A/N:
once again, thank you to dutch for the beta!
warnings for this final chapter: murder, depression, trauma?, self-destructive behaviour?, insanity?
i'm not sure exactly what else to warn for other than it's not super happy, so please be careful if you are especially sensitive.
Part 3
VII.
Life was different after Tom exited the mirror for the first time.
Aunt Petunia rarely spoke now. Tom had done something to her tongue and throat—Harry wasn't sure exactly what. After a while, it had become too difficult for him to watch the torture Tom inflicted on them. According to Tom, she was not suffering any physical barrier—rather, it was a mental one. She had developed a negative association with speaking, and thus had become unable to do so.
"It serves her right, Harry, for saying such horrible things about you. What is it that adults always tell us?" Tom tapped a finger to his chin in a mockery of pensive thought. "That if one has nothing nice to say, they shouldn't say anything at all? No wonder she has no reason to speak. Every word she utters is garbage."
Dudley had taken to Tom's rule over the house better than either of his parents had. He was deathly afraid of Tom, and this healthy fear had instilled a decent amount of caution into him. Dudley hid whenever possible, whether it was by retreating to another room or hiding behind his parents.
Still, no amount of cowardice could save Dudley from the diet of near starvation that Tom had imposed on the household. Perhaps Tom thought that if Dudley slimmed down enough, he could be stuffed into the cupboard under the stairs.
Nowadays, Tom spent most of his time outside of the mirror, but it wore on him. Harry noticed because Tom had never appeared tired before. In the mirror, Tom was always full of energy, constantly awake and aware. Now, though, Tom could go about for most of the day, using the numerous mirrors around the house as touchstones, but eventually he would crash.
Two or three times, Harry had watched as Tom was yanked into the nearest mirror as though pulled by an invisible force. Thankfully, the Dursleys had not seen anything, but after those incidents, Tom had taken more care to not push himself too far.
When school resumed for the year, neither Dudley nor Harry attended class. Tom had told Uncle Vernon to request they be homeschooled. For Dudley, this was a nightmare. The scope of his life had narrowed drastically over the past few months, and the loss of school was yet another freedom snatched away as punishment for his treatment of Harry.
For Harry, the loss of school did not matter much. He was confident he could pass his exams if he was permitted to study in the safety of his room. He would do even better because he had Tom to help him. Tom was smart and learned things much faster than he did. Tom would have been a prodigy if he'd gone to school rather than simply hitching alongside Harry's subpar education.
What Harry liked best about not having to go to school, though, was that he could now spend all day with Tom. Since Tom had taken control of the household, Harry spent most of his time in his room, away from the Dursleys and away from the parts of the house that only contained bad memories.
At night, Tom would curl up behind him, bracketing Harry's body with his own, the two of them resting together. There was Tom's chin tucked over his head and the steady beat of Tom's heart against his back. Never in his life had Harry felt safer and more loved.
Tom often peppered kisses over Harry's face and wandered attentive hands over Harry's body. Harry drank in every moment, every point of contact between them. The way Tom treated him was worshipful, if such a word could be applied here. Harry never felt particularly beautiful or special, but under Tom's gaze, in Tom's hands, he could try to believe it.
"My Harry," Tom would murmur, eyes hooded with endearment, with desire.
Harry could not live without Tom. Tom was in his head, in his heart and soul. Harry gave everything of himself to Tom, knowing that Tom would treasure it. The miracle of Tom's affection for him was not to be wasted. If Harry had doubts about himself, those doubts would be set aside because Tom wanted them to be.
"I love you," Harry said, frequently and with fervour. "I love you, Tom."
Even though Tom never spoke the words in return, it didn't upset Harry. Tom did love, he just loved with his actions rather than with his words. Tom loved with the gasp of Harry's name on his lips when they lay together in bed. Tom loved with his angelic smile, a smile reserved only for Harry, and with his sweet words of adoration and devotion. Promises that Harry was the only one for him. Promises that they would always be together.
Sometimes, Harry recalled the tale of the three brothers that Tom had once told him as a bedtime story. The second brother had been separated from his love by what Tom had described as a mystical veil. She had grown sad and cold in a world where she did not belong.
But Tom was not sad here—he was happy here. He belonged here with Harry. Tom loved in many ways, in ways that were not typical. But their relationship was not typical anyways, Harry reasoned, so it all would make sense in the end.
Tom twirled the knife in his hand, the smirk of his mouth tilting ominously. Harry was seated at the dinner table, hands clasped in his lap. Across from him sat the Dursleys in all their anxious glory.
"Remember a few years ago when you sent Harry outside to shovel the snow?" Tom asked rhetorically. "Remember how you sent him there, dressed in clothes hardly appropriate for the weather? In fact, it's rather generous to call them clothes to begin with. I'd liken them to rags, but again, that description is more generous than I'm willing to permit."
The first snowfall of the season had arrived last night. Harry could not recall that last time was excited to see snow—any fun he had with it was offset by the negativity of having to work in the snow and put up with Dudley's snow-fueled antics. Harry had gotten snowballs to the face multiple times over the course of his childhood. Tom had neither forgotten nor forgiven any of it.
Now, Harry felt a different kind of dread when he thought about the snow outside. A dread mixed with excitement and guilt.
From where he stood at the head of the table, Tom turned his attention to Uncle Vernon. "As the man of the house, I'd say it would be your duty to clear the driveway. Not the job of the child in your care."
Uncle Vernon's face purpled, but he knew better than to speak a word against Harry while in Tom's presence.
"Why don't you get to it," Tom said lightly, tilting his head towards the door. "The snow won't shovel itself, after all. And I'll keep your wife and son here, where it's warm." Tom smiled beatifically. "Or perhaps I'll set them in the backyard without their coats, depending on how long you dither."
Harry glanced at his aunt and cousin. They were both looking at the table rather than at Uncle Vernon. They were afraid, and rightfully so.
Uncle Vernon was used to solving his problems with his anger, with his fists and the strength of his voice. But Tom did not cower; Tom was unaffected by physical blows and stood unflinching when he was shouted at. Uncle Vernon had tried, but fists and sharp objects failed to make any mark on Tom. Not to mention that any sharp objects in the house contained reflective surfaces for Tom to take advantage of.
At the very start, Tom had been clear that if anything was to happen to Harry, anything at all, he would not hesitate to murder the entire family in cold blood. Harry understood the need for such a threat, even if he disliked it. The only way for the Dursleys to hurt Tom was by hurting him.
Still, the threat of Harry coming to harm existed, so Tom kept Harry away from the Dursleys whenever possible. Harry was only too happy to agree to this. Tom had said that his threat was empty, that it was just a line to ensure the Dursleys' good behaviour, but Harry was certain that if something did happen to him, Tom would not hesitate to put the Dursleys down.
Uncle Vernon rose from his seat and lumbered for the door. He shot a dark glance at Harry before he departed. It was a look loaded with hatred. Harry shifted uncomfortably, then stood as well, drawing Tom's attention.
"Harry?"
"I'm going to get a glass of water."
Tom frowned, stepping over to set a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Hot water, then. I don't want you getting sick."
"Okay."
Tom pecked Harry on the cheek and gave him a nudge. "Go on, then. I'll mind these two." His nose wrinkled slightly with distaste as he gazed at Aunt Petunia and Dudley.
Harry nodded. "Okay." He went into the kitchen and set about boiling water in the kettle. The familiar task helped ground him. By the time the water was done and he was pouring it out into a mug, his breathing had eased. Harry sipped at his hot water and glanced out the window. The backyard was draped in a blanket of pure white snow.
Soon, their seven years would be up. Harry was anxious just thinking about it. What would happen? How long could they go on like this? Tom's treatment of the Dursleys could not last forever; someone would snap—either Tom or the Dursleys. Now that the Dursleys were no longer a threat to him, Harry was supposed to feel safe.
In many ways, he was safe. Tom took care of him and kept him safe. But it wasn't a perfect safety, and it did not explain the awful sense of dread that Harry felt whenever he looked at an empty mirror. He was acclimated to Tom's presence—both in the mirror and out of it—and so it was odd to think that someday he would see Tom more often in person than in reflections.
Tom did not celebrate Christmas or any other holiday, but Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia built the Christmas tree anyways—purely because Tom wanted Harry to have a proper holiday. The holiday that Harry deserved, according to Tom. One filled with warmth and presents.
The fireplace in the living room was on almost every evening. Tom swaddled Harry in blankets and ordered hot drinks to be brought over. Harry sweated and flushed and protested, but he drank hot cocoa with marshmallows and nibbled on the candy canes Tom pressed into his hands. It was nice to be looked after, even if the circumstances around it were not exactly normal or comfortable.
Whenever Tom grew tired of seeing the Dursleys around he would order them to their rooms so that he and Harry could sit in the living room alone. Alone together in the quiet, like it was their house rather than the Dursleys'. Someday, Tom promised repeatedly, they would have their own real house together.
Harry warmed his hands in the direction of the fire. Tom was never hot or cold; his body ran at a constant, average temperature. Heat affected Tom in that he could absorb it, that if he lingered outside for too long he would be cold to the touch, or if he sat by the fire his skin would warm. It was great for cuddling—Harry's body heat would warm Tom, who would store the heat and radiate it back.
This was partly why Harry liked it best when they were alone. When it was only the two of them, Tom liked to have Harry on his lap. His arms would wrap tightly around Harry's waist. He would bury his face against the juncture of Harry's neck and shoulder. It felt so good. Harry was not ashamed to say that he enjoyed it. The caress of Tom's hands sent shivers and tremors down his spine in a funny, pleasant way.
Harry had gone without gentle touches for so long that any touch from Tom was heavenly. Tom only touched him to be kind, to make him happy. Harry cherished all of the nice feelings that came from spending time with Tom. He would never get enough of them.
"Do you remember how long we have left?" Harry asked drowsily. The fire was crackling, merry sparks fluttering through the air. His mug of hot cocoa had been empty for a while, its contents sitting warm in his belly.
Tom stroked a hand down Harry's forearm, fingers trailing downwards in wiggly patterns that made Harry want to squirm. "I'm keeping track. Don't you worry."
Harry shifted backwards, bumping his head against the armrest. He was half laid out across Tom's lap, half propped up by the couch. Tom was watching him with fondness, like he could stare for hours and never grow tired of looking. Harry's face was already flush with heat, or else he thought he might blush from the attention.
"How long, though?" Harry asked again, suppressing a yawn deep in the back of his throat. He did not want to go to bed just yet, and if he yawned, Tom would attempt to move them. Harry was perfectly content with where they were.
Tom's hand shifted to take hold of Harry's. Then his head dipped, his lips touching Harry's forehead once, twice, three times, each kiss in a different spot. Then he kissed the tip of Harry's nose; Harry wrinkled his face up in response.
"Hmm?" Tom said. He moved his lips to Harry's cheek, one then the other.
"Tom—" Harry gave Tom's shoulder a little push. "You're being distracting."
Tom laughed. The sound of it, so simple, filled Harry with an unfathomable amount of joy. "You, Harry, are the distracting one." He nudged at Harry's cheek with his nose and gave Harry's hand a squeeze before releasing it. Then his arm slid around Harry's waist, tugging them closer together. "How am I to focus on anything when I have you in my arms? All I want to do is kiss you and tell you how lovely you are."
"Tom," Harry said, now embarrassed. He didn't like compliments. Even coming from Tom, they made him feel uncomfortable. Tom kissed the corner of his mouth, then nuzzled along his jawline. Harry clung to Tom's arm—he could feel his heart rate increase in response to Tom's ministrations.
Tom breathed out, a soft gust of air that passed down the column of Harry's throat. It was not too warm—just a light breeze brushing by. Then Tom's head tilted further so he could transfer his attention there, to the neck, to the pulse point, to the soft skin covered in faint marks. Even the teeth that nipped and scraped felt nice; a solid reminder of who Harry was with. Who he belonged with.
As Tom continued to lavish attention on him, Harry began squirming. The only thing holding him still was Tom's arm, clamped in place over his waist. "Ah," Harry said, though his mind was quickly losing focus. "I still want you to answer me."
"I don't want you to worry." Tom's voice was careful, measured. Harry could hear the underlying tightness in it. "Harry, darling, let me take care of you."
There was a melancholy to the words that drained the fight out of Harry. He couldn't argue with Tom during a moment like this, not when Tom was so intent on changing the subject. Not when Tom was being so kind. So when Tom kissed him, Harry gave in and let it happen.
Shortly before the winter season had begun, Tom had installed locks on the outside of each door. A safety precaution, he'd said. Every evening, Tom ordered the Dursleys to their rooms and locked them in. It became ritualistic, habitual. Lock on the master bedroom and lock on Dudley's bedroom. Check both locks, then go to bed. Tom would stay with him until he fell asleep, and then Tom would disappear into the mirror to rest.
At least, that was what Harry assumed—sometimes he woke to Tom's body wrapped around his. Almost like normal, almost like there was no mirror at all.
Harry could stroke tentative fingers over the back of Tom's hand, tracing lines and patterns. Tom was awake, watching him, but he didn't seem to mind Harry's fingers wandering abstractly across the surface of his arm.
"Do I feel smooth?" Tom had once asked. "Like glass?"
"Not really," Harry had lied. His imagination was good enough for the both of them. Tom was still warm and real, even if the angular planes of his face often caught the light in odd ways.
Harry could care less what form Tom took so long as he was there. To Harry, Tom was the most important person in the world. He loved Tom more than anything—he would have given his life if it meant that Tom could live outside of the mirror and in the real world.
It was an extreme thought, borderline morbid in its truthfulness, but Harry stuck to it in the privacy of his head. No matter what, he vowed, he would see Tom free of his shining prison, just as Tom had seen him free of the Dursleys.
So Harry loved, loved with all his heart. He gave Tom his heart, his mind, his body; he trusted implicitly and knew he would follow wherever Tom led him. Whatever Tom wanted them to do, wherever Tom wanted them to go. Harry had no ties to this house, to his family. His world revolved around the boy who had once smiled at him from a mirror and mouthed a friendly greeting.
Then one day, Harry woke up alone.
AFTER.
The room was cold. Chill nipped at Harry's toes, which had kicked loose from the pile of blankets that Tom insisted on. Maybe Tom had a point, though Harry would never admit to it. If Harry admitted to being cold, Tom would never let him forget it.
Yawning, Harry stretched his arms and legs, tucking his feet back into the safe space of warm blankets. His arms and legs met with the cold side of the bed. Harry grimaced and curled up automatically, folding his body in on itself. Then he opened his eyes and looked at one of his room's many mirrors.
Tom was not there.
Slowly, then, Harry's body went numb, his heart racing with anxiety. No, he told himself, as he had other times when Tom had gone missing for longer than was comfortable. No, Tom was just somewhere else.
He was being silly. He was worrying too much.
Harry wiggled against his bedsheets, burrowing into them. He pressed his face into the pillow and imagined Tom appearing behind him and pressing kisses on the back of his neck and shoulders. Imagined Tom touching with talented hands to bring him to wakefulness.
But—
Harry gave himself a mental shake. His head would not be quiet. It was not looking likely that he would fall back asleep and wake to Tom surprising him with a morning snog.
With a heavy exhale, Harry grabbed at his blankets and sat up, careful to keep his shoulders wrapped. He was not brave enough to leave the sanctuary of his warm bed. From all around the room, the bright surfaces of mirrors glittered at him, each of them devoid of Tom's presence.
Harry loved the mirrors. To him, each reflective surface was a representation of Tom, another place where he could connect to the one he loved. To him, mirrors would always mean Tom.
There had been a period of time when Harry was embarrassed about the sheer amount of mirrors in here—namely, when Tom kissed him in front of them. Or when Tom ran hands over his body, like Harry was a masterpiece to be revered and put on display. Harry was painfully shy about his own appearance, about the marks and scars from his childhood laid out like warning signs on his skin, brands of mistreatment and disfigurement.
Tom's sense of exhibitionism did not play well with Harry's insecurities. It was difficult enough to share himself with Tom. Tom, who was the only person he trusted. But Harry tried his best. He shut his eyes when the sight grew to be too much. He buried his face against Tom's neck and breathed as loudly as he dared.
Tom held him through all of it, whispered kind things that welled deep emotions in Harry's chest, a swirl of elation and relief all at once. Elation that here was someone who loved him despite the rest; relief that perhaps his flaws were understood at last. Flaws that Harry knew he had, no matter what Tom said, because it had been told to him over and over again.
The Dursleys had been cruel to him, but they had not been wrong. Harry did not fit in at home, but he also did not fit in at school with other children. Truthfully, Harry did not feel like he belonged anywhere other than in Tom's arms.
Harry rubbed at his tired eyes, dislodging the weariness from them. He'd like to get up and wash, but he was anxious about leaving the room without Tom by his side. Logically, he knew that all the Dursleys would still be in their rooms, not making any noise lest they draw Tom's ire upon them. But Harry was worried that something might happen in Tom's absence. He didn't want anything to happen—if it did, then Harry would end up hurt and the Dursleys would end up in trouble.
Stretching his arms out, Harry cracked his joints and blinked a few times, trying to get his brain going. What time was it? Harry twisted his body towards the side table. The clock stated it was half past ten. Later than usual. With the cold winter weather, the skies were darker nowadays, so it wasn't entirely surprising he had slept in.
Harry got up and pulled the curtains open. The skies were grey, as expected, and there was little to no sunlight peeking through. Harry yawned, then looked back around at his room. The mirrors made the room look bigger than it was.
"Tom?" Harry whispered. He felt silly speaking into the silence, but he wanted Tom back.
When no one answered him, he shivered and went to get dressed. Tom wouldn't like it if he got sick because he'd stood around in his pants like an idiot.
One pair of jeans and a cable-knit jumper later, Harry had made his bed and was sitting cross-legged atop of it, staring at the various angles of his reflection.
Restless fingers drummed against his knee. The repetitive action did nothing to soothe his nerves. Harry ran a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to tidy it up. There was no helping the mess, he thought glumly. But it was okay. Tom liked to tangle his fingers there, to wrap the longer curls around his fingers and comment on how soft they were. Tom liked to yank gently and watch Harry's neck arch.
Harry wrapped a strand around his index finger. It felt okay. It was not particularly soft or nice. Then Harry dragged his fingertips down his neck, over the marks and bites Tom had left behind. Proof, Harry thought happily. Proof that Tom loved him.
His hand trailed lower, over the thick fabric of his jumper, over his chest. He was skinny underneath, ribs somewhat prominent. But it was getting better. Harry got to eat full meals all the time, whenever he wanted. Tom hand fed him fruits and got Aunt Petunia to make treacle tart, which was Harry's favourite.
Harry liked to take his meals here in his room, away from the rest of his family. Tom didn't prefer it; he liked for Harry to sit with him at the front of the table while the Dursleys watched. The Dursleys were not allowed to eat until Harry was done. It was just that Harry didn't like to do things with an audience. It was a similar discomfort to Tom kissing him in front of their reflections.
Harry liked to... he preferred to not exist unless it was for Tom. It was easier to be okay with himself when there was no one else around, when there were no mirrors for him to catch a glimpse of his own face in. When Tom held him, touched him, kissed him—then the world was perfect.
Sometimes, Harry thought that maybe he ought to have been the one placed into a mirror. It would be better for the both of them if that was the case. If Tom was the one allowed to roam free and do what he wanted while Harry followed him around, content to be the shadow in Tom's wake.
Harry blinked. He was feeling sleepy. Sitting around doing nothing was not helping him. Furtively, he glanced about again. Still no Tom. That was okay. He only had to wait; Tom would come back.
By noon, Harry was firmly set into his delusion. Nothing was wrong. Tom would come back. Tom had promised he would. Tom had promised to never leave him.
Wait for me, Tom would say. Then he would offer a tender smile, or his hand would curl neatly against Harry's cheek, cupping it firmly. Or he would give Harry a kiss farewell, a tiny moment of happiness for Harry to hold close to his heart until Tom returned to him.
Harry would always wait.
Some hours later, Harry's stomach growled in protest, the twinge of it uncomfortable. With reluctance, Harry forced himself to leave his room to get something to eat. Tom would be mad if he didn't take care of himself.
On his way to the stairs, Harry stared at the doors of the Dursleys' rooms. Dudley's room and the room that his aunt and uncle shared. Both doors locked shut, both rooms silent.
Last night had been uneventful. A few hours after dinner, Tom had told Harry to go upstairs and warm the bed for them both while he went about securing the house for the night. Harry had done so, and then shortly after, Tom had come to join him.
The stairs creaked softly under Harry's feet as he crept down them. Harry's hand clung to the railing as he took care to not misstep. When he reached the bottom, he noted that the ground floor of the house was eerily empty.
At this hour, it was common for Uncle Vernon to have returned from work—though it was the holiday season now, which meant that it was normal for the man to take two weeks or so off to spend with his family. Aunt Petunia would be in the kitchen preparing dinner, and Dudley would be doing chores in the house, either whatever needed doing or whatever Tom found the most amusing at the time.
Harry's gaze caught on the entrance hall mirror. The new one that Uncle Vernon had installed seven years ago. Seven years ago, Harry thought, and didn't that send a chill down his spine? Like ice water trickling into his bones, like the sharp jolt of fear he used to get when his aunt or uncle raised their voices at him.
No one raised their voice at him anymore. The only loud noises in the house were inflicted by Tom. Harry still jumped at loud noises, but Tom was there to soothe him.
The kitchen was cold and drafty. Harry turned on the lights and made himself a sandwich. A quick and easy meal to hold him over until Tom came back.
Harry picked up one of the house's many mirrors and propped it up in front of him while he ate. Every so often, he would look at his reflection, hoping—
Harry didn't like his reflection on its own. He wished Tom was there with him.
When his meal was done, Harry got up and washed his plate. He tidied and dried everything, then placed it all back where it belonged. The motions were familiar, though he hadn't done them in a while; still, his calloused hands remembered the scrubbing and soaping of dish after dish in the sink.
Once the kitchen was spotless once more, Harry went back upstairs and locked his bedroom door. He lay on top of his bed, on top of the blankets and the sheets, and stared at the ceiling.
Tom would be back soon.
Tom would be back soon.
Tom would—
Some time later, Harry got up again. He got up and walked over to the master bedroom. He used the key that Tom kept in their room to click the lock open. He pushed open the door.
Inside the bedroom were two bodies on the bed. Harry watched them from a distance, watched the lack of movement and absent rise and fall of their chests. Their faces were pale. If Harry touched them, they would be cool to the touch.
Harry tried to feel something, anything. He did not feel sad. He felt neither horror nor fear at the sight of his dead relatives. If he went to the other bedroom, he was certain that Dudley would be as motionless, as devoid of life as his parents. Harry was also certain that Tom had done this somehow, the night before he'd—
The night before they'd gone to bed and Harry had woken up on his own.
Harry left the master bedroom and relocked the door. He went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. Then he went downstairs and made himself some more food to eat. Dishes in the sink, dishes on the drying rack, dishes back in their proper place. Harry looked through the window at the snow-covered backyard and wondered how cold it was outside.
Harry went back up to his room and went to sleep.
There was no note, no instructions left behind for Harry to read. It wasn't like Tom to be gone this long without saying anything. Harry fiddled with the hem of his shirt and gnawed anxiously on his lower lip.
He looked at the mirrors.
He looked at himself, at the darkness lurking under his eyes and the scruffy mess of his hair.
Tom loves me, he thought. That was enough to keep him going. That thought could power him through anything; it had seen him through even the worst abuse from the Dursleys.
When Tom came back, he would make fun of Harry for being so worried. Tom would hold his hand and make his anxieties seem smaller and less important. Harry clung to this. He knew he was reliant on Tom for everything—for happiness, for emotional support—but who else was there? Who else could make him happy, could make him feel whole and worthy?
Without Tom, he was nobody. He was a poor orphan who would never amount to anything. He was a freak who was hated by his family.
Tom made him special. Tom loved him.
Harry stayed in his room and waited for his love to return to him.
The mirrors were mocking him. Harry was skittish, startled by his own movements in their reflection. He was bone-weary and felt drained all the time; without Tom to ground him, to hold him, sleep evaded Harry constantly. He woke from nightmares more often than not—horrible nightmares where Tom was hurt and bleeding while Harry stood there, frozen and unable to help.
Harry missed Tom so badly. Though he had never been religious, he prayed to every deity he knew for Tom to come back soon.
Some mornings he woke with a gasp of Tom's name into the cool winter air. Sweat drenching his hairline and plastering his body to the sheets. An unease that never left him, and likely would not leave him until Tom—
Until Tom—
The thought remained unfinished. Harry couldn't take it anymore. He had to do something. Anything other than stare at his own image, everywhere, without Tom by its side.
Or, worse yet, when he did see Tom in the edges of his peripheral vision, haunting him like a ghost. Tom was everywhere and nowhere, a memory that stole the breath from Harry's lungs. There were apparitions of Tom's presence in every room, in every reflective surface.
Harry was half-convinced every time, sure that Tom had returned to him. Sure that this time, Tom's smile would not be an illusion that shattered when he whirled round.
Tom would come back, if only to lecture Harry for failing to eat and drink properly. Tom would come back to yell at him. Harry knew this to be true; the fact of Tom's care had been a solid pillar of his life since the age of eleven. If Harry let himself fall to ruins, then Tom would come back to pick up the pieces.
Harry moved through the house like a ghost. His steps were restless, his breathing pitched. Harry wandered through the kitchen, then to the dining room, then to the bathroom. It was there that he stopped to take in his own appearance.
His hair was wilder than normal—tangled locks in disarray all over in uneven clumps. Harry raised a tentative hand halfway up and placed it against the mirror's glossy surface.
"Tom?" he asked, pleaded, begged.
The mirror did not offer back that which had been taken from him. Harry pressed his hand harder against the surface, leant his weight against it. If he smacked the glass hard enough, it would perhaps shatter.
"Tom?" Harry repeated, his voice hoarse and damaged to his own ears. "Tom, please, come back. I'm sorry."
Harry braced his other hand against that of his reflection. He forced eye contact, stared into endless green eyes and wondered if this suffering was because he was not enough. If he was being punished, somehow, for being the way he was. For being abnormal. For failing to give Tom the freedom he deserved.
Harry held his position for what felt like an age, mumbling apologies under his breath. Who he was apologizing to was unclear, but he did so anyways, hoping that his bling repentance would be enough. Then when his strength finally gave up, he sank to his knees, exhausted and limbs aching, and then lay upon the floor.
Tom would come back to him. Tom had promised. Wherever Tom was, he would be fighting to return.
But how long would it take? And what if such a thing was impossible?
It was too painful to think of. Harry lay still, shivered through the hollowness and the aching until there were no more tears to cry, until he could hardly move from the floor, let alone sob. There was agony in his chest and in his heart. There was the gaping hole that Tom had left behind.
The cold tile felt soothing against his flushed, angry red skin. Harry closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the numbness that the sensation provided, but guilt remained at the forefront of his mind. Tom would be disappointed in him for acting this way. Tom would want him to take care of himself.
Only Tom wasn't here, so what reason was there to look after himself? Maybe Harry could lie here on the ground forever. No one would miss him—Tom was the one who loved him and Tom was not here. Harry's relatives were dead and Tom was not here.
"What do I do?" Harry mumbled to the tile, feverish and drenched in sweat. "What do I do, Tom." He repeated this over and over, perhaps hoping that an answer would come to him, but no absolution arrived. He was alone.
Harry fell asleep sprawled on the floor. He woke to a dry mouth and sore throat. His lips were chapped and on the verge of cracking. Licking at them did not help; what he needed was water. Water to soothe the dryness, to heal the ache. Tom was not here to bring him a mug of water, so Harry had to do it himself.
With difficulty, Harry stood and turned on the tap. His vision swam, spinning with blurry shapes and colours. His glasses were crooked on his face, he realized. With one hand clutching the counter, Harry cupped his free hand under the tap and drank some water from it. The water tasted funny, but he made himself swallow. His throat eased up; he filled his hand again and drank from it slowly, sipping a bit at a time to avoid triggering nausea.
Then Harry took a spare second to focus on his breathing. In and out, in and out—enough to partly clear his stuffy head. Once he was certain he wasn't about to fall over, he straightened his glasses and refocused on the bathroom mirror.
There were lines on his face from having slept on the tile. Harry rubbed at them half-heartedly. The sense of anguish from before remained a heavy cloud in his head and on his shoulders. There was the truth of things that he had finally been forced to acknowledge.
Tom was gone.
Harry wanted to rage, to scream out at the injustice of it. The one good person in his life had been taken from him. In the past, Harry might have believed that Tom would eventually leave him for someone better, but patience and affection had taken care of that fear. Certainty was all that remained. Tom would not have chosen to abandon their lives here. Tom loved him.
So the only question left was what Harry would do now that he was all alone. He could not stay in the house forever—he was not of age. Once the police came to see… to see whatever it was that Tom had done, Harry would be sent away from here.
Despite the bad memories that clung to every crevice of this house, it was all he had known, and on top of that, his best memories had taken place here. Each moment spent with Tom was burrowed deep into these walls, built into the mirrors that sat around the house.
Harry did not want to leave the house. Maybe Tom was still in these mirrors, watching over him. A silent guardian angel. His special guardian angel.
Harry thought about that, tried to imagine it. Tom with wings, Tom dressed in white. But no, that didn't fit Tom. Tom would forever be dressed in the same clothes, forever half-smiling with fondness whenever Harry came into view. Tom laying his hand against the glass in a gesture of affection.
Most of their time together had been while Tom lived in the mirror, but all of it had taken place here at Privet Drive. Actually, Harry thought, maybe Tom was still in the mirror world. Maybe Tom had never left, and his current absence was merely the conclusion of their seven years together.
Seven years of bad luck; seven years of Tom.
Excitement filled him. Harry felt giddy for the first time in days. Yes, Tom was with him. It was just that Harry could not see or hear him. The more Harry thought about it, the more certain he was. Tom would never, ever leave him. Tom had to be here in the house.
"Tom," Harry said aloud. "Tom, I know you're there. I'm going to find my way back to you, I promise. Wait for me."
He would promise as Tom had. He would keep his promise.
Possessed by this notion, Harry went to the downstairs living room. Mirrors lay all around, propped against the furniture and nailed to the walls. Reminders of Tom.
If Harry broke them, then Tom might come back to him. If he broke another mirror, and another, and another, Tom would be his for seven more years. That was how the world worked. That was how the world was supposed to work.
But what if it was not?
What if Harry shattered every mirror in this house and was still left with nothing? With his own failures.
Unbearable. Time was wasting away. Tom was relying on him, and here he was, dithering. Being weak. Harry wheezed a shaky breath and balled his hands up. Ice water was running through his veins, stopping up his motions, freezing him from the inside out. His body trembled all over; it took a monumental amount of effort for him to step forward, to carry out the task of trust he had pressed upon his own shoulders.
If not for himself, then for Tom. Anything for Tom.
One by one the mirrors cracked and fractured under Harry's fists. Harry smashed mirrors on the ground, broke them against the walls and the furniture. He let loose the screams that had been held captive in his lungs ever since he'd woken to find himself alone. A flurry of action and motion and madness; a release of the emotions he'd repressed in Tom's absence.
When it was done, Harry stood there panting, his lungs protesting the sudden exercise after days of lethargy. His eyes were watery, but his gaze swept the ground, searching, hopeful that he would catch a glimpse of Tom in their depths. The curl of Tom's smile, a glimmer of red eyes.
Harry sunk to his knees, knowing that Tom had to be somewhere—
Where was Tom? Why wasn't he here yet?
Harry's hands hovered over the shards of glass, hesitating. In the back of his mind, Tom's voice was lecturing him on safety, on not injuring his hands on the glass. The internal struggle raged on between Harry's stubbornness and the imagined version of Tom in his head.
You're not here, Harry thought savagely. You're not here.
Provoked, he pushed the smaller fragments aside with the side of his left hand so he could view the larger ones underneath. Carefully at first, then with more desperation, uncaring if he hurt himself in the process.
So many glittering pieces that reflected the aching, empty space around him. Was that a lock of Tom's hair, or was it his own? The white collar of Tom's shirt, or the pristine table cloth that Aunt Petunia laid out upon the coffee table? Harry's heart leapt to his throat each time, the wild rage of hope living on in his chest.
His imagination at play. A stupid, idiotic longing for a boy who no longer existed.
For a fleeting, miserable second, Harry pondered the fact of Tom's existence. Perhaps Tom had been a figment, a dream all along. But that was silly. It was silly. Tom loved him. Tom was real. They had been together for seven years and every hour of it had been exquisitely, torturously real. Harry had a chance to bring Tom back if only he was clever enough, determined enough, worthy enough.
Harry would break more mirrors if that was what it took. Mirrors in the kitchen, in the dining room, in the bedrooms, out in the hall.
Out in the hall.
Harry scrambled to his feet and ran to the entrance way; he knocked into the wall on his way out and had to grip the door frame for balance. That was when he noticed the red line on his palm. He must have cut himself by mistake after all.
The cut did not hurt, did not throb or sting with pain. Numbly, Harry eyed the injury as he twisted his wrist this way and that. It was as he'd thought. It was as Tom had said. He had not been careful and he had injured himself. Only, this time Tom was not here to soothe the pain.
With deliberate thought behind the action, Harry strode towards the mirror that hung by the door. The other mirrors that Harry had broken in his grief and anger were not this mirror. The mirror that had started it all. When Tom appeared, it would be in this mirror here, not in any of the other ones.
Harry went to stand in front of it—he pried the mirror and its frame off of the wall and looked lovingly down at the shining surface, at his own reflection. This mirror looked so much like its predecessor. Gently, Harry touched his fingertips to the image of his own face. He could picture Tom on the other side, mimicking the action. This idea brought comfort. The two of them with their hands touching, separated by whatever supernatural veil saw fit to keep them apart.
"I love you," Harry said quietly, hoping that Tom could hear him. Tom would be coming back to him soon. Tom was there, somewhere. Waiting for him, relying on him.
Harry would keep this mirror with him until Tom came back. He would take care of them both. Tom had spoken of taking the Dursley's money and leaving Surrey. Harry could still do that now. What he needed was time—only, how to get it?
Uncle Vernon would be expected to go back to work soon. Harry could call in, maybe. Could report that there had been some terrible accident. If he played his part well enough, they would believe him and not ask too many questions. Dudley was not expected anywhere, and neither was Aunt Petunia. The only relative that ever visited was Aunt Marge, and she was not the type to drop by unannounced.
So Harry would call in for his uncle. That would grant them a few weeks of reprieve, time for Harry to gather resources and figure out what to do, where to go. To make the decisions that Tom would have made for them if he were here.
Now that Harry had made strides towards an actual plan, he felt better. His head was pounding less and his heart was beginning to settle in his chest.
With the mirror in his hands, Harry walked down the hall and towards the kitchen. If he was going to do things, he needed his strength, and for that he needed to eat. He needed to look after himself so he could help Tom.
Even out in the hall, the floor was tiled and covered in sprinkles of glass bits. Harry's violent rampage had resulted in pieces flung everywhere. If not for his glasses, he might have damaged his eyes; thankfully, the lenses had protected him from any fallout.
The litter of glass that might slice up the soles of his feet. However, because the house was cold, Harry was wearing socks. Even with that barrier, it was dangerous—the socks were thick and woolen, but they were not infallible. But surprisingly, it was not the stabbing pain of glass impaling his foot that triggered disaster.
Dressed in thick socks, dizzy and delirious from lack of food and water, Harry had no balance to speak of. Therefore, as his foot made contact with the glass-covered ground, it slid. It slid clean across, yanking his center of gravity out from under him.
The mirror in his hands was held tight, clutched with desperate fingers, but it was not enough to overpower years of instinct—Harry flung his hands out to catch his fall.
The angle was bad. Combined with his uncoordinated limbs, it caused him to accidentally slam his elbow into the wall. His other arm flailed awkwardly as a yelp of pain escaped him. Harry landed on the floor with a solid thunk sound, though his head thankfully missed hitting the ground.
Harry's head was spinning again. Everything looked darker than normal, like shadows had been cast over the entire hall. His legs were splayed out in an ungainly manner—on top of them lay the heavy deadweight of the mirror.
Dread crawled over him, dug its claws into his skin like sharp knives. Harry sat up and pried the mirror off his legs, his breath held, and noted that the surface of the glass was cracked right down the middle. It was not the same level of damage as last time—shattered and splintered pieces—but it was damage nonetheless.
Harry lifted the mirror higher, up to his eye level. In the distortion of the ruined surface, he looked deranged, depairing. His gaze was unfocused, devoid of any expression whatsoever.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to go back to bed. To his nice warm bed, where he could imagine Tom's arms around him, Tom's voice a lullaby in his ears, Tom's body pressed against his and keeping him safe.
The Harry in the mirror shifted from one side to another. Swaying and swaying. He was crying now. There were tears streaming down his face, hiccups and heaving sobs bursting from his throat in strangled, half-audible gasps. Harry dragged the mirror up and cradled it with both hands, ignoring the stinging pain of sharp glass that nipped at the skin of his palms.
All he could think was that he had failed. This truth consumed, it tore him open at the seams, exposing every bit of worthlessness that the Dursleys always claimed lay inside of him.
Harry had broken the mirror, the one connection to Tom he had left. He had failed. Hysteria filled his lungs, made him wheeze until he was choking on it, unable to inhale or exhale. At this, he thought faintly that he might pass out. If he was unconscious at least he would be put out of his misery, however temporarily.
His head spun faster. His chest ached for oxygen. His body cried out for arms to hold it, for a gentle hand to pet his hair and a soft voice to reassure him.
Soon enough, no more tears escaped—each passing second was instead filled with his failed attempts to draw breath. Tremors wracked his shoulders, shudders of anguish and exhaustion that drained him.
He had failed.
He would not see Tom again—
Harry made a pathetic sound and clung to the mirror, felt the broken frame cut into his flesh as he held it to his chest. The pain was not so bad. It grounded him. He deserved it, anyways. There was no apology that could forgive this. He should have taken better care of himself. Then he would not have fallen. Or else he should have been less of a klutzy idiot.
If their positions had been reversed, no doubt Tom would have already found a way to save him. Tom had been stuck with Harry, a useless nobody who needed to be looked after all the time.
I'm sorry, Harry thought, unable to hold the words back. I'm sorry, Tom.
It was easier, then, to let go. To let his mind go blank and slide into unconsciousness. To be free from the suffering of his reality, the reality without Tom in it.
Harry let the darkness wash over him like a tidal wave and hoped he would never wake up.
I.
In the mirror that lay against Harry's chest, a boy with dark hair and red eyes beat his silent fists against the surface of the mirror. His lips mouthed soundless screams—the same words over and over, one name spoken more vehemently than the rest:
Harry! Harry, are you there? Can you hear me? Harry? HARRY?
Around the boy was nothing, only the endless void of near-black shadows that were reflected by the mirror.
When Harry woke (if Harry woke, though the boy did not dare think such a thing) then the light would return. The mirror would be lifted and the light would come back, would pour into the mirror world where Tom Riddle existed purely for Harry.
Only for Harry.
So when Harry woke—it would happen, the boy vowed—they would be reunited. They would be together again, even if they could no longer touch and hear each other. He would not waste away here in this prison, cold and unfeeling. Not after Harry had shown him what it meant to love, to have someone to cherish and protect.
Harry would not last without him. Harry needed him.
Wait for me, the boy shouted, desperate for the words to reach his beloved. Wait for me, Harry.
Slowly, slowly, the outside world moved onward. Light and shadows crept across the floor, not quite reaching the sleeping boy laid out in a heap over splintered glass, his chest rising and falling underneath the weight of a shattered, ceramic-framed mirror.
When he woke, he would meet red eyes in place of his own reflection.
When he woke, the cycle would begin anew.
.
END
A/N:
and that's the end! in case it is not clear, the cycle is now going to repeat; tom and harry will have another seven years to figure out how to free tom from the mirror.
thank you all for reading, i hope the ending was enjoyable and not too depressing djklgklgjdf
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