Cold as Snow (A Harry Potter Fanfic)

Coming to Terms

A muted thud startled Harry from his brooding, nearly spilling the half empty bottle of wine across the dining table. A few droplets splattered themselves against his rolled up sleeve and the table as he caught it, appearing ominous against his white shirt and the light wood. He gazed up at the painted ceiling that was bathed in a soft yellow halo from the dim light bulb, unable to squash the sudden worry that Tom had either injured himself or was up to something. He wanted to think the best of him, he really did. He was only a child after all, but it seemed his mind attached the image of sleepless nights and waking terrors to the troubled boy like a spider's web. No matter how he might convince himself otherwise, like a shroud of netting, it refused to fully untangle to let the biased assumptions go.

A defeated sigh sailed past red stained lips as Harry shifted his grip on the neck of the wine bottle he'd found at the back of the liquor cabinet and brought it forth for another long glug. It was an issue he'd have to address, deal with and get over. Like all the others, it was no different but at this moment in time it seemed impossible to conquer. Not that getting plastered would reveal any answers but the sweet enticement of intoxication and a lack of worries was hard to refute. He let gravity guide the alcohol back to the table with a satisfying thump. Much like in tribute to the one from upstairs. The fuzzy thought was amusing and the vague solidarity bullied a wry edged smile across his flushed face, consequently he raised the bottle of wine in a foolish mock of companionship. 

He'd figure it out, he always did. He was resourceful when needed and a type of brave that boarded on suicidal, paired with his brand of dumb luck things usually worked out. Only, know he didn't have Hermione to help him research or Ron to help him plan. Sombre realisation curdled below his navel and the wine was no longer an escape but a prison of his darkest thoughts. He set the bottle back on the table roughly, shoving it away in a sudden display of disgust. What was he doing? The hysteric sentiment echoed like a caved scream at the base of his skull (despairing; rage filled; addled with grief) as it travelled to the forefront near his eyes, bringing forth a throbbing headache and the swell of tears that watered his vision of the bottle's faded label to illegibility. 

"What am I doing?" Harry whispered, head cradled in scarred hands and fingers digging into his scalp. A lone tear tumbled over, gliding unhurriedly to meet a wobbling mouth. He'd promised. He'd promised he'd fix it, fix everything. He hadn't expressed those words exactly but the sentiment was there, it was the most comfort he could offer when he'd decided to be the one to go after — and perhaps in spite of — their disagreements when he had brought it up months prior. He hadn't meant to do so behind their backs but they would have stopped him 'playing hero' as they would say and he'd refused to witness another burden taken on by one of his few remaining friends when he could prevent it. They deserved to have what little happiness they could obtain in that messed up world together, as a couple. So he'd left them, left them with nothing but a hastily written note and the hope that their reality would change. And what if it didn't? What if it couldn't? It would all be for nothing because this timeline would never have his Hermione, or his Ron, or his Neville or his Luna or his—

A soft rap swept the tides of despair to untouchable shores and his body reacted instinctively despite the alcohol. He stood and spun in a deadly pirouette, knocking the bottle of wine to the floor with a deafening smash. Drawing his wand like the weapon it had become he aimed it at his lifelong nemesis while magic danced across his skin, so very eager to be used. A curse perished on his tongue when he belatedly perceived that it was Tom (young Tom, child Tom, seven year old Tom) who had flinched back to cower behind the door frame — eyes wide with fear and small hands bunched into his worn wool slipover. The sight was pitiful and a swarm of guilt spread its icy tendrils, lining his stomach with frost and searing his throat shut. A roaring deafened his ears like the aftershocks of a bomb and nausea bloomed — inadvertently sickened by himself