The Diary (pottermort)

chapter fifthteen

Tom doesn't understand what engulfs his lungs and threatens to pale his face-- not at first. After kissing Fleamont, Tom felt a pit drop in his stomach. He assumed he had caught something-- one sickness or ailment or another, and had decided to see the Mediwitch once the evening was complete.

He sits, hours later, on an infirmary bed, waiting for the Mediwitch's diagnostics to show results. He writes to Harry in the meantime.

One piece of parchment later, Tom is shooed out of the Hospital Wing, being told "there is nothing wrong with you dear, carry on."

Hours pass. The feeling does not.

Tom thinks about the kiss, how it failed to make him joyful, let alone happy enough to produce a corporal Patronus. He thinks that he is not romantically attracted to Fleamont (about how he does not feel anything even close to love toward the boy.)

And it is with these thoughts that Tom realizes why the splashing in his head is more emotional than physical-- and, more than that, unfamiliar.

Tom is disappointed in his work. Tom had tried and failed and it is something he is not used to. Failure is decidedly universal; goals are set and often never met by every soul to grace the Earth.

Failure is universal.

... And Tom feels like a fool to ever had considered himself an exception.

At least, Tom writes to Harry as the realization crashes down on him, the evening was not a waste.

And it wasn't. Not a total one, anyway. Fleamont mentioned his Cloak-- the fucking sap-- and the dots that had set themselves up just evenings ago had connected.

His thought process is usually long-winded because Tom is nothing if not a fast thinker, but things appeared simple and to the point this time around.

The Invisibility Cloak is a Deathly Hallow; Death is in close relation to the Deathly Hallows; "it is oh so very interesting to see you collecting my Hallows"; Harry said he met Death; "say hi to Harry for me."

Tom is embarrassed twice over because, really, things seem so simple when laid out as such. Things seem simple because they are. Death had sent a Howler to Tom with Gellert.

Odd. Odd-- simply fascinating. And even more so, the implication that Death had even a vague idea of where their Hallows were at any given time led Tom to some pretty odd (but not entirely incorrect) theories, all of which Tom scribbled spastically in a desperate attempt to feel a little less like a failure.

And what if they sent Gellert back too? Is that why Death is hanging out with him? Tom writes. (A conspiracy theory type vibe that Harry found comical more than anything.) What if Gellert has a Hallow? Which... was, as is, spot on theory. Harry shrugs it off but Tom's mind was hooked.

He proceeded to drown his feelings and his tiredness in the magical equivalent of energy drinks, spending the entire night wrapped in his Invisibility Cloak and following a trail of murders throughout time. To master the Elder wand, one must defeat the previous master. Which was, more often than, not done through murder.

Tom is smart. He is ambitious, determined, and smart. When he is flipping through a series of newspapers and notices that the evening after the previous believed Elder wand holder suffers a tragic and mysterious death, Gellert's wand changes ever so subtly, Tom comes to a conclusion most others would not.

Tom writes to Harry during breakfast, an almost giddy feeling (almost; for Tom was above giddy) running through him, his feelings and musings of disappointment long forgotten. His pen strokes are swift, confident, and only the slight tremor to his ink could attest to the amount of caffeine in his blood.

Gellert Grindelwald has the Elder wand. He's the owner of the second Deathly Hallow, Harry, Tom writes because he knows, like he knows Slughorn to be inauthentic, like he knows the ugly glare of the old Matron, that his theory is the definition of correct if there is one.

Harry does not respond immediately. Tom did not expect him to, instead continuing: It is all the more reason to not agree to his deal.

Harry, snapping out of whatever surprise had fazed him upon the reminder of Gellert's promise to murder at least three people if Tom did not cough up the requested information, quickly responds, People will die, Tom. Life is--

-- precious. Yes, I've heard. His words are made of equal parts ink and arrogance and the thought shakes Harry to his core. Tom scribbles on, The Master of Death would go down in history for proving that the classic fairytale is not as make-believe as supposed, and for proving that Death as an entity is more than a character in a storybook. It is something, Harry, but you do know what would be everything? Being the one who strikes the Dark Lord down.

Harry is... he is not even surprised. You really think yourself powerful enough to take on a global terrorist. It is not a question.

I know so. If Gellert is to come, then let me welcome him with open arms and blasting wands.

Harry thinks that Tom is smart. He thinks that a boy who is top of his class in everything and able to rise from the bottom to the top, from Wool's Orphanage to the Potter Manor, with ease is not a person who can be described as anything else. But Harry also believes that if a man's fall is arrogance, then there was nothing to be arrogant in the first place.

So, fuck it, Harry thinks. If he is to come, let him come. No matter who falls, it is one less Dark Lord to deal with.

The Hufflepuff side of him-- the one that has lessened as his time dead-ish continued-- screams that every life, without fail, is precious.

But the words fall to deaf ears, and Harry finds it hard to believe that they ever existed in the first place.