QL Final: Holyhead Harpies Captain: Write about Mistaken Identity.

Word Count: 2179

Warnings: Kidnapping, Torture, Gun Violence, Attempted Murder, Murder, Blood.

in the lines of a lightning bolt (you're safe now)

It was dark. The woods were terrifying, but he ran and ran and ran. Laughter rang in his ears as he dodged trees, and he winced as the branches cut into his skin.

He left drops of blood on leaves, and twigs broke under his feet, blazing a path behind him. He needed to slow down, but he couldn't. He couldn't.

But soon, headlights shone in his eyes, and he waved his arms, hoping that someone, anyone, would stop and help him.

That someone would save him before his pursuer could catch up.

Only when strong arms gripped him and a kind voice asked him if he was okay did he know he was safe, and with a sigh, he let himself fall into the darkness.

But even as unconsciousness stole his ability to think, the echo of shouted words didn't leave him. The cruel laughter was loud in his head, and the words were still clear.

"I'll find you one day."

…

Harry blinked and then grinned at the man standing beside him at the bar. He was handsome—devastatingly so, in fact—but that wasn't what had caught his attention.

He pointed at the lightning-shaped scar on his own forehead and then pointed to the other man. "We match."

The man stared at him for a long moment. His skin paled, and Harry frowned, a little concerned.

"I'm sorry, are you okay?"

"How did you get that?" the man asked tightly.

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Car crash when I was little. It's a weird shape, right? How did you get yours?"

"I…" The man shook his head and seemed to gather himself. "I'm Tom Riddle," he said, offering his hand to shake. "It's nice to meet you."

…

Dating Harry was almost enough to make Tom feel normal. Despite how many years it had been since he'd escaped the cabin in the woods—escaped the madman who'd wanted to make Tom one of his 'collection'—he'd never felt normal since.

Paranoia dogged his every move and, even though he'd done all he could to find out the identity of his would-be-killer, he'd never been able to. Instead, he'd had to look at every middle-aged man with suspicion; he'd had to check over his shoulder constantly, never able to relax.

The security system in his home was one of the best in the country, if not the world. And still, when he locked the doors every night, he had to check every single window and every single entrance to make sure that he was truly safe.

But Harry made him feel… light. Free. Happy.

And Tom knew that he'd have to tell him the truth about his own scar, but he was scared that it would chase him away.

…

People asked about their matching scars all the time. Harry thought it was hilarious, though Tom never liked to be asked about the scar on his head.

Soon, Harry understood.

They'd been dating for a few months when Tom finally told him how he'd gotten it. Harry had vomited from the guilt of finding it so funny, when Tom had managed to escape from a serial killer when he was just fifteen years old.

Tom had ended up comforting him in the end—and wasn't that ironic—but eventually, Harry had been convinced that he hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't known.

From then on, the two of them made up outlandish stories about their matching scars whenever people asked, and it seemed to make Tom happier, so Harry didn't mind the random lies.

After all, he loved Tom.

…

Harry didn't run. He didn't say it was too much.

He didn't leave.

Tom rubbed his back as Harry vomited, watching tears leak from his eyes as he apologised over and over again for making jokes about their matching scars. Tom promised him that it was fine—that he even liked the fact that Harry said that they were marked for one another. Soulmates destined to meet.

He comforted him, and laughed slightly when Harry told him off for it.

But through it all, Harry loved him. He held Tom close in bed. He helped him check the windows and doors. He didn't jump out when Tom's nightmares had him thrashing under the sheets, not even when Harry ended up with the odd bruise from one of Tom's fighting limbs.

It was on one such night that Tom realised, as he matched his breathing to Harry's to calm down, that he loved him. Loved him fully, truly, enduringly.

Harry was Tom's one person.

And he'd do anything for him.

…

Running late, sorry babe. Meeting ran long. I'll be there in about forty minutes.

Harry smiled down at the text and ordered a drink at the bar. Tom was supposed to have been there five minutes ago, but these things happened. Forty minutes wasn't that long to wait, really.

It was their anniversary. A whole year together. The time had passed so fast, but it had been the happiest year of Harry's life. Tom was wonderful.

Playing games on his phone while he waited, he didn't notice the older man who sat down beside him at the bar until he cleared his throat. Glancing up, he saw the man staring at him.

Quite intently, really.

"That's… an interesting scar you've got there."

Shifting, a little uncomfortable at the almost hungry expression the man looked at him with, Harry nodded his head. "Car accident," he offered stiffly, looking back down at his phone.

Tom would be there in twenty minutes.

"Is that so?"

"Uh huh," Harry hummed, not looking up. There was something about the man that made him feel weird. He just couldn't put his finger on what it was.

Getting up, he drained his drink and left the bar. He'd text Tom and tell him to meet him somewhere else.

He'd barely typed half of the message before he felt a pain shatter through the back of his head. His phone fell to the floor as he stumbled, trying to turn around. Arms wrapped around him tightly, and a cloth was placed over his mouth and nose.

The last thing he heard was six ominous words hissed into his ear.

"I told you I'd find you."

…

Tom felt an itch as he pulled into the parking lot of the bar he was supposed to meet Harry at. He was running late, and he was irritated at himself for being so, but he hadn't been able to help it.

But that wasn't the cause of the itch. Tom didn't really know what was behind it; he just knew that something was wrong.

He climbed from the car and jogged down the steps to the entrance. He was about to go inside when he saw something on the ground, half hidden by a potted plant.

Heart sinking, he turned the mobile over in his hand to see a familiar case covering the back of it. Tapping the screen, he typed in Harry's password, and found a half-written message on the screen, meant for him.

Weird guy at the bar, moving over to

It wasn't finished, but instinctively, Tom knew. He knew what had happened. He knew who had taken Harry.

He knew where he was.

…

Harry groaned as he woke, pain tugging him to consciousness. His head felt like he'd been hit by a train. He tried to move, to stretch, and found that he couldn't.

Blinking his eyes open despite the added pain it caused, he found himself tied to a chair. The rope was so tight, it cut into his skin.

"What the—?"

"Oh, good, you're awake."

Turning his head, Harry found himself staring at the man from the bar. He was leaning in the doorframe of what seemed like an abandoned cabin, though it was too dark for Harry to see anything out of the grimy window. He wondered how long he'd been out for.

"What's going on?" Harry asked, feeling like he was being stupid, but in too much pain to truly care.

The man walked towards Harry until he was standing right beside him. With rough hands, he grabbed at his hair and pulled Harry's head back sharply. He ran his thumb over the lightning bolt scar on his head and grinned.

"I told you, didn't I? That I'd find you? The one that got away. I've thought about this moment a lot over the years."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry forced out, gasping when the grip on his hair tightened.

"I made this mark on you ten years ago," the man spat. "You dare to deny me?"

"That wasn't me!" Harry shouted, crying out when the man punched the side of his head. "It wasn't me," he sobbed, leaning away from him. "I got my scar in a car accident when I was young."

"You expect me to believe you?" The man chuckled and shook his head. "No, no." He tightened the ropes holding one of Harry's arms and smiled. "You won't be escaping this time."

…

He'd always sworn that he'd never go back to the woods he'd run through all those years ago. He hadn't even led the police there when they'd asked if he could find his way back. He knew that they'd searched the woods, but they hadn't gone deep enough in.

But Tom would.

For Harry.

He loaded the handgun he'd bought for protection years ago, and gripped it tightly as he left his car at the nearest dip in the woods. He used the torch on his phone to make sure he didn't fall, pausing every so often to make sure that he was truly as alone as he thought he was.

He thought that he'd know if he wasn't, but he couldn't take any chances. Not when Harry's life probably depended on it.

Sweat dripped down his face, his shirt sticking to his back as he made his way through the thick trees. His jacket ripped and tore as it snagged on the branches, but he didn't care.

Whatever it took.

Even if he had to face the only fear he'd ever had.

…

Harry lost all sense of time. It could have been five minutes since he'd woken, or five days.

He lost all sense of himself. All he knew was pain. His head was no better, and his skin was littered with cuts and bruises. Lighting bolts covered his arms and legs, some drawn with a knife, one of them branded into his hip with a poker heated in the fireplace.

"You will be beautiful," the man promised him, but Harry could only scream out his pain. His tears dried up long ago, having long since been past the point where they helped. "You'll be what I'm known for. And I will be known. I'll claim you as mine. The name Grindelwald will go down in the history books, and you'll be right there with me. The one that got away, the one that was reclaimed. You'll be my finest work of art."

Harry paid him little mind, unable to focus on the words. He could only pray for death—the inevitable end—to come quickly, to save him from the agony that he felt through every inch of his body.

Tipping his head back, he stared at the grimy window through swollen eyes. He thought he saw a flash of light, but it was gone between one blink and the next.

He thought he heard a rustle but knew that, if he did, it would just be wind through the trees.

There was no help coming for him.

He wasn't like Tom; he couldn't escape. He wasn't strong enough.

And then the bang came.

…

The gunshot sounded loud in the small cabin, but Tom paid no mind to the frozen look of surprise on his once-tormentor's face as he hurried across the room. Harry's head had fallen to his chest, and his body was littered with cuts and bruises.

Fear gripped him tightly as he checked for a pulse. Eventually, he found one, fainter than he'd like, but still beating. He'd made it in time to save Harry's life, even if he couldn't save him from the pain.

"Harry? Harry, can you hear me?"

An unintelligible groan left Harry, and Tom had never heard a more beautiful sound. It meant he was alive.

"I'm going to get you out of here, Harry. I'm going to get you to the hospital, I promise."

"Tom," Harry managed to whisper. "Tom. Hurts."

"I know. I know, but you'll get through it."

Tom would be there to help him through it, to make sure he would be okay.

As he untied the ropes around Harry's legs, he glanced over at the body of the man who'd ruined his life. Blood pooled in a circle around him, staining the dirty floor, and he stared lifelessly up at the ceiling.

He'd never hurt anyone else.

Ropes untied, Tom lifted Harry into his arms with ease and left the cabin.

"You're safe now."