A/N: Thanks very much for the very kind reviews! They were a joy to read.
All morning Harry lies in bed, talking to Hermione in his head as he drifts in and out of sleep.
Do not go back, imaginary Hermione insists. It's too dangerous.
He dreams of Tom cupping his face in the pale moonlight, trailing electric kisses down his neck, and then moonlight turns to sunlight and Harry finds he is awake again.
There are ways around it… I could get a mokeskin pouch so he can't get at my wand while we… while we…
Are you even thinking of kissing him again? Have you gone mad? hisses Hermione.
Stay out of my sex life, Hermione, Harry thinks morosely and shuts her out of his head, only for the ghost of Ron's voice to mutter
No offence, but she's right, mate, you're definitely mad. I can't believe you made out with You-Know-Who. You sick, sick bastard.
Harry ignores them both and rolls out of bed.
"Good news, Fleur," Mrs Weasley announces at dinner, "We'll probably be out of your hair by next week."
Harry looks up from his casserole.
"But it eez no trouble at all 'aving you 'ere," says Fleur, although she seems to suddenly be in suspiciously good spirits. "Are zey moving ze Death Eaters to Azkaban zen?"
"They are." Mrs Weasley shudders. "It's horrible to think of that lot in the Burrow, sleeping where my children used to sleep, but Arthur promises to restore everything to the way it used to be before we move in."
"When are they moving the Death Eaters?" Harry asks.
"Oh I don't know, dear, you'll have to ask Arthur, but probably over the next few days."
Harry bites his nails. Bites the skin around his nails till he draws blood and Ginny asks why he's concentrating so hard on a game of exploding snap. He tries not to fidget after that, but then he doesn't know what to do with himself. So he makes up his mind about what's going to happen tonight once everyone's gone to bed.
"Hello, Harry," Tom says pleasantly later that night, watching him from across the room as he shuts the attic door behind him and shucks off his invisibility cloak. "You seem nearly as flustered as you were when you left last night."
Harry remembers to cast silencing spells. "I was worried you'd been transferred to Azkaban already," he says.
"Is that happening soon?" Tom asks.
"It's scheduled to. But I've been thinking… I'm going to help you break out of here."
Tom stares. "When?"
"Tonight," Harry says.
"But I haven't had time to pack my things."
Harry grins despite himself. "Here's what we'll do: I'll unlock the door for you and you can go down first, in my invisibility cloak. I'll follow in a disillusionment charm. Meet me just outside the gates. We'll apparate together."
"Just like that," Tom remarks. "It seems too easy, but I can't see a flaw in the plan."
"Where do you want to apparate to when we're out of here?"
"Heathrow," Tom says, and it's Harry's turn to stare.
"Seriously?"
Tom shrugs. "Portkeys are too traceable and Apparition is risky given the distance. Which unfortunately leaves Muggle modes of transportation."
"Where are you planning to go?" Harry asks curiously.
"I was thinking San Francisco," Tom says, almost shyly. "I've never been - Voldemort never went, that is - but I could have a new start there. No one will have heard of me."
"Makes sense," Harry says, although there's a sinking feeling in his chest he doesn't really want to admit to. Our paths might never cross again. "I guess we should get going then. Are you ready?"
Tom nods and pulls the invisibility cloak over his head while Harry disillusions himself.
"Alohomora."
Nothing could have prepared them for what happens next. And what happens is that all hell breaks loose.
The moment Tom steps through the doorway a horrible siren starts up in the attic, as paralyzingly loud as an army of firetrucks and carrying through the house and probably all the way into the village beyond.
"Run!" Harry calls out, but his voice is lost in the intensity of the siren's wail. He hurries down the stairs, after Tom, he hopes.
There's a welcoming party of four - no, five - armed wizards at the foot of the stairs. Harry spots Kingsley, Arthur, Hagrid and two other aurors he's never met.
"Finite incantatem," says Kingsley, which shuts the siren up and brings Harry into view. Harry's ears ring unpleasantly in the sudden silence.
"HARRY" roars Hagrid in shock. "What are yeh doing here?"
"Questions can come later," Kingsley says sharply, "Where is Riddle, Harry? We know he's left his room."
"He's... he must have escaped already," lies Harry, but Kingsley shakes his head.
"We know for a fact no one has left this house."
"He's in your invisibility cloak, isn't he?" Arthur says suddenly from behind Kingsley, sounding very faint, like reality is too strong for him.
"He is indeed." It's Tom, and he's standing right behind Harry. Before Harry can turn to look arms fold around his chest in a gesture that seems almost protective - until Harry realizes Tom's slipped his wand out his pocket and has it aimed right at his throat.
"Tom what are you doing?," Harry whispers, but Tom ignores him and speaks to Kingsley instead.
"I want you to lower the wards, or Potter dies."
"You can't blackmail us, Riddle," Kingsley says evenly. "You kill him and then what? We let you go freely into the night? Did you think we would play your little games?"
"I was hoping you would," says Tom softly, "Think of all the fun we could have together."
Harry almost doesn't feel it when it happens. There's just a stinging sensation on his neck and a sudden gush of warmth, but he might have missed it in the moment that it happened if not for Hagrid's very loud cry of "NO!" and the ensuing struggle as the rest fight to restrain him.
"Every moment you dawdle Potter's life drains away," says Tom, just as Harry's knees give. He sags into Tom's arms, realizing now what has happened. "Tom," he whispers again, but Tom ignores him. "It's so cold."
Harry can hear Hagrid howling and Arthur speaking. Arthur is saying "I'm going to lower the wards. Just let him go, Riddle. Please," and as he speaks his trembling voice seems to be coming from further and further away. The world around Harry has dimmed and he's cold, so cold, even at the warmest part of him where his back meets Tom's chest. It feels like how it would feel if the sun were dying.
There's a crack and the world gives one last spin.
And then the sun really dies.
Someone is slapping Harry's face. Harry wonders if they're using their hands or a fish. Slap slap slippery slap. He wishes they'd be gentler.
"Harry, wake up," they say. They sound urgent. "You can't fall asleep."
Why won't they just let him be?
"Harry you fucker, don't die on me."
Harry opens his eyes and the swirling colours of the world around him slowly rearrange themselves into the shape of Tom's face. It's a very lovely face, Harry thinks, even if it's the face of someone who tried to murder him not too long ago. A lovely, serious face with dark and serious eyes. Tom is haloed by streetlights, and there's graffiti on the wall behind him that reads "PEACE."
Harry laughs at the accidental irony, but the exertion is so costly that he almost passes out again.
"You tried to kill me," he says weakly when he recovers.
"And I nearly succeeded, too," Tom says grimly.
Harry laughs again, nearly faints again.
"Stop giggling," Tom says, and slaps Harry's face again as his eyelids droop shut. "Stay awake."
"Are we in San Francisco?" Harry asks.
"We're in London, close to... Nevermind. There's a motel around the corner. Can you walk to it with me?"
Harry groans. "It's far..."
"You don't even know where it is. It's just around the corner, come on. Once we're there you can rest and I'll bring you blood."
"Am I a vampire now?"
Tom smiles a little. "Just for tonight. You've lost a lot of blood. Got any muggle money?"
"I have nothing. You stole my wand."
"No matter," Tom says dismissively, "I have your wand, so I have muggle money. Now, for muggle clothes..."
He waves Harry's wand, first over himself, then over Harry, then he helps Harry to his feet.
Streetlights swim nauseatingly in and out of view as Harry staggers to his feet, and he struggles not to retch. He thinks the effort of throwing up might just kill him. They make their way to the motel one excruciating step at a time. Like snails oozing across the universe, Harry thinks, and laughs to himself.
"What did I tell you about giggling?"
The motel receptionist doesn't ask any questions other than the standard ones, just hands them the keys with a perfunctory "Third floor, corridor on your right," which makes Harry wonder what sort of people come here at night. As they wait for the lift he examines his own reflection in the shiny silvery doors. There are no traces of blood and his clothes are nice, but he's so pale, even next to Tom, who is one of the palest people Harry knows. Ghosts aside.
Once they're in the room, Tom helps Harry into bed, tugs his shoes off and pulls the covers over him.
"Are you warm enough, Harry?" he asks, and Harry nods.
"Are you alright sleeping in your clothes?" Harry nods again.
"I'll be back," Tom says, but Harry's already fallen asleep.