HP one shots

I need you to be a monster // Tomarry/Harrymort

Summary:

Tom screamed as he died. He thrashed and writhed and sobbed and stared at where light bled through his fingers as though he could think of nothing more surprising than his own death. He did not die quiet.

Harry didn't cry- not even when this boy he'd grown to care for so much over the course of the year looked up at him, eyes wide and terrified. He looked over at Ginny and dug the fang further into the spine of the diary. He didn't cry when his closest friend (the one who'd stayed up with him late into the night, the one who he'd told everything) finally dissipated in a shower of sparks.

It wasn't until later- after the inevitable interrogation and the poking and prodding and the people who asked "what was it like to witness your own death," and "how does it feel to be a hero," but never "are you ok'"- that Harry broke down. He swaddled himself in his sheets that were so soft he couldn't have even dreamed of touching them two years ago and he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Twelve years old and a murderer. Twelve years old with his best friends blood on his hands.

--

Harry falls in love with diary Tom. Somehow that's a bigger issue than it sounds
____________________________________

Tom screamed as he died. He thrashed and writhed and sobbed and stared at where light bled through his fingers as though he could think of nothing more surprising than his own death. He did not die quiet.

Harry didn't cry- not even when this boy he'd grown to care for so much over the course of the year looked up at him, eyes wide and terrified. He looked over at Ginny and dug the fang further into the spine of the diary. He didn't cry when his closest friend (the one who'd stayed up with him late into the night, the one who he'd told everything) finally dissipated in a shower of sparks.

It wasn't until later- after the inevitable interrogation and the poking and prodding and the people who asked "what was it like to witness your own death," and "how does it feel to be a hero," but never "are you ok'"- that Harry broke down. He swaddled himself in his sheets that were so soft he couldn't have even dreamed of touching them two years ago and he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Twelve years old and a murderer. Twelve years old with his best friends blood on his hands.

He cried until his sobs degenerated into dry rasps, from rasps to coughs. Then he could do nothing but sway with each heave of his diaphragm and gag at the pressure. He stayed there, choking on his tears, until a lone white petal sputtered from his lips.

oh.

so that's how it was.

---

Harry knew now that he had a time limit. Well. There had always been a time limit, but it was surer now. More definitive. He had three years. Probably less.

Probably less.

It hardly mattered, really: he hadn't ever truly expected to live to adulthood. He was always going to die for love. But... now that he was staring down the barrel of it, he realise that he was scared. He'd thought he'd have more time.

He sat on the bathroom floor four days later -a few hours after Hermione had woken up- and stared at his bloodied palm full of petals. This was not what he wanted, but it was what he got. No use grieving now. Not enough time for that.

He tossed the petals down the toilet and washed his blood from beneath his fingernails. He had things to do.

---

The first stage were the roots, growing silent and silvery along the tops of his lungs: like spiders silk. Plant roots are a beautiful example of evolution: they have small, hair-like cells that spread out, out, out. The roots need to take up space, you see. soil offers them water and nutrients and they soak it up greedily.