Author's Note: I've been dying to do a Tomarry but haven't had any inspiration yet for a one-shot or full length fic.
Prompt: "Why would you be worried about me when I've given you no reason to be?" with pairing of my choice, and I chose Tom Riddle/Harry Potter.
Battle Scars
"I'm worried about you," Tom said slowly, his words harsh despite the tender meaning of the words. Concern was inherently tender- or at least at should have been, when someone other than Tom Riddle was expressing it.
Harry scoffed, indignantly. "Why would you be worried about me when I've given you no reason to be?"
Tom's brows rose, almost comically. "Either you've developed a brilliant and cunning wit since last we spoke, or you are exactly as ignorant as I have long suspected you to be."
The insult- or was it a joke? There was often very little definition between the two where Tom was concerned- did nothing to abate Harry's growing frustration, and he balled his hand into a fist, fingernails digging into soft flesh. He hated the wizard- more than he hardly could stand- yet it was on the bedrock of hatred that they built the structure of their relationship. A symbiotic and poisonous relationship where one needed the other to live and breathe. They used each other- Harry using Tom for his intimate knowledge of Voldemort and of the horcruxes, and Tom using Harry as a vessel into the world, a parasite feeding off of his blood and tissue and bones. And from the necessity, it had only grown into something chaotic and confusing, manifesting into a shameful and sinful secret.
Neither ever discussed what would happen when one achieved their end. It was better that way.
Turning his back from the wizard, he peeled off his shirt, the cloth sticky to the tacky blood from the slash across his chest. A painful wound that pulsed, angry with dark magic from whatever cursed Bellatrix had used in the battle, the skin of his torso purple and black and looking entirely rotten. As if he were decaying from the center of the injury.
He heard Tom hiss from behind him, but ignored it as he fumbled for his wand, trying with clumsy hands that shook with pain and adrenaline to fix it. And then Tom was in front of him, pulling the wand from his grasp and training it on the wound with a steadied and practiced grace, lips pursed as the fingertips of his free hand brushed lightly on Harry's shoulder. A pleasant warmth pooled in his stomach as the wand emitted a golden glow that wrapped around him like bandages, the tearing and searing pain settling into a dull ache.
"You show up maimed, turn your wand on yourself to fix a curse- no doubt only to do further damage given your less than enthusiastic report with healing spells- and then have the gall to ask me why I'm worried? Bloody Gryffindor," Tom muttered, earning himself a proper scowl.
"Self-Righteous Slytherin."