Sweet Ophelia

TanninTele

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

III: The Daymare

In a tacit sort of silence, Tom got Harry out of bed and dressed him in a loose shirt and shorts. Tom's hands lingered on Harry's hips, moving him around slowly in a facsimile of their dance last night. "My beautiful boy," he kissed him. "Are you ready to go, now?"

Lips lingering on Tom's, Harry nodded frantically. Laughing, Tom pulled away to pull on a pair of frayed pants.

"Will you go fishing today?" Harry asked. Tom nodded, running a hand through brown, wavy locks. He began to make tea for them, steeping a tea bag into the boiling water. Harry's nose flared at the sharp, herbal scent. "What sort of fish swim this close to the shore?"

"Oh, lots," Tom said. "Trouts, mullets, anchovy. Don't be startled if you see a few crustacean, as well."

After elevenses, Tom carefully placed an arm around Harry's waist, helping him hobble into the yard. The sand was warm and soft today, with little shards of rock pressing into the soles of their shoes. Harry's dark ringlets fluttered in the wind, his feverish skin instantly cooled.

Moving slow, Tom escorted Harry down to the shore, the slight man relying heavily on his husband for balance. It was an arduous process and Tom's knowing gaze when Harry nearly collapsed after a few paces was humiliating - but the view was worth it.

The waters are tantalizingly deep; waves rampant and loud, the water was a mixture of blues that even Picasso would have difficulty capturing. The shore was garnished in palm trees, trailing their long green fingers through the air. Tom told Harry that he'd found a nest of sandpipers underneath the long, weather-worn dock. Harry could see a little brown piper now, flitting back and forth on the shore, chasing the waves.

The sickly boy sat tentatively in the sand, shaded by a swaying palm tree, legs curled beneath him. He placed his hand into the water, revelling at the tide rolling between his fingers. Tom watched him for a moment before gliding back into the house. Harry's dark ringlets fluttered in the wind, his feverish skin cooled

Harry watched the ocean serenely, listening with half an ear to the sounds of Tom collecting his fishing gear. In his hands was a long, metal rod, grey bucket bouncing at his side as he glided over to the dock. The man was a trim silhouette in the distance, strong arms rearing back to sharply cast the line.

The green-eyed boy grinned at his husband; fishing was a challenge to Tom, who relied so heavily on being in control of any and all situations.

Everything else came easily to Tom, whether it be courting Harry with his suave looks and charm, or graduating top of the class at med school. Tom seemed adamant on becoming a good fisher, for it meant defying the odds and providing for his family. Harry was both amused and concerned by this.

Tom ached for control, and Harry's illness was out of both of theirs.

Laying on his back, Harry watched the sun peak though the leaves of the palm tree. Listening to the sound of waves crashing and sandpipers scuttling, Harry drifted off into a restless sleep.

Harry stared out over the horizon.

He was standing on the edge of a cliff, moonfall casting eerie shadows over the chasm. The weather was turning terrible, and the dark waves lapped beneath the overhang. In the dim light, the water looked like blood. Harry moved until he his toes were millimeters from the edge, body leaning forward ever-so slightly. Excitement thrummed through his body, nerves tingling. Harry stared hard into the murky depths, the wind rushing around him, blurring his vision. He wasn't suicidal, but the realization that one misstep could cause him plummeting to oblivion was damned exhilarating.

Something fluttered within his line of vision. He released a sharp breath, cold air rushing into his lungs, as it whipped by again.

It was a chunk of red hair, dirty and tattered, caught on a branch. The sight sent a rush of terror through him. He whispered to the sea. "I want to go home, Tom."

Harry felt a presence behind him.

"Why for, my dear? Don't you like it here?" Tom's voice was smooth, like chocolate or poison, sweet at the edges but bitter when swallowed.

"I keep seeing things in the water. Reflections. Flashes of color."

Tom seemed amused. "Fish, perhaps. They have such beautiful scales here. I'll catch one for you, we can make a soup - "

"No! No. I'm not hungry."

A hand reached around the press into Harry's belly, gentle, but subtly domineering. "Ah. How is your stomach? Do you need to lie down - "

"My stomach is fine, Tom." Harry said. He reached to pull Tom's hand away, but touched only bone. Tom's hand was pale and scaly, the fingernails filed into sharp points. They dug into his stomach, dark blood spilling from the wounds. Harry gasped, swinging around.

The beast before him gave him an eerie, inhuman smile. He was serpentine, wavy hair replaced by scales, blue eyes slitted. "You've been so good to me, love. Such a sweet boy."

He made a choked noise. "I don't - "

"You'd let me take care of you forever, wouldn't you? Under my care, you'd wither away - your skin going that pretty shade of white, green eyes fixated on me, as though I was your God." Tom's eyes glowed red, two burning embers. "I would love you forever, devour your heart, dangle your bones from my chimes, so your voice would whisper to me in the wind." Tom tipped his head, staring down into the ocean. "I've loved many before you, sweet Harry, but I think I'll love you the most. Always."

Panic flared through him at that final, resounding word. "Tom - Tom!"

Harry was shoved violently over the edge of the cliff. His blood-curdling screams were cut short as he slammed into the inky waters.

Panic flooded through his body, even as frigid water surrounded it. He was submerged, his ears popping, lungs suffusing with water. He tried to swim, but the violently lapping waves dragged him up and down, giving him little time to gasp for air. An awareness of acute peril swept through him. The waves were strong enough to snap his neck, and he was amazed it hadn't already. A large wave enveloped him, shoving his body backward. Slamming into the cliffside, Harry felt the wounds on his stomach tear open. The dull pain only worsened his predicament.

Gasping for breath one last time, Harry went under. Water rushed in his ears, his rapid heartbeat echoing. The boy couldn't see a thing. And he could only hold his breath for so long.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling himself drift. This was it. He was drowning. He was dying.

The boy jerked when something wrapped around his wrist.

His body was jolted forward toward some unseen identity. The only thing visible was the whites of their eyes, milky and dead. Harry screamed, bubbles expelling from the corners of his mouth, and he yanked away to no avail. White strips of tattered cloth, from her dress, wound around him like tentacles, trapping him in place, forcing him deeper, and deeper, into Hell.

The girl, hair a blazing red, smiled.

As he died.

Harry woke gagging. His chest heaved, lungs gasping for air, as he spat out sea water. A foreign hand slapped his back, helping him expel the last of it.

"My God, Harry," Tom pressed Harry's sopping wet head into his chest. Tom was dishevelled, as though he had ran to him, fishing rod abandoned at the dock. "You . . . you could've died."

Just another thing out of his control, Harry thought hysterically.

Harry panted against his husband, burning eyes staring at Tom's normal, non-monstrous hands. "I'm fine," he breathed. "I'm fine. What happened?"

"The tide - the tide enveloped you. I saw the wave coming and I tried to warn you, but I was too far away - you wouldn't wake up." Tom's lips trembled faintly, and Harry felt a deep, horrible sense of guilt. His imagination was a cruel thing - Tom would never hurt him, no, the man had saved his life.

Not that it was much of a life, anymore.

"I should never have let you come down here," Tom hissed to himself. Harry shivered violently. He was soaked to the bone, chilled, and sore. The breeze was frigid, storm clouds brewing on the horizon. "Let's get you inside," Tom helped the trembling boy to stand. "We'll take a shower, and I'll warm you up. Does that sound nice?"

Harry made an idle sound of agreement, allowing himself to be walked to the bathhouse. He stared out over the waves, placid now, twinkling tauntingly in the sunlight.

His gaze lowered to a moss-covered rock, seafoam and seaweed clustered around it. The tide pulled back, revealing a round, bulbous human skull, trapped in the tentacles of a weed. Harry startled violently, but by the time he went to take a second look, the tide had already rushed over it.

A hallucination? That, or something worse.

He swallowed harshly and leaned minutely away from Tom. This movement was watched intently by too-dark eyes, and the chimes whispered sorrowfully on the porch.

Entering the bathhouse, they waited on the tile for several long minutes, allowing steam to fill the air, saying not a word.

Tucking his fingers beneath the hem of Harry's shirt, Tom helped peel the clothing from his back. Harry purposefully looked anywhere but the fogged mirror. Stepping into the scalding water, he stared down at his prominent rib cage and marvelled at how different everything looked. The sharp and skeletal edges of his body appeared paler, his skin nearly blue. Already, he resembled a corpse.

The warm streams of water and Tom's steady hands gentled him, allowing Harry to forget his delusions for a brief period. Tom was tender with him, cleaning the seaweed from Harry's matted curls. The smell of brine was replaced with lavender. Tom's expression was blurred and indistinguishable, allowing Harry's imagination to fill in the blanks. He clenched Tom's hands warningly, removing them from his waist. Reaching behind him with a trembling hand, Harry turned off the hot water. A stray droplet hit him in the nose, dribbling down his lips. He licked it away, closing his eyes

"Could you . . . can you take back to bed?" he tried to sound normal, but miserably failing. He wanted to ask about the skull, but he knew how Tom would react. With bewilderment and concern, making a low comment about Harry's illness manifesting in macabre delusions and daydreams.

Tom's naked limbs twitched with the urge to bracket Harry against the wall, safe in his arm. The man valiantly resisted, seeming to sense Harry's need for distance. "Of course," he said smoothly, long arm stretching over Harry to grab a towel.

The two towelled off, Tom keeping a respectable distance as Harry struggled into the house. Still naked, Harry crawled into bed, nestling into the sheets as if to hide his face. Tom disappeared outside and returned with a bucket full of little fish. He seemed to have caught quite a few, the smell pungent and salty.

"Will you . . . go into town for a bit?" Harry whispered to his husband, voice feeble. "Just a while. So I can rest."

Tom looked at his husband, eyes fathomless. "Do you want me to?" Harry just pressed his face into the pillows. Tom violently gutted the fish, knife chink-ing wetly. "I suppose I could fetch a few things from town. I'll be using the last of the milk for this soup. Do you want anything? Books? Paper? Sweets, perhaps?" he said cloyingly. There was no response, not even a muffled grunt. "Nothing?" Tom sighed at Harry's reticence, wiping his hands on a hand towel.

His feet padded against the floor, and the bed springs depressed as Tom crawled across the bed. He placed a hand on Harry's back, feeling the gooseflesh rise. Tom crooned softly, tracing Harry's protruding spine with a possessive, gentling touch. "Oh, Harry," he pressed a heated kiss to the small of his back. "My sweet boy. Come to me. Don't push me away, love."

Harry's entire body shuddered as he sobbed. Tom enveloped him fully, placing Harry's face to his collarbone and whispering sweet nothings into the boy's ears.

"I just - " Harry hiccupped, cheeks damp. "I want to go home, Tom."

"My sweet, sweet boy," his voice was sibilant, a soft susurrus. "I'm home, aren't I? And I'll always be here for you, to take care of you."

Green eyes blinked up at him. "A . . . Always?"

"Always."

The oath felt more like a threat.

Later, Harry ate his soup, hardly tasting a thing. It was only when he heard the squeaking of bike wheels, pulling away from the beach house, that Harry finally felt safe enough to sleep.

The day passed at an alarming rate; by the time he awoke again, it was late afternoon, and the sky was grey. He was all alone.

The wind was cold, the windows rattling in their frames. Harry hobbled to his feet, shutting the window with a frown. The windchimes, visible through the glass, were rattling dangerously; the storm was a music all on it's own, a cacophony of roaring waves and the rustle of trees. Harry flinched as the door flew open, cracking against the wall. The blanket around his shoulders was blown about, papers rustling, the walls practically vibrating. He hurried to shut the door, bracing himself against the wood. He screamed out at the sea, body groaning with rapturous, horrible pain.

The sea screamed back.

With a pained grunt, he slammed the door closed. Breathing labored, Harry had to sit down. Fingers scrambling, he pulled the blanket further around his body. The sea's song was finally muffled. Green eyes tracked a faint puddle of water, dripping from a crack in the ceiling. He swore tightly, crawling on his hands and knees to the kitchen cabinets, where he removed a number of silver pots.

One by one, he followed the leaks, the metallic ting of drops hitting metal slowly grating on his nerves. Finally, Harry settled at the base of his bed, grunting. He was drained and cold. Tom had left out pajamas for him, and the boy pulled them over his sore body. Harry laid his head between his knees.

Tom had left to visit the town hours ago; he ought to have been back by now.

The storm clouds rumbled, and so did the beach house. It's unsteady foundations seemed less quaint and more life threatening now. The tea-cups Tom set out beside the sink fell to the ground, porcelain shattering. Another rattle, and the bookshelf creaked; Harry shrieked, covering his head as books rained down. The pages fluttered and folded, hitting the ground with a clatter.

A book on photography slid across the floor, coming to rest at his feet. Nerves aflame, Harry reached carefully for it.

The corner of a manilla folder stuck out from between the pages. It was a little folder of polaroids; glinting waves and nesting pipers, orange crabs and a fish, caught on a hook. Harry felt himself still, tracing the last picture idly. Something about the picture, taken by some unseen photographer, set him on edge.

It was of a boyishly attractive girl, fast asleep on the beach, red hair splayed around her head like a halo. A white sun dress draped enticingly over two toned, freckled leg. Her hand was in her lap, holding a small black book - a diary. In gold, the cover was embossed with her name, Ginevra M. Weasley. A ring, dark in color, gleamed on her ring finger.

Bringing the pictures close to his chest, heart thumping rapidly, the storm raged on.

As did his thoughts.

July 23rd, 1979

Marvolo brushed my hair today. He insisted on it, telling me it was matted and unbefitting of a lady. He's always trying to tell me what to do and how to act, like I'm his doll. I tried to push him away, but he yanked, and a chuck of hair was ripped out of my scalp.

I let him ice the wound; it's easier to just let him do what he wants than fight about it. We fight too much as it is.

I can't wait for this damn vacation to be over.

August 1st, 1979

I haven't been sleeping well lately. Marvolo doesn't say anything, but I know I wake him up with my night terrors.

He just pulls me closer, arms like a cage around me, and promises to make me tea in the morning like my mother used to. What he doesn't realize is that my dreams are of him. I have nightmares where he's chasing me through an endless maze of dirt pipes, but no matter how fast I run, he is always one step behind me. A sick game of 'tag, you're it!'

I wonder what will happen when I'm caught.