Chapter 140:
Nothing.
Tracy stared at him with bewildered eyes, but didn't dare move from the circle.
"Again," Tom ordered, sounding more patient now that he was getting his way.
"Does it have to be the killing curse?" Harry questioned, his voice utterly blank, detached. He didn't want to be in his body now. He didn't want to be himself if this was what he was doing.
"No," Tom said, circling them both, watching the proceedings critically, Harry's wand tapping a whimsical beat against the furniture "I just thought it would be easier for you considering it's a painless way of causing death, if you could only get over the label of 'Unforgiveable.' Feel free to switch to another dark curse - but, it must be dark."
Harry swallowed again. He hadn't thought of it like that.
The Avada was pretty much the only painless way of murder. Murder. He shuddered. He'd never killed another human in anything that wasn't self defence.
Tracy continued to weep.
He half-glanced at Tom, silently noting that in the Slytherin Heir's head, despite his terrible attitude tonight the choice of picking the killing curse had actually been a twisted token of mercy. Because it was painless.
Tom knew he didn't want to cause pain. But then, Tom also knew he didn't want to kill and most certainly did not want a Horcrux. Trying to fully figure the other out made his head hurt.
Those dark eyes had not shifted once to the poor muggle girl, fixed on him. He looked away, still feeling a ridiculous stinging sense of hurt to stir the already messy pot of his emotions. His stomach twisted.
He swallowed, steeling himself once more, his hand not shaking as he pointed the wand out this time. Remorse. Remember, he had to feel remorse! That was how this whole situation was going to be resolved, wasn't it?
He looked over at the other boy again, who had drifted closer to him again, back at his side where he had started.
"I hope you're satisfied," he said, quietly.
No. No. No.
He shoved all of his guilt and sickness and fear at the Slytherin Heir, purging himself of the feeling like Tom had with the prophecy, hoping it would be enough, feeling a chilling sense of calm slip over him.
Tom made a choked noise.
"Avada Kedavra."
There was a flash of green light.
Tracy dropped dead.
Tom snatched the wand out of his hands.
The ritual began.
For a moment, Tom was surprised to see the girl's body arch and slump, dead. For a moment, he hesitated.
Was this the right thing to do? It was integral to his plans, he shouldn't even have been having these doubts.
Harry's emotions weighed so heavily on his heart and mind, clouding and crushing them, filled with such intense colours of guilt, horror and sorrow that it was simultaneously delicious and awful.
Harry.
If he didn't do this, if he didn't win, Harry was going to be a vegetable. A little change was better than the colossal change of being practically brain dead.
He would only take the tiniest slither of soul, it would cost more effort, but he believed he could control how much he sliced off and split. Harry's guilt would help there.
He made up his mind, snatching his wand back, pushing Harry's emotions back to him now that the deed was done, noting offhandedly at the sudden green-tinged paleness of the boy's skin.
He dove into their connection, ruthlessly, as deep as he could go, ignoring the cry of pain from Harry at the intrusion and the way the other slumped to the floor, suppressing a whimper.
His own pain buzzed, like a terrible headache.
He ignored it.
Focussed.
He began to chant fluently in Latin, carving symbols into the hotel room with the girl's blood, and then cutting Harry's blood to mix with it. The other let him without thought, almost catatonic. He didn't have the time to worry about that now, though.
His spell work went on for a good half an hour, weaving complexly between charms, curses, runes and traditional ritualistic elements.
It had taken him some time to decide what he was going to use as the container for Harry's soul (the other was happy to ignore that practicality, it seemed, and to be honest it was better if Harry didn't know.)
It had to be something Harry would hesitate to destroy, even if only for a few precious minutes in which he could subdue the other boy, and he'd considered a Potter family heirloom. Harry would be reluctant to destroy anything that linked him to his parents.
The problem with that was it most likely would only stall him.
It would hurt him, but Harry would destroy any object, ultimately, in his martyrdom.
That left people.
He'd got the idea from the fact that Harry was Voldemort's Horcrux.
Harry wouldn't kill any of his friends, the hero complex coupled with the extreme difficulty the ex-Gryffindor had with killing even a mouse saw to that. Yet, he didn't trust any of Harry's friends though, and, in all honesty, he didn't trust any of his followers to this extent either.
That had left himself. He'd make himself Harry's Horcrux.
He was almost certain Harry would hesitate in killing him and thus the Horcrux, and, if he didn't, it wasn't like he wasn't talented and powerful enough to defend himself.
His own self-preservation was a stronger defence than any ward he could have done. The Horcrux would always be safe within him, and he would always be aware of it.
It was a painful procedure.
When the splitting occurred, they were both screaming.
Harry was convinced that this was the most agonising, excruciating thing he'd ever felt. He slid to the floor, in a foetal position, cursing that anyone would do this to themselves, damning Tom for doing this to him.
He realised absently that one must have an extreme amount of self control and will to complete this ritual. Most people would pass out from the pain, or discontinue to devastating effect.
Tom staggered around him, but he was numb to it, lost to it, harsh screams tearing from his chest as he felt his very essence claw and inch apart.
He begged for it to stop. To die. To live. For the pain to end. He could concentrate on nothing else, not even Tom.
When it finally did end, he felt dizzy, nauseas, incoherent to the world around him.
His eyes felt glued shut, he couldn't move.
He vaguely heard Tom crawl over to him, fingers fluttering over his pulse points and his hair. He remembered something vaguely about remorse, but couldn't bring himself to feel it.
How could he regret an end to the pain? He didn't really feel much of anything, half submerged in the black oblivion of unconscious.
"Harry?" he heard Tom question, in a soft murmur.
Fingers, blessedly cool on his skin, carding through his hair, though he didn't open his eyes. He tried to say the other's name in response, but nothing but a sluggish whimper and groan would slip past his heavy tongue.
He felt exhausted. He wondered how Tom felt.
The next second, he felt arms wrap around him, and a vague impression of motion, then softness beneath him. Sheets. Bed? Had it worked?
He thought he should take his shoes off if he was on the bed. No one but Luna slept with shoes on.
What did it matter though? Had the ritual worked? He was too fuzzy to see if he felt any different, he felt oddly wired through his tiredness though, like he was standing on the edge of a cliff.
There was a rustling noise, a dip on the mattress next to him, the silky slide of the sheets coming up over his fully dressed form, a radiated heat next to him.
A thought suddenly seemed dreadfully important, a comment.
He dragged up the dregs of his energy for it, not opening his eyes, voice a slur and mutter.
"T'm, we're sharing a bed with a dead prostitute in the room."
People would talk. He had the mad urge to giggle, and indeed might have.
"Sleep it off, darling," came the soft response.
He fell into the blackness.
When Harry next woke, he blinked his eyes sleepily at the light drifting in through a chink in the curtains.
The dungeons were oddly…he wasn't in the dungeons. He snapped his eyes open, staring up at white hotel room ceiling, before glancing next to him. Tom was fast asleep, no glamours or wards up around him, clearly exhausted and utterly vulnerable.
If he had wanted to, it would have been laughingly easy to kill the other boy. He stared for a moment, his eyes tracing across the Slytherin Heir's features.
Creamy, ivory skin that contrasted with a shock of black hair, muggle shirt crumpled on his form as he'd slept, curled on one side slightly, an arm tucked under the pillow.
Haha.
Who would have thought the Dark Lord was so cute?
He sat up slowly, so as not to wake the other, studying the room around them in the harsh morning light.
The candles lay guttered on the floor in great pentacles and circles and designs, blood staining cracks in the floor. In the centre of the carnage lay the girl. He snorted.
He probably should have felt more guilty about it, but it wasn't like anyone would miss her? What kind of trash ending up working the streets at her age, anyway? He'd probably done her a favour ending her miserable existence. Still, he felt a pang of guilt and sadness.
Taking life was never good if it could be avoided. But it couldn't be avoided this time, so he probably shouldn't feel too guilty about it.
Or so he told himself.
Best not to think about it.
Oh that blood was going to be a nightmare to get out! His nose wrinkled. He hoped the deposit wasn't too expensive. They would probably have to deal with this before they left for Hogwarts.
For now, though, they needed breakfast.
He slid from under the sheets, pulling them more firmly around the Slytherin Heir instead, noting he must be really tired in that he hadn't woken up from that.
He smiled slightly.
Then smoothed out his clothes to hunt for food and coffee.
It probably wasn't a good idea to call room service.
Tom felt a momentary panic at the emptiness of the bed beside him, before hearing the footsteps across the room. Harry was sitting in an armchair across the room, balancing a plate of toast, some orange juice, and a cup of coffee across his knees.
He blinked at the sight, eyeing the other warily, searching for differences.
Difference one; Harry was eating without any bother about the corpse a few metres away from him.
"I got breakfast," Harry nodded to his bedside table. "It should still be warm. Didn't know what you wanted, so I got cereal, toast and pancakes. There's also coffee, if you want some."
He slipped out of bed, taking in his own somewhat ruffled state with a hint of disdain. He flicked his wand to fix it, before padding over to grab a cup of coffee. He preferred tea, but Coffee would have to do.
He didn't take his eyes off Harry.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Fine, achy," Harry shrugged. "Marginally grossed out about the dead prostitute on the floor." That was something at least. "She's not even pretty."
He stopped at that, frozen, staring even more at the other boy. Harry smirked at him.
"I'm teasing you Tom, twas a joke. It's gross regardless of her looks."
Okay.
He was surprised by how disconcerted he felt. Still.
He concentrated on the link, to try and pinpoint the other's emotions more clearly.
Guilt. There was still guilt there, a muted kind, but guilt. It was pity, more than guilt. Pity for a life ended so early, grief for it, anger that he'd had too do it, but also a kind of reluctant acceptance and indifference above it all.
Turmoil.
Harry's emotions were erratic, switching every through minutes. He'd thought there was more pity than guilt, and now there was more guilt than anything else. Then fear. Overwhelming fear. Panic. Then indifference again.
He'd need to keep a close eye on the situation. Harry pushed his half eaten toast away.
"I'm guessing it worked," the other said softly. "What did you put it in?"
"I'm not telling you," he replied, equally soft. Anger flashed, and Harry was on his feet, in front of him in a few seconds.
"I have a right to know!" the other hissed, seizing his shirt collars furiously. He waited it out, meeting Harry's gaze evenly, and the next second the grip had almost loosened entirely, a token positioning of fingers, a touch, more than anything firm.
His friend's head bowed, eyes closing, swearing under his breath.
"What have I done, Tom? What have you done? I-I can't-why am I even telling you this?"
"Because your emotions are completely unsettled, like someone's shoved you, and now you need to find your balance again," he replied quietly.
Harry looked up at him again, that desperation in his gaze.
"But it will stop, right? I'll feel like myself again?" Harry's hands dropped suddenly. "Why do I even want to feel like myself again, the old Harry would be a mess on the floor by now! You know, you promised I wouldn't feel different…I suppose you always lie to me…"
Harry's face had turned startlingly ashen, as white as the bed sheets, breathing starting to sound more like hyperventilation.
He took hold of the other's jaw, tilting Harry's head back, forcing eye contact between them again to emphasise his solmenity.
"Yes, it will settle down eventually, once you've found your balance and got used to it. The rest of your soul is just overcompensating for the missing part, because you're you and can sense the absence. You are still Harry, still the same person. As for lying, not as often as you'd imagine, sweetheart, and, actually, I promised your core personality wouldn't change."
"And yet, I can stand in a room with the girl I murdered, unflinchingly," Harry spat, switching to rage again. He tightened his hold in anticipation
"You look rather on edge to me," he stated. "I wouldn't call that unflinching. You forget, I can read your emotions."
"You're being suspiciously nice," Harry noted, appraising him in turn. "Expecting me to snap?"
No, just aware of the possibility.
"You mean I'm not always nice to you?" he returned, with a dazzling smile.
"Am I likely to snap?" Harry demanded, his eyes widening.
Fear replaced anger.
Tom sighed as Harry sagged in his hold, looking as if he wanted to curl up in a ball and hide from the world again.
"You know I won't let you," he said, seriously. Fear was replaced by…something else. Warmth to oppose the chill of terror.
"I hate you," the other said flatly, without intonation or accusation, just a ring of truth.
He inclined his head.
"I know," he said quietly. There was a silence.
Something like a sob escaped from Harry's throat, so quiet, and his friend immediately turned away, hiding his expression. His shoulders were shaking.
"Why did you do this to me? Why?" Harry cried out, suddenly.
Because I can't lose you, my sweetest obsession, my friend, my enemy, my soul.
"I don't suppose you know any good cleaning charms?" he asked instead. "I don't think the maid will cover it."
Harry spun, flinging a lamp at his head, glaring.
He smiled back, somewhat sadly, in return, and Harry's eyes closed, pained. He picked the lamp up, walking over, the near tangible dance of emotions in his head.
Harry's eyes opened to watch him, not moving back when he came close to put the lamp back on the desk, barely a foot between them.
Hesitantly, he remembered Lovegood's actions in the library.
"Would a hug help?"
"Screw you Tom."
But the next second, the other boy was clinging to him, fiercely, crushingly, painfully, with none of the reserve he'd shown before.
Tom shifted his stance to accommodate it, not quite sure what to do with his hands.
In the end, he mimicked Harry.
"Don't let me spiral," Harry mumbled, half in plea and half in order.
"Never."
A/N: I admit, before this chapter, even I didn't know what decision I was going to go with. Eek,. Bring on hthe fireworks. I shall go hide now.
In other notes, thank you so much for the amazing reviews (they inspired this ridiculously fast update, even by my speed standards) and oh...I had a thought earlier about how FF was almost over. I almost cried. :/ I'm going to miss Tom and Harry so much! (If I don't do a sequel, I don't know, I don't want to ruin a good thing with a bad sequel)
But yeah. HIDE!