Harry didn't know how he made it through the week, but Friday had come.
"Do you think it was an accident that her head was transfigured into a shark's or have we found a murderer with a trade mark?" Tom asked with mild interest.
"God, I hope not," Harry groaned.
He had not had such an exhaustive week being an Auror since he'd first joined. Five days and he and Tom had already caught an art thief, pulled the plug on a flourishing black market business, solved three murders, successfully maneuvered a tricky hostage situation, and foiled a kidnapping attempt of a high ranking foreign diplomat. He looked down at the witch's prone body. The back alley behind Praedico Predico and Twinkles Telescopes was littered with garbage and smelled strongly of fish, something Harry suspected came from Praedico as the shop's front advertised fish good luck amulets. Though, to be fair, it might also be coming from their dead witch and her unfortunate transformation.
"It looks more like a mugging gone wrong to me," said Harry. "Her purse is missing. Along with any jewelry."
"She may not have worn jewelry," Tom pointed out.
"Or she might have fought her mugger. The curses backfired. She got a shark head—"
"He got elephant ears?" Tom suggested lightly.
A mediwizard named Gulliver Stump sidled up to Harry. "You done with her?"
"Yeah. How's Stew's line up?"
Gulliver conjured a stretcher. "The way he tells it, he's more backed up than a werewolf's shower drain."
"Thanks for the heads up," said Harry grimly.
As Gulliver saw to the body, Harry and Tom exited the carded off nook and stepped back into Diagon Alley.
"How do you feel about seven tonight for dinner with Ron and Hermione?" Harry asked.
Tom eyed Harry curiously. "You were serious about that?"
Harry sidestepped a muddy pool.
"Yeah."
They are, he added silently to himself. Quite honestly, every time Harry pictured the 'dinner' his insides were replaced with snakes. He'd hoped Hermione and Ron would forget about it, but they hadn't. Just that morning, Hermione sent a sharp-tongued note zooming into his cubicle, reminding Harry to confirm the time.
"Seven's fine," said Tom with humor in his eyes.
"Great," said Harry, his stomach writhing.
.
.
Harry never would have believed that he could work with Tom, but there was no denying that they made a good team. Tom had that aura about him. That presence that demanded attention and respect. He possessed the sort of looks that caused double-takes. The other Aurors were openly curious about the quiet new addition who radiated confidence and authority. If Robards didn't know who he was dealing with, Harry was sure he would have been tempted to make Tom the new face of the department. Everyone was talking about the handsome, talented arrival who'd made more collars in his first week than anyone.
The attention amused Tom. It didn't amuse Harry.
It wasn't just good looks that caused people to surround Tom. He had a grace and an easy confidence. Tom made it so you wanted to like him. You wanted to be near him. Please him. Be noticed by him. Harry overheard people in the canteen who'd never spoken a word to Tom, telling others of how the man preferred the strawberry scones over the lemon and that they were saving them special for him. Harry was witness, for the first time, how laughably easy he had established a following on his rise to power. One lazy grin and the tearoom was putty in his hands.
Tom was like Devil's Snare. So distracted by the sweet-smelling flowers, you didn't notice the bone-crushing tendrils sneaking around your chest until it was too late.
Where Voldemort had been monstrous, Tom was charismatic.
Where Voldemort had been violent, Tom was kind.
But where there was Voldemort, there was Tom, for Harry knew — on an intimate level — that they were one and the same and always would be. Try as Harry might to wish that this Tom was different, Harry knew better. The glint of murder was always there, like sleep in the corner of his eye. He grew far too excited when a death landed on their desk. The violence in the curve of his mouth was harder to spot than it used to be, but sometimes it lingered just long enough for Harry to recognize it.
There had always been something rotten in Tom Riddle. The birth of Horcruxes had spread it, magnified it, until only madness remained. The Carcerem might have stitched his soul back together — Harry hadn't found a good opportunity, or nerve, to ask whether it had — but that did not make Tom good. It did not make Tom safe. He was Devil's Snare that had yet to be trodden on. He was the viper, contentedly warming itself in the sun until someone foolishly prodded it with a stick.
Tom was like all things dangerous: lethal without proper care and protection.
.
.
Ron checked his watch for the fifth time in two minutes.
"He's late."
"He'll show," Harry assured him, hoping fervently at the same time that he would be proven wrong.
It was obvious that Ron and Hermione were nervous. Hermione kept glancing over her shoulder at the pub's door so many times that Harry considered offering her to change seats with him so she'd have a clear view. The tension at their table was so thick they'd already ordered drinks and finished them, but Harry would have bet every galleon in his money pouch that neither of them was as apprehensive as he was.
"I'll get us another round," said Harry. He slipped off the bench and headed to the bar before they could say otherwise.
The Royal Hag was the newest pub in Hogsmeade, smaller than the Leaky Cauldron and cleaner than the Hog's Head. At five past seven, it was packed. They'd been lucky to get a booth. After elbowing his way to the bartender, Harry, balancing three pints, weaved his way back to their table.
He came up short.
Tom had arrived. He sat opposite Ron and Hermione, lounging with the ease of a politician. Hermione had a forced smile on her face and Ron looked like he'd overdosed on U-No-Poo. Tom looked utterly content.
The urge to flee to the bathroom and lock himself inside was so tempting Harry very nearly considered doing it, but he swallowed his nerves and squared his shoulders. Ron and Hermione were going to great lengths to 'be okay' with Tom. Fortifying himself, Harry walked toward their booth.
"Brilliant," said Ron with relief the moment Harry appeared. He grabbed his pint and passed Hermione her daisywood cider.
Clutching his own stout in his fist like a grenade, Harry slid onto the bench next to Tom, keeping a good eight inches between them.
"So," said Hermione, breaking the uneasy silence. "Your week's been busy."
"So has yours," said Tom. "Six cases tried and still time to set up a proposal for house elf representation. Impressive."
Hermione looked mildly flattered. "Well, it is my main project," she said. "I wouldn't have thought you'd approve."
"There were a lot of things I didn't approve of," said Tom lightly.
Though Tom did not look at him, Harry felt himself growing hot around the collar.
"It will be difficult, though," he continued. "Not many witches and wizards are willing to share their rights."
"That doesn't make it not worth fighting for," said Hermione stoutly.
"How many donors do you have?"
Hermione's back straightened. "Twenty-five."
"You'll need more. Much more. House elf rights will require massive support to go up against the Wizengamot. A well-chosen event with a famous face would triple your funds, easily. The wizarding community always enjoys a party. You'd be willing to help, wouldn't you, Harry?"
Harry, who had been gaping at Tom in open disbelief, snapped his jaw shut the moment he turned to him.
"What sort of event?" asked Hermione delicately, a hint of interest in her voice.
Tom shrugged. "The press can't get enough of Harry. I imagine anything he attended or was a part of would bring monumental interest. Tie it to your cause and you'll have enough funds to move forward with a strong enough campaign to build up your base."
"I'm sorry," said Harry, unsticking his tongue. "What are we talking about?"
"House elf rights, Harry," said Tom, the barest gleam of tease in his eyes. "Do keep up."
"But what would be best?" asked Hermione, who seemed unable to let the topic fade away. "Purchase a ticket for …" She cast around for ideas. "A Quidditch match? I might be able to get Victor—"
"Anything else?" asked Ron at once.
Hermione scowled at him.
"I was thinking something more along the lines of a duel," said Tom casually. "Dueling tournaments are quite popular. The Savior of the Wizarding World against—"
"Against who?" asked Harry. "You?"
The mood shifted in the blink of an eye. Hermione and Ron sat rigid across the table, watching them with apprehension.
"We would put on quite the show," said Tom. "But if you'd rather someone else…"
"Harry," Hermione said rather tentatively. "It would help. A lot. A tournament or event of some kind. I'm not saying it should be a duel," she added quickly, glaring at Tom.
"Come on, Harry," Tom coaxed, his eyes locked onto his. "A bit of friendly sport. It will be like all those spars in the Carcerem."
"You two dueled?" said Ron, startled. "You said you couldn't perform magic in the Carcerem."
"We used swords," said Harry.
If anything, this made Ron and Hermione look even more alarmed.
Harry crossed his arms. "You just want me to use the Elder Wand."
Tom shrugged innocently.
"You'll participate in a mock duel with me for the benefit of house elves?" said Harry. "You?"
"Why not?"
Harry held back a snort. Barely. "Okay," he said. "Okay. I'll do it."
Though she'd initially been against a duel, Hermione's face glowed, proving just how much she needed the extra help.
"But," said Harry, "I'm using my wand. The holly."
The smirk vanished from Tom's face. His voice hardened. "Need I remind you that we can't duel with that wand?"
"Actually, I think you might be able to," said Hermione.
Harry and Tom looked at her so quickly that she turned pink.
"After the war I did some research," Hermione explained. "Wand lore is complicated and there's still a great deal that isn't understood."
Even Ron stared at her.
"And?" Ron pressed.
Hermione twisted her fingers in her napkin, clearly regretting speaking.
"Wands that share cores usually don't behave properly against each other, but wands adapt. They are an extension of the wizard that they choose. They learn from the wizard, just as the wizard learns from them. You two both had your wands while in the Carcerem, a magical artifact designed to make amends. To heal. To build understanding and alliances. I'm just wondering if your wands might also not be as antagonistic toward each other now as they once were."
They gawked at her.
"It's just a thought," she said in a small voice, growing pinker.
In one smooth movement, Tom pulled out his wand.
Ron shouted, "Oi!", Hermione flinched, and Harry froze. But Tom did not cast a spell. He opened his palm, letting the yew lie flat. Not quite sure why he was doing it, Harry pulled out his own. He mimicked Tom, placing his hand palm up next to Tom's. Their wands touched and Harry felt a vibration run up his arm, settling in the center of his chest. Warmth bloomed, filling Harry with a sense of wholeness. Phoenix song — haunting and beautiful — soared into the air. The pub's chatter faltered for a moment as diners looked about curiously for what was making the noise. Light glowed from the wands' tips and then faded gently, the phoenix song with it, but that sense of connection remained.
Something was blocking Harry's throat. He didn't understand why the fact that their wands welcomed each other made his chest ache. From the brightness in Tom's eyes, Harry knew he felt the same.
"How about I order?" Ron asked loudly.
Harry grinned, lowering his hand and putting his wand back in his pocket.
"Wine?" he asked Tom as Ron scrambled out of the booth to the bar.
"You know what I like," said Tom. Though his eyes were almost feverish, his voice was as composed as ever.
Fighting back the blush that threatened to spread over his face, Harry followed Ron. Yes, he knew exactly what Tom liked. He'd spotted one of Tom's favorites written on the blackboard behind the bar when he'd ordered the first round of drinks. The cellar in the Carcerem had been well stocked with it.
xXx
Hogsmeade. Even with the new shops and pubs, it was just the same as when Tom had been at school. It even smelt the same, the night air as crisp and clean as any in Tom's memory. They had finished dinner and were meandering their way down the street. Harry's pace was slower, allowing Weasley and Granger to move on ahead of them. Tom watched as they bumped shoulders and Weasley wrapped his arm around her. Acutely aware of the sound of Harry's footsteps beside him, Tom slid his hands into his robe pockets to keep from risking his arm brushing up against Harry. To keep himself from entwining their fingers.
"Thank you."
Tom glanced at him. Harry was not wearing wizarding robes, but Muggle jeans and a button-down shirt. Tom noticed that Harry often chose Muggle attire when he wasn't working and Tom had to admit that robes hid a great deal.
"For what?" he asked.
"For trying. You didn't have to try to get along with them, but it means a lot to me that you are."
Didn't Harry understand yet? Tom would do anything for him.
They reached the crest of a hill and Hogwarts came into view, perched atop its mountain. The sight of it had Tom pausing. Even in the darkness, he could see that its shape was not right. Three towers were missing, blasted down. In the daylight it must look a sagging mockery of its former self.
Harry cut his eyes to him.
"They've been working on it round the clock all summer. McGonagall's confident it'll be good as new in time for the Welcoming Feast."
"Good," said Tom.
It had pained him more than anyone would ever know that Hogwarts had stood in the line of fire. He had taken no pleasure in tearing down the one place that had ever been home.
xXx
"Harry, are you sure you're okay with this?"
Hermione had been changing her mind about the fundraiser all weekend. It was Sunday afternoon. She and Ron were once again in his kitchen, helping him with the finishing touches.
"Yeah, mate," said Ron. He pointed his wand at the last strips of wallpaper he'd ripped down. They wadded up into a ball and hopped into a trash bag. "I don't think it's a good idea."
"Because it's Tom?" Harry asked.
"Well, yes," said Hermione.
Harry directed the paint roller up the final stretch of wall, being careful to not let it hit the ceiling.
"Do you think he's going to try to hurt me?" he asked them calmly.
He glanced over his shoulder in time to see them exchange worried looks.
"I don't know how else to tell you," Harry said, feeling rather exasperated. "He doesn't want to kill me."
"It's not killing you that we're worried about," said Hermione quietly.
Harry lowered his wand and the paint roller paused, hovering in midair and dripping paint onto the old sheet he'd stretched out on the floor. "Then what is it?"
Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. Ron wouldn't meet his eyes.
"What?" said Harry.
"Where's he been all this time?" Hermione said in a rush. "When Voldemort fled Hogwarts, everyone was looking for him and they never found so much of a trace for three months."
"He's good at hiding," said Harry. "So were we."
"Exactly," said Hermione, strained. "What's to stop him from … from …"
"Snatching you and doing a runner?" Ron finished bluntly. "He could lock you up somewhere. Somewhere that we'd never find you."
Harry took them both in.
"He could have done that ages ago," he said softly. "He's had ample opportunities all week. I know you don't trust him. Honestly, I'd feel just the same if this was all swapped."
"So what are we supposed to do?" Hermione whispered.
"Try," said Harry simply. "All we can do is try, just as he's doing."
An awkward silence hung between them, but it was broken by Crookshanks who batted at a strip of wallpaper that dangled out of the trash bag. His claw caught the plastic and the bag upended over his head. He shrieked and bolted from the kitchen, a bit of wallpaper stuck to his bottle-brush tail.
"Oh, Crookshanks!" Hermione sighed as Harry and Ron roared with laughter.
"As long as we're not inviting him to Christmas," said Ron as he helped Harry stuff the trash back into the bag. "There's only so much I can take."
Harry's laugh turned slightly hysterical. Christmas with Tom at the Burrow?
"That's more than anyone should take," he replied.
.
.
With Ron and Hermione's help, and then with the arrival of Ginny and Luna after lunch, the kitchen was finished. The dishes were finally put in their proper places, the cupboards and pantry were fully stocked, and all trash and packing paper were stuffed in the bin out back. Tired, yet satisfied, Harry collapsed onto the couch later that night after they'd all departed. He stretched, relishing his newly concurred space.
They'd gotten Chinese from the village. Ron could never get a handle on the chopsticks and it made for great entertainment, not that Harry was much better. He picked up a container of lo mein, picking at the bits of chicken they'd missed, suddenly no longer feeling quite so content.
Though he'd reassured Ron and Hermione, the truth of the matter was that Harry was concerned. Why hadn't Tom just scooped him up and tucked him away in some secret hideaway? The fact that he hadn't … that he was playing at being normal — at being nice — said something that made Harry squirm with discomfort. If Tom had returned with the intent to force Harry back to him, that would have been different. Expected, even. The fact that he hadn't … that he happily and comfortably chose to mold his life around Harry's …
That was huge.
That was terrifying.
Did Tom … love him?
God, no. Merlin, no.
Tom didn't love. Tom dominated. Tom controlled. Tom was obsessed with Harry — he always had been. Obsession had nothing to do with love.
Groaning, Harry rubbed his temples. He couldn't lead Tom on, not when Tom was trying so hard to be decent. He had to tell him. He had to clear the air. He had to let him know that what had transpired in the Carcerem wasn't coming back.
Tom was the most intoxicating of wines.
He was Devil's Snare.
He was dangerous and overwhelming and so, so tempting.
Harry couldn't fall into that pit again. If he did, he'd never climb back out.
xXx
Harry was late. Tom released a sharp exhale through his nostrils, his thumb tapping against the desk as he counted the seconds. The minutes.
"Sorry," Harry gasped, rushing into their office. "I forgot to set my alarm."
"Perhaps you need someone to set it for you?" Tom suggested.
Harry busily cleared his throat. The color in his cheeks from running down the corridor intensified slightly.
"I got my house finished," he said brightly, sitting at his desk.
"Congratulations."
"Have we gotten a report from Stew about our shark-head victim?" Harry asked, sorting through the heap of Ministry memos that had landed on his desk.
"Our vampire moves to his own drum," Tom stated.
Stew, as everyone called him, was the Ministry's lead mortician. Harry had introduced Tom to him on his third day as an Auror. Sickly pale, emaciated, and yet exceedingly cheerful, Stew had shaken hands with him so energetically that Tom had wondered if Harry was playing a prank on him. Vampires were better represented than most others on the Wizengamot and in the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures Department, but they tended to keep to themselves. To have one work for the Ministry was rare.
A tap on the wall made them both look round. Eddie Parker stood in their cubicle's opening.
"Morning," he said, beaming at them and holding two steaming teas.
"Thank you!" Harry moaned, taking one. "You're a lifesaver."
Parker laughed a little too loudly.
"What's this about you starting a dueling tournament?" he asked Harry. "Why wasn't I invited?"
Harry choked on his tea. Moping up the front of his robes, he said, "Where did you—"
"Percy just told me."
"A dueling tournament?" Maybelle popped her head over the cubicle wall that separated their offices. "I want in! Are you participating, Tom?"
"It's just a little thing," said Harry quickly. "It's for Hermione."
"For her house elf legislation?" asked Maybelle with interest.
"It's a fundraiser."
"Then count me in! How's it work? How many have signed up?"
"Erm … us four," said Harry.
"Well, it won't be much of a tournament if only four people are participating," she sniffed. "Leave it to me!" And she vanished back into her cubicle.
"I guess I should get to work," said Parker, giving them both an awkward smile and departing for his own desk.
Tom studied Harry.
"Parker wants you. And by want, I am being indelicate."
Harry stared at him for a full second and then he burst into laughter.
"Are you mental? Eddie's a friend."
"A friend who brings you tea every morning even when you already have a cup? A friend who stands just a bit too close? A friend who can't keep his eyes off you?"
"He's very welcoming," Harry said weakly.
Snorting derisively, Tom crossed his arms. "If you can't see it, you're blinder than a bat in a chimney."
"Because there is nothing," Harry replied with annoyance. "And it's not like you can talk. Half the women here want to date you."
Was that jealousy Tom sensed? There was a significant rigidity to Harry's shoulders as he returned to sorting through his memos.
"How about we talk about something important?" Harry suggested waspishly. "Like who's funneling those shipments of cursed teeth."
xXx
Throughout the week Harry continued to run into people who voiced interest in the tournament. It reminded him of Dumbledore's Army when word spread faster than Dragon Pox.
"It's for the house elf legislation," he reminded each of them, but he was beginning to suspect that the pool of interest had spread to such a depth that Harry could have said it was for teaching ogres ballroom dancing and they wouldn't have batted an eye. It was all about beating the Chosen One in front of a sold out crowd. If Harry had had any doubts that that was the main motivation, Cormac McLaggen made it very clear by the end of the week.
"Better have Granger book the mediwizards," he'd told Harry. "Hate to have the Ministry's poster boy too battered for the presses."
Harry ground his jaw as McLaggen swaggered away, most likely back to level seven and the Broomstick Regulation Control where he'd recently been hired.
"Not a friend of yours?" Tom asked.
"If I do get beat," Harry said, turning to Tom, "knock him out for me."
Tom smirked. "The only person who's going to beat you is me."
"Oh, you think so?"
"I know so."
Harry stopped himself before the teasing escalated to flirting.
Tell him. Tell him now.
Harry opened his mouth, trying to wrangle the words, but a shout and a loud bang tore his attention away. Seconds later, he and Tom jumped out of the way as a fire-breathing sheep barreled past them. Three Ministry wizards, Rolf included, charged after it as it raced down the hall to the elevators.
Heaving, Rolf skidded to a stop next to them.
"Hey — Luna told me — that — you're organizing — a — dueling — tournament?"
"You want in too?" said Harry.
"Merlin, no," said Rolf, laughing, clutching a stitch in his side. "I just don't want to miss it. I'm heading out to Burkina Faso tonight to relocate our Runespoor. Wanted to make sure I got back in time."
"It's not for another week and a half. The twenty-fourth."
"Excellent."
A scream and a loud terrified baaaa sounded down the hall. With a wave, Rolf was off again, his robes billowing behind him.
.
.
As the end of August steadily approached, Harry learned how their small fundraiser had morphed into a monstrous extravaganza.
"I had to ask Kingsley for help," Hermione told him over their lunch break outside Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. Tom had elected not to join them. "It's gotten too big."
"Where are they locating it?" Ron asked.
"Dartmoor," said Hermione. "Same as the Quidditch World Cup in our fourth year."
"And Kingsley's okay with this?" Harry asked.
"When I told him what it was for, he was delighted."
"Did you happen to mention that Riddle's participating?" Ron asked with the air of someone cradling a ticking bomb.
Hermione squirmed on her stool. "Not exactly. But I imagine he knows. A duel that practically half the Ministry is throwing their hats into — of course he suspects Riddle and Harry will be in the middle."
"I still can't believe that Robards is okay with it," said Ron.
"What's he going to do?" said Harry. "He can't order Tom or me not to participate. It would look strange to the others. Maybe if he'd gotten wind of it before the entire department heard about it…"
"Sorry," Hermione apologized for the tenth time. "I told Percy because he's been helping me a lot with drafting my legislation and I didn't know he'd tell his whole division and I didn't know they'd tell—"
"You don't need to apologize, Hermione. It's okay. You're going to get all the funds you need to finally put house elf rights center stage."
Hermione beamed. "If you're really okay with it —" She pulled a small box from her pocket, tapped it with her wand and it expanded to its full size. Ron quickly moved his bowl of ice cream out of danger of being knocked from the table. She dug inside it, extracting a thick roll of bright red tickets.
"I was wondering if George would be okay with us setting up a table in front of his shop tomorrow after work and maybe he'd be willing to sell the extras that we don't?" she asked.
"You know he will," said Ron.
"And I made fliers." She passed them both a thick stack advertising the tournament. "I was thinking we could spend the rest of our break asking shopkeepers if they'd be willing to put up a few signs for a free ticket."
Ron picked one up. "Spew's hit the big leagues."
It proved how much of a good mood Hermione was in that she laughed. "Harry, do you have time to help? Harry?"
"What? Yeah. Yeah, I've got time," Harry replied, his attention jerking back to them. He picked up one of the stacks, but his eyes glanced back up the street where he thought he'd spotted Gregory Goyle standing next to a stack of wire rodent cages outside Boogermongers, staring at him. Then again, maybe it hadn't been Goyle. He'd come and gone in a flash.
.
.
The tournament was tomorrow and Harry couldn't sleep.
Nerves. That's all this was, which was stupid because he was an excellent dueler. It wasn't that he or anyone else would be in danger. Not really.
A lip-less mouth curved into a pitiless smile. Red eyes gleamed in the darkness.
Bow to death, Harry.
Furious with himself, Harry kicked the sheets off. He sat up.
The tournament would be no different than all the times he and Tom had trained in the Carcerem, so why had his nightmares returned? Tom wasn't his enemy anymore. He was his …
His what, exactly? Friend? Ally? Partner?
If that was so, then why was he returning to the graveyard the moment he closed his eyes? As much as Harry wanted to believe he was over it, he was only fooling himself. Wounds healed, but the memory never faded.
xXx
The knock on his door made Tom pause. The Cornithia, known for protecting their guests' privacy, blocked Apparition, save for a tucked away chamber next to the reception hall, which meant that guests either had to be given the flat's number directly by the occupant in order to use the room's floo or be escorted up by one of the house elves. Tom set down his book and looked over his shoulder. As popular as he'd made sure to make Auror Thomas Thorne be, he had kept his address to himself. No one would appear at his door and certainly not at five minutes to midnight. He stood, crossed the ivory carpet, and peered through the peep hole.
Slightly surprised and highly curious, Tom opened the door.
"Harry." And then noticing the barely contained agitation radiating from Harry's thin frame: "What's wrong?"
Harry didn't look him in the eye.
"I'm worried about tomorrow," he said quietly.
Performance anxiety? Would wonders never cease?
"May I offer you a drink?" Tom asked.
For a moment, Harry looked like he was about to say no, but then he stepped forward and entered the flat.
"If you're worried that you won't make it to the final round, you can stop that right here and now," said Tom. He lifted a decanter and poured a generous measure of Firewhisky into two tumblers. He held the glass out for Harry, meeting his gaze and holding it. "You were trained by the best."
Harry's jaw clenched. He was the first to look away.
Tom narrowed his eyes, watching Harry more closely.
"What's wrong?" he asked again.
Harry sat on the edge of the couch, running his hands over his thighs, his agitation increasing palpably.
"Do you ever feel like you've fallen down a rabbit hole?" he asked.
"Not usually, no."
Harry let out a pained laugh. "Course you don't."
"Harry, what—"
"I can't do this!" Harry exploded, jumping to his feet. "I can't keep acting like everything's fine and normal when it's not. What are we?"
Tom stared. For one of the few times in his life, his mind was blank. Distantly, he realized that with each time, Harry was the one who caused it.
"What are we?" Harry repeated and when Tom still did not answer, he raged, "You're my scar! Every time I think I'm past it, I look at you and am reminded of everything. The battle, the graveyard — every nightmare's back as if they'd never stopped."
The bed dipping as Harry slipped under the covers beside him … a lamp flickering enough light upon his face to make his green eyes glow: I have nightmares, too … About you, mostly…
Something cold and unwelcome grew in Tom's chest. He didn't want to play any part in Harry's nightmares. Not anymore.
"We don't have to participate in the duel," he said softly. "I don't have to."
Harry's eyes pinched shut. "That's not what I want … I want …" In a near whisper he said, "I don't want to feel this anymore, but it's never going to go away, is it?"
Guilt? Regret? Slowly, Tom was beginning to understand that no, perhaps such feelings never did. Ever since the Carcerem, Tom found himself feeling things that he wished to never feel again, but the lock had been broken. The ugly truths had been let loose to play. It was time to learn to live with them.
He held out the tumbler again, and this time Harry took it. They both sat, Harry staring at his shoes and Tom gazing at the black sky outside the windows.
"I am yours," Tom said, breaking the silence. He half turned on the couch and Harry looked up. "I am yours and you are mine. If I am your scar, then you are my blood. Scars show our ability to overcome and blood links us all. From the beginning to the end, through every twist and turn of our existence, in this lifetime and the next — that is what we are."
.
.
A/N: Though I wanted to, I was never able to find a suitable place to mention the fact that Tom did indeed have both his yew and the elder wand while in the Carcerem, so I'm saying it now. :) I imagine that he wouldn't have just tossed his old wand in the lake the moment he got the Elder Wand from Dumbledore's tomb, but rather, stashed it away in his pocket. As excited as he was to have an 'all powerful wand', I think he's pretty sentimental toward his yew.
Have a lovely weekend, everyone!