A/N: Ask, and you shall receive. The chapter is really short, but I think it gets the job done. Tell me what you think! And thanks for all the reviews/faves/alerts! They really make my day, ya know? Be sure to drop a line, guys!

:)

Chapter Twenty-Four: An Ending and a Beginning

"Do I know you, in the future?" Tom asked, a lazy hand caressing her neck. His thumb and forefinger chased each other over the thrumming pulse just under her gaunt jaw.

Morgan relished the warmth of his skin and rubbed her lips together, trying to work thoughts into words with the stale breath in her lungs. "Kind of," she croaked.

"Kind of," Tom repeated, thinking on the words while smoothing his touch across her forehead. "Can I ask what you mean by that?"

"You can ask…doesn't mean I'll tell you." The familiar, saucy grin fought against the pale sickness of her features.

"Must you always keep me guessing? Stuck in the ever annoying throes of ignorance?"

"But you make ignorance look so…"

"Intimidating?"

"Charming, actually."

Tom laughed and Morgan smiled more easily. "I've only met you once," she began, "and I tried to kill you."

"Déjà-vu for me, huh?"

"Actually, I don't think you recognized me."

"Impossible," Tom declared blandly, "as if I could ever forget the bane of my existence."

Morgan declined to tell him the so-called bane of his existence would become a newborn baby. That was still years and years away.

"What did I say to you?"

Morgan had to ponder that question for a few minutes, recalling her one encounter with Lord Voldemort. "I think you said I reminded you of someone."

Tom smiled at the ceiling of their room. "So I did recognize you."

"Maybe," Morgan hedged, reluctant to say more. Her companion seemed to notice the hesitant way she held her arms, for he changed the subject.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Okay."

It was their useless, ridiculous routine. Every day, every morning, he would inquire about her health, ignoring the obvious signs of deterioration. She always responded in the positive, even though she could taste death on her tongue, feel it rushing through her veins. They were so good at lying, why stop?

Tom twisted on his side, so that he hovered over her prone form. His chest was bare and pale, and only on display because she had once mentioned the feel of his skin almost made her feel alive. When he leaned down to kiss her, it was with a soft gentleness that spoke wonders for her condition. If the future Dark Lord was controlling himself for fear of hurting her, then she really was entering the last leg of her journey.

"You taste cold," he murmured through their kiss, "almost…"

"Like death? Way to compliment a girl Riddle. You really are a charmer."

He frowned at her and sat up, reaching for a cooling cup of purple-brown liquid that had the thick consistency of a milkshake. With his free arm, Tom shifted Morgan so that she rested against the headboard of the bed. Since losing function of everything below the waist, she had been absolutely helpless.

"Drink up," Tom said, cupping her chin.

Morgan dutifully downed the concoction like a shot of bad liquor, even though it did very little. The potion dulled the pain and left her numb, sometimes making it hard to even talk, but nothing else.

"I'll brew some more, and maybe something to fix your spine again. Then, you can soak in the bath. If you ask nicely, I might even wash your hair for you." He smirked, knowing exactly how much she appreciated the feel of fingers curling against her scalp. Manipulative as always, Riddle had merged promises of pain with a slight reprieve of pleasure.

"Don't bother," Morgan said.

He rolled his eyes and slid off the bed. "Okay, no bath. But you don't smell that great. You'd be doing me a favor."

"I'm not talking about the bath, Tom."

He stilled in the process of slipping on his shirt, neglecting magic because working with his hands was gratefully distracting. "Oh? But whatever else could you mean?"

His voice had gone deceptively soft and gentle, like it always did whenever they had this conversation.

"Tom…please…I'm begging you."

It was the first time she had stooped so low.

His fingers faltered on the last button and when he turned to face her, his gaze stayed trained to the floor. "Ask me anything but that."

"If you've ever, for a second, loved me—"

"Love? You silly little witch, whoever said I loved you." His mocking words coursed through her like ice. "How presumptuous."

Morgan gritted her teeth, jaw locking tight. She turned away from him and refused to meet his eyes.

The bed dipped under Tom's weight. He straddled her waist and leaned forward until their noses touched. "I'll brew the potion. In a few hours, you'll be up and walking like this never happened."

"No." Morgan weakly slapped at the chest suppressing her sore body, frustrated and angry. "I won't drink it, Tom. I can't!"

The grip he anchored around either side of her head went taut. "Do you think you can say no to me, silly little witch?" gentle whispers of breath warmed her lips and his eyes were impossibly dark. "You'll drink the potion, even if I have to immobilize you and force it down your throat." His mouth closed the distance between them, claiming hers in a deep kiss that she tried to twist away from. When that failed, she bit his tongue, watching his fast retreat with no small amount of satisfaction.

"You should have told me you liked biting," he grinned and grabbed one of her limp hands, pressing his lips to her palm. She watched him shrewdly, waiting for…something, when she felt the scrape of teeth along skin.

Tom never increased the pressure of the bite, instead choosing to nip at her hand in a shiver-inducing way that left Morgan squirming. He teased the skin all the way up her wrist, to the crease of her elbow, where he stopped and studied her. "You'll drink it," he said again.

Morgan found, frustratingly enough, that she was fighting back tears. "I can't Tom. Stop asking me to do this—to drink your stupid potion and feel better, only to be paralyzed once more! I hate it, it hurts more than you could ever imagine, and I won't do it."

"No," he spat, and tumbled away from her.

"Now I know you don't love me," Morgan said to his back "if you did, you'd let me go. That's what I need, that's what I want—just let me die. Now. It's over."

Tom threw her a disarming smirk from over his shoulder, though the humor didn't even come close to reaching his eyes. "You're right; I'm too selfish for anything as ridiculous as love. I'll keep you here as long as want, no matter how much it hurts."

Morgan sighed when he left their room and slammed the door shut behind him. She touched the dampness on her cheeks with her fingertips. "No fair," she mumbled, "If my stupid spinal cord was working, I would have totally stormed out of the room first. Woulda done it with a lot more flair, too."

For the third time in his life, Tom Riddle was in a Muggle pub. Disgustingly dirty and worn down, the establishment couldn't boast the most upstart of citizens. Rather, its tables were occupied by the dregs of society, throwaways of the Muggle world, second-rate citizens in an already subservient society.

It was as far away from magic as one could get, and for once, Tom craved separation from that world. Every charmed photo, awry spell, or pair of robes only reminded him of what magic was doing to the girl in his room, of the fact that magic was the reason they had met in the first place.

He hated it so much that he was overcome with desire to submerge himself in a world where magic was a long lost fairytale.

"Girl troubles?" a soprano voice asked, tone mockingly understanding.

Tom turned his head to study the wiry man taking a seat next to him. A cap hid the man's hair, and his shirt was plain and dirty, but the military issued pants and boots gave away his occupation. One arm was coddled in a worn-down sling.

"Shouldn't you be on the frontlines?"

"Shouldn't you be in a more kid-friendly place?" the man returned in his high voice before laughing.

"I suppose that depends on what you tell the bartender," Tom remarked, not at all worried because he had already charmed the owner with a fairly simple spell.

"I'll keep your secret if you keep mine," the man gave him a foxy grin that warned of the soldier's mischievous nature. He waved the tender down before Tom could respond, and said in a voice deeper and scratchier than usual, "One beer, please."

The portly man with whiskers decorating his chin and cheeks reached below the bar and grabbed a brown, dirtied, bottle. He popped it open with a glare, sliding it over the wood and holding a hand out expectantly.

The soldier smiled, though it was a lot more understated this time. In fact, his whole demeanor had changed. Before where he had been spritely and quirky, he was now serious and tormented, the features of his face devoted to selling the façade. "Thanks," he grouched, and awkwardly tried to reach for his pocket with the arm not in a sling.

The bartender raised a thick brow, leaning over the bar to watch. He caught sight of the military clothes and injured arm.

The soldier noticed the study and scowled. "Just got kicked off the lines for this. Spot of shrapnel damn near ripped my arm off." He pushed a handful of money towards the tender who suddenly shook his head.

"On the house soldier."

The soldier said, "Now there's the goddamn gratitude I've been killing Germans for," and accepted the establishment's generosity by raising his free bottle in recognition of the tender's kindness.

Tom watched this with mild interest.

Once the bartender had moved to attend to other customer's, the soldier returned his attention to Tom. "You should see the response I get in the more up and coming pubs—people go absolutely nuts for the sling. I could swim in all the free alcohol!"

Suddenly understanding the man's earlier words, Tom almost smirked. "You're posing as an injured infantryman for free liquor?"

"Not exactly. I'm a part of a medical unit stationed behind the lines. I'm still a part of the war effort, so I'm not a total bastard."

Tom thought the Muggle, had he not been worthless trash, would have done well in Slytherin. There still wasn't something quite right, though, and he nursed his own glass of whiskey while pondering what bothered him about the fake soldier. When he studied the hand the man had curved around the beer, he found it to be smooth and slim.

Thin body, high voice, smooth hands…Tom laughed at the oddness of the situation. He had wanted to forget Morgan and what he found was a seedy bar and a female nurse dressed as a man. He revaluated his opinion of the girl and found her to be more dangerously foxy than he originally imagined.

The girl noticed his appraisal and smirked. "Smart boy." She stuck out a hand and didn't appear the least bit offended when Tom made no move to shake it.

"My friends call me Scab."

"And everyone else?"

"Never get to know I'm there." She looked positively devilish in the dim lighting. "Just the way I like it."

Tom studied the girl. Where Morgan's features were tiny and pixie-like, hers were common and adaptable, changing from boyish to feminine depending on the way she held herself. Now, with her guard slightly lowered, they looked girlish and aristocratic. A thin, straight nose and finely sculpted cheeks gave her an air of importance; large, doe-like eyes, fleshy lips, and curving eyebrows hinted at a charming and flirty disposition.

"So tell me about your girl problems."

Tom debated whether or not to ignore the comment, eventually deciding it could do no harm to get a little advice. He was certainly at a loss. Morgan infuriated him with her casual talk of death and the way she wished for it so desperately. Death was…terrifying. He was dedicated to cheating it, no matter the cost or consequence, and then there was Morgan, ready to face it fearlessly. This, coupled with the deception and general annoyance of their relationship, should lead to him hating her. Instead, he couldn't let her go. What was he supposed to do?

"She wants to leave me, for good."

Scab snorted, "So? I don't see the problem. Leave her first."

"That's atrocious relationship advice."

"You want advice," the medic leaned towards him, her eyes—a sparkling hazel color that shifted from an edgy brown to mixed green—narrowed. "Here's advice. In a relationship, it's the one that cares the least that holds the most power. If her rejection hurts you, reject her first. It happens to be rather simple." She straightened abruptly, knocking back the rest of her beer before slipping to her feet in a graceful movement. "Come with me. Looks like you could use some female company."

"Are you offering?" he asked incredulously, stuck between disgust and disbelief.

Scab's direct stare was unnerving. "I'm debating whether or not I want to slap you. Considering that you appear to be extremely troubled, I'll let the comment pass." She stood at an impressive height, and motioned for Tom to do the same. "One night, half price, cleanest girls in London."

Tom sneered in disgust, appalled now, more than ever, at the uncivilized nature of Muggles. "How quaint," he mocked, "a woman selling the bodies of others."

Scab easily maneuvered her injured arm to the side—a sharp contrast to her earlier and awkward movements—so that she could reach in her pocket and retract a slightly curved cigarette. She slanted a look at Tom that analyzed and dismissed him in the same moment. "Whatever pays the bills, eh?" she mumbled around the tobacco, lighting it up a second later.

She pivoted on her heel and said, casually, over her shoulder, that the offer would stand for the rest of the night. If he looked hard enough, he'd find her.

The emptiness the irritating women left made Tom feel cold and unnatural. He didn't recognize the darkness of the bar, the normalcy of its occupants. He couldn't understand these lesser people—couldn't understand how a woman could pose as a man, smoke a cigarette, run a whore house. This world didn't make sense to him, and it scared him. Almost as much as the kids with bloodied elbows and knees, who pushed and shoved him into a closet because he liked to read, who kept him locked there for five hours, crying and feeling so terribly alone.

He hated them.

Tom wasn't looking, but he found her. On the outskirts of the seedier part of town, right near the edge of stability and promise, she hugged the shadows of a building like a disease. She had discarded her sling, and against the stark white bandage, traveling all the way up to her shoulder, he could make out the distinct stain of blood, almost black in the lack of light.

Scab was smoking again, using the brick wall of the shabby building to support her comfortably. Her thread cap had been ditched, and thick strands of light auburn hair scratched at her features. She watched a group of three men knock on the front door of the worn whore house. A large man welcomed them, the warm glow from inside outlining his imposing form. He leaned against the frame so that the men could scurry past him.

Once that had been taken care of, he descended the steps and turned to the left, where Scab still leaned against the building's wall. He spoke to her in a low tone that made his words impossible to make out, and then, handed her a fistful of cash.

Disinterestedly, Scab pocketed the money, leaving without a word. She caught Tom's eye from across the street and gave him a wanton, beckoning smile, attractive despite the blood, the dirt, and the smoke.

And Tom thought, with a hateful vengeance:

One day, I will kill you all.

The Muggle streets left his skin feeling too tight, and Tom was more than happy to return to the warm fire roaring in his room at the Leaky Cauldron. Regardless of the fact that the sun was rising, Tom planned on sleeping away the confusion and uncommon fear the previous night had instilled in him.

He had been seeking an escape, but found no relief. His deep-seated disregard for Muggles had been reaffirmed, and perhaps that made his decision concerning Malfoy's visit those days ago easier to make, but did little else.

Tom scrubbed at the bridge of his nose, shoving the door open with his hip. What he found froze the blood in his veins.

Morgan was still, slumped on the ground near the bed, the small table near it upturned. Her hand was unmoving, and the wand resting in her uncurled fingers long-since used.

He nearly tripped over his feet to get to her, pressed searching fingers to her pulse, and thought, God help them if she is dead. I'll kill them; torture them until they beg for death. If those Muggles took me from her, distracted me from her, god help them.

Morgan's eyelashes fluttered along his cheek, where he had pressed his face in abject distress. "Tom?" her voice was a mere whisper.

A jerky movement left Tom rocking back on his heels, so that he could more easily see her. Her blue eyes were glassy and her skin, pale. His hands started shaking and for the first time, since the day he had been locked in that closet, he felt completely helpless. "Morgan," he muttered, holding her face, memorizing ever single crease in her skin, "don't do this. Don't leave."

She smiled weakly. Tom thought he was going to be sick. "I thought," she paused to lick her lips, "that you had…ditched me. Silly wizard." The words were so incredibly soft.

Too soon! Not nearly enough time!

His words thrown back at him had never seemed so forebodding. "Silly little witch," he said affectionately.

Morgan sighed heavily, her chest rattling, her heart stilling.

IT CAN'T! I WON'T LET IT!

"It can't end now," Tom said, monotonously. "Not yet."

"S'been fun," Morgan mumbled, as if her lips were heavy with sleep. "Love you."

Love you. Love you. Love you. Love you.

Had anyone said those words to him and actually, heartbreakingly, meant it?

No.

The world had taken a lot from Tom Riddle. He would not let it take her.

It was different than she imagined it. Wholly foreign, yes, but not scarily so. It swam through like a calming current, slowly but surely sweeping her up in its grasp. Her limps were heavy, but it was her eyes that were leaden.

And the pain…how could something she had learned to carry these past weeks disappear so suddenly? Gone, like ashes scattered in the wind.

Death wasn't so bad. It was like stepping into a dark room and losing yourself in the shadows. It was like falling asleep, and feeling enough comfort and security to relax in sleep's grasp.

And, if the last thing in the world she saw was Tom Marvolo Riddle, that made it okay, too.

He was the first thing she saw in the world, her eyes new again, seeing again; her limps moving again, feeling again; her heart pumping again, beating again. Morgan gaped at him, uncomprehendingly, staring as he kneeled beside her bed, his hands shaking so much they could scarcely still for a second. He kept his head down, and his back shook.

A weight felt heavy in the middle of her chest, and sluggishly, she trailed her eyes downwards until they found the gilded beauty of the Founders Necklace. How curious.

Morgan tested her hand, inched it forwards until her pinky brushed his palm. Tom went rigid, and before he could do anything else, she enclosed one fist with her own, her breath heavy with life and the possibilities and the love.

She laughed or sobbed, she couldn't tell which (maybe both) and said, "You just couldn't let me go, huh?"

Tom let out a gust of air, but made no movements towards her. In the end, it was Morgan who leaned down delightedly, snagged his loose tie, and pulled him onto the bed. "Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom," she murmured over and over again, her voice high with glee. "Oh you silly wizard!" she kissed every inch of his face she could find, and then moved to his neck, clothed shoulders, hands, fingers, anything!

"I'm…" his brow furrowed, "if I open my eyes, will you still be here…with me?"

His voice was soft and unsure and quivering.

Morgan threw her arms around his neck, tightened them and never wanted to let go. She kissed his mouth in quick succession, speaking in between her physical declarations of love. "You-silly-stupid-wizard! How-could-you-use-the-necklace! You-might've-killed-yourself!"

Cracking his eyes open, Tom studied her with a gaze so intense, it burned. "You silly little witch," he said slowly, "I told you I would never let you go."

He grinned at her, his entire face alight with triumph, his cheeks red, his hair mussed, and kissed her back with ten times more ferocity.

When they were both assured the other wouldn't disappear in a puff of smoke, Morgan held his hand with hers and smiled wonderfully. "I thought it was the end…I thought…"

Tom, lying next to her, content with her hand, said, "We're just getting started."