suffocate and end it all. He wanted to drown because it was what he deserved.

"You want the river to kill me," Tom said, and there was an undertone of fascination to his words. "Bloodless and merciful, like a drug you take before you go to sleep."

Harry's face was wet. His hands were trembling, aching. He couldn't stand it any longer. He didn't want to listen anymore.

"We were just kids," Harry whispered. "We were just playing a game." Dancing across the river, tiny feet light over the jagged rocks that made up the riverbank.

Ron had slipped and fallen. Harry had slipped and fallen. They had both struggled to breathe. Harry had thrashed about, shoving, kicking, flailing in desperation. He had not seen what had happened, not like Ginny had, but he'd felt it, the body that had struggled alongside his own, the body he had shoved at blindly, leveraging it in his frantic quest for oxygen—

It had been an accident.

Blood in the water was a terrible sight, red expanding through the water in cruel tendrils, but worse yet was the sight of a child's motionless body lost to the current.

Tom lifted his hands in a gesture of supplication. "We are all playing the same game, Harry. The winners are those who are most willing to endure the pain, but the punishment never changes."

Harry had a scar on his forehead that he refused to think about. It was the result of his forehead bashed against stone, leaving an injury severe enough for the lightning-shaped scar to survive through to adulthood.

"Yes," Harry said absently. His hand twitched; Tom's eyes caught the motion. Harry's head was hurting so badly and he wanted it to stop. He had thought himself able to kill Tom, but he had been wrong. He was too weak to do so. "We deserve the same punishment."

Harry pulled the gun back. He pulled it back and instead pressed the cold barrel to the bottom of his head, right against the soft flesh of his throat. There was one way to punish Tom that did not require another pointless death. No pointless death—only his own.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Tom snapped. "Stop that this instant."

What would it feel like, being shot? Would it feel like drowning when the blood poured out? Harry recalled the pain in his throat when the river had tried to claim him. Time had dulled the memory—he thought that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to die like this, by the river on Christmas Eve.

"Harry, please put the gun down," Tom said, but Harry could barely hear him. Tom's voice was buried by the noise of the river.

Harry shook his head and stumbled two steps back.

"Harry," Tom said, fiercely now, full of anger. "Harry, do not pull that trigger." The river was still raging, but Harry was sure that it would stop soon.

"Listen to me, Harry. Do not do it. I forbid you—"

Harry's eyes were closed, and he could feel his throat tighten with fear. He could feel his heart beating rapidly, like waves crashing against his rib cage. He could feel the phantom sensation of water rushing against his back, carrying him away.

"Harry!"

Tom's panic was palpable. Harry could picture him: slender hand outstretched, handsome features contorted in horror, eyes bulging and terrified. Soon that pretty face would be disfigured by grief.

"HARRY!"

Harry pulled the trigger, and the gun went off.

His hand went slack. The sound of the gun hitting the ground was deafening, but it was nothing compared to the pain. Unimaginable agony ripped through his head, his face, worse than the feeling of drowning, worse than self-destructive guilt or unending depression. Harry had never known pain could feel this way, so concentrated, his flesh flayed alive, his entire brain consumed by the sensation until he was nothing but a vessel for it, for the pain.

But it was as Tom had said: the winners were those most willing to endure the pain, and Harry was more than willing.

"Harry!" Tom cried. "Harry!" Tom's screams came louder and louder, even as Harry toppled down to the frozen dock. Arms seized Harry's limp form, pulling it upright, clutching it tightly. Harry's body was cold, his skin was clammy. There was only the cold, the cold, the cold. The cold in his veins. The cold in his heart. The cold in his soul.

His eyes were open, his mouth was open. Harry stared up at the sky, his body slackening. He could feel his own blood running down his face. He was dying.

"No, no," Tom said, his voice choked. He pulled Harry's head up, heedless of the blood. "You can't do this." He kissed Harry's forehead, kissed the scar there. "You can't. You can't. You can't." Harry's head was close to Tom's chest, and Tom's fingers were once again tangled in his hair. He could feel the heat of Tom's hand, a distant comfort.

"You can't," Tom repeated in a low moan. But the light was fading from Harry's vision. "No," Tom said again, sobbing. "You can't die. I need you."

Tough luck, Harry wanted to say, but he was unable to speak. So instead he listened to Tom's anguish, Tom's pleading. He listened to the sound of his own breathing going faint.

"Don't leave me, Harry, don't leave me." Tom whimpered, the noise like that of a small, teary-eyed child. "I don't want to turn into him. I don't want to." Tom's fingers were stroking his hair again and again, pushing uselessly at the blood-matted clumps.

Harry was still breathing, but it was like he was breathing through a straw, and it was very painful. But the pain was leaving him. He could tell it was going away, and soon it would be gone for good.

Harry could not feel his hands, or his legs, or even the bitter winter cold. He could feel nothing.

And then there was nothing.

And then there was nothing.

And then—

Harry lay there in the cold, with Tom crying over him, rocking them both back and forth until the sun rose over the horizon, setting the waters of Godric's River aglow.

.

END.

A/N:

i had considered a few different endings to this story, the first of which was an ending where harry succeeds in killing tom (and then himself). another alternative ending was where tom won, knocking harry out, and harry wakes up in an unfamiliar room (the separate apartment that tom purchased and furnished) and tied to the bedframe.

this ending, i think, carries its own power. harry has punished tom in a way he believes is just, and tom suffers for the crime he has hated his father for his whole life. it is not a happy ending, but it is satisfactory to me.

if i don't manage another update to another story before then: happy new year to all of you. it's been a long, long year full of chaos. i've started a second part-time job which will likely eat into my free time, but i will continue to write so long as these stories continue to call to me.

thank you everyone for your patronage and your kind words. it is much appreciated!