When A Slaughterhouse Becomes A Home (selfcest/tomarry)

three

Tom is a well trained liar. He tells Harry he's not in contact with Voldemort but when the day starts and Harry is off in class, he exchanges letters with the man, eager to share his ingenious plan.

Voldemort is excited to have a version of himself in Hogwarts. He warns Tom not to act until he has assured something, some secret weapon -- he won't disclose what -- and Tom assured him that his assassination runs the long haul. 

He doesn't say what his plan is, either. He supposed they both have secrets to keep.

Tom mentions in passing that he can touch The Boy Who Lived and not feel pain, and Voldemort gives him a very strained response: Interesting. I have some things to research. I will be in touch.

What Tom can infer from that is that his situation with Harry... it differs from what he has with Voldemort. Is it because he was formed from Harry's pain? Tom doesn't know. He begins his own phase of researching.

Harry, meanwhile, is refuses to eat. He barely sleeps and lies in bed all night with his wand clutched to his chest. He is paranoid beyond belief. He falls asleep during classes and wakes to paralyzing nightmares and mutters about "he's coming" and "he's on his way." Inconsolable.

Tom responds to his concerns with calculated nonanswers. Nothing that makes Harry feel better... but nothing that makes Tom out to be a bad friend, either 

No, Harry, I don't think anyone's after you... but I wouldn't really know, either.

You shouldn't be afraid of your other self. There's much more scary threats to your life that persist.

And when Tom feels he's said something too fat, he backtracked, apologizes, and offers genuine comfort. He plays Harry's mind like a game and slowly intwines himself deeper and deeper into Harry's psyche.

He is a friend. A good friend, who's seen the darkest sides of Harry and has not turned away. Has embraced them. 

Harry sits with his back to the wall, his legs draped over Tom's, leaning against him. They are cuddling. He is crying, just a little bit. "Tom?" he says, quietly. 

"I'm here," says Tom, running his fingers through Harry's hair. "No need to fret."

Harry smiles weakly. "I did something stupid today," says Harry, his smile dying. "I spoke out in class -- and said that Voldemort had returned."

Tom forced himself to wince. He can't have Harry thinking he's comfortable with being compared to Voldemort.

Harry sighs. "I have detention now. She's a foul woman, Umbridge. If you're still killing people, put her in your hit list."

Harry barks out a laugh. But to Tom, interestingly enough... it sounds rather forced. 

Joking, are you, Harry? This just makes you that much more interesting.

A pause.

Too bad you have to die.

Tom deflates at that and resorts to just listening, nodding his head along as Harry talks, complaining of a fake woman who answers only to herself and whatever God she serves. 

Harry quiets again. Then, "Tom, was the joke too much? Are you mad at me?"

Tom sighs, hugging him closer. "No," he says gently, the soft tone of a best friend or a lover. "I'm not mad."

Harry sinks into the embrace. "I can't stand this," says Harry.

"Stand what?"

"Walking on eggshells."

"You don't have to walk on eggshells around me, Harry," reassures Tom. And you are so much more fascinating when you don't. 

"Yeah," sighs Harry. He buries his head in the crook of Tom's neck. "But I'm in doubt of even that. And with everyone else?"

Tom scratches Harry's scalp. "Be yourself. Why care for them enough to censor yourself?" Yes. It would be something, something great, to see Harry reach his full potential, before of course... his imminent demise.

But, to Tom's disappointment, Harry is not moved. "I can't avoid to lose them."

Tom hums. Harry becomes very quiet.

"Tom?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"I want to tell you something, but I'm afraid you'd hate me."

"I could never hate you," says Tom. A lie. He already hates him. 

"Do you promise?" asks Harry. Nervous and insecure. The very pciture of fifteen.

No, thinks Tom. "Of course, Harry. Tell me, what's your secret?"

Harry blushes red... a curious reaction. "It's not really a secret... it's just something I don't tell people."

So a secret. "Ah," says Tom. "Now you've got my interest, Harry. Have you killed someone?"

Harry laughs, loudly. "No," he says, still laughing. "You wish."

So I do. "Then do tell, Harry."

Harry mumbles, barely heard, "I'm... I like men, I think."

That is... not what Tom was expecting. He realizes he's been silent for a little too long. After getting over his initial shock, he realizes he can use this. This confession is functional. A young gay boy, alone and unable to be himself. He is so vulnerable right now, and he doesn't even know it.

"Oh, Harry, it's alright. I'm very proud of you for telling me." He hugs Harry, wrapping their entire bodies together, a tangled, conjoined mess. Harry is crying, harder now than before. 

"It's all alright, Harry. It's all alright."

Harry sobs and hugs Tom close and feels alive, feels comforted, like despite what transpired between them before, he has found his new beginning.

Tom hides a mischievous smirk in Harry's hair.

Gay, young, alone, and unable to be himself.

Why not add unaccepted to the mix?

He has a rumour to spread.

Harry is sitting up in bed when Tom slips out of the diary and onto the blanket. Harry has a blank look in his eye. He is staring at something Tom can't see.

"Harry?" asks Tom, hesitantly. He reaches out his hand, wiping the sweaty hair from Harry's face. When his fingers touch his forehead, Harry's skin is cold, clammy, corpse like. "Harry, what's wrong?"

And he does not utter his usual forebodings. He does not say He's coming or He's near.

No.

He says, "He's here."