February 8, 1942 (continued)
Inside the arena, Tom watched with a stony face as the crowd fell into a sullen silence, the Queen's silencing charm working wonders. He didn't dare glance at Malfoy's unconscious body. If he did, Tom didn't know if he'd be able to keep himself from killing the boy.
Ten steps stood between him and the arena exit. Realistically, Tom knew it was nothing more than a series of mechanical actions performed by his body that brought him from point A to point B, but these ten steps were more than a series of steps. These ten steps marked the beginning of the end; Tom the Muggleborn stood at step one, while Tom the Mudblood stood at step ten.
But, Tom reflected bitterly, I suppose I was always 'the mudblood' to them.
Ten steps.
How naive I was for thinking that I could change them.
His posture straight and face stony, Tom stepped forward, reminding himself to put one foot in front of the other in smooth, relaxed movements. One jerky movement, one flick of the eyebrow, or one scowl would amount to political suicide.
As soon as his left foot stepped over the boundary of the arena, he felt the protective ward disappear. Utter silence greeted him. Most were glaring hatefully at him, bitter hatred casting a harsh light upon their faces, full scowls and snarls marring their lips. Others simply looked at him with cold eyes, disappointed.
Tom wanted to scream and rage. He made sure that not one of those emotions came onto his face. He had never despised the wizarding world and its institutions and values so much. He wanted to burn it to the ground.
From the corner of his eye, Harry was desperately flashing his eyes at him, trying to get his attention.
Tom ignored Harry and made his sentiment clear as he marched through the aisle, those closest to him craning their heads to gawk and glare at the newest circus freak. A part of him was tempted to summon the anaconda again and have it strangle the crowd, starting with Evander Rosier.
Any other day, Tom would have lavished the attention of Slytherin House focused solely on him.
However, I never thought it would be like this.
A few long strides later, he was away from the throngs of people and at the hallway to the fourth year dormitories. The light tap tap tap behind him indicated that Harry had caught up to him and was quietly trailing behind him. Tom ignored him and kept walking until he was standing in front of their dorm room.
"Tom—"
Tom shook his head subtly. He disabled the safety and protection charms with a swish of his wand and opened the door. Marching in stiffly, he sat down in his chair, adopting an unaffected impression by leaning back into the wooden backing that dug into his spine. He smoothed his stiff facial features, commanding himself to relax his brows and unclench his jaw. Harry entered, closed the door behind him, and recast the medley of charms, as well as a silencing charm.
Harry turned around slowly, and both stared steadily at each other. Tom raised an eyebrow, acutely aware that his lips were twitching. He was struggling to keep himself in check.
Unacceptable.
"I'm sorry," Harry said softly.
His anger flared, an overpowered wave that briefly blinded him until he saw nothing but red. "Shut up!" Tom snarled, slashing a hand through the air. He already knew what Harry had to say, and he didn't particularly want to hear it.
Harry raised his hands slowly, keeping his face open and sympathetic, eyebrows knitted just enough to express his sympathy, mouth parted just enough to show his sadness at the situation. I have taught him well, Tom thought bitterly. Too well.
A slow exhale was Harry's response, measured and low. "I," Harry swallowed, "I know you don't want to hear it. But I am really sorry for what's happened."
Tom curled his fingers slowly, forming two tightly clenched fists. His blood was boiling, he was so angry, he wanted to break something, anything, everything, snap his quills and tear his parchment into pieces, squeeze his hands around Malfoy's throat and watch as the light faded from his eyes—
"You. Know. Nothing."
Harry's eyebrows knitted further, his lips sloping downwards into an unhappy frown.
Tom averted his eyes, focusing his gaze instead on the scrunched skin between Harry's brows, the upper portion of the nasal bridge that was covered in shadows from the wrinkles under the dim lighting. It was a trick that Tom had taught himself to seem like he was focused on the person talking without truly focusing on them. Of course, Harry knew his tactics but allowed it.
Still one for empty platitudes, Harry repeated his former statement, this time by stepping closer with his arm outstretched. "I'm sorry."
Tom scowled, not deigning those words a response. Harry was approaching like he was a wild animal that needed to be tamed.
He was not.
Harry took another tentative step forward, and Tom shifted to his feet in a sudden movement. "I'm going to bed," he announced in a clear voice, finally looking away.
Harry walked faster, closing the gap between them as Tom stood still, barely breathing.
Get away from me.
Tom narrowed his eyes, saying in a low tone, "Get out—"
Strong arms enveloped him, warm and firm as Harry embraced him. Tom stiffened automatically, tensing his shoulders and drawing his body in on himself.
Weak, Tom scolded himself.
But that didn't prevent Tom from allowing the action. His mind catalogued the explosion of new stimuli as it arrived to his brain, the touch and warmth and pressure of a warm body wrapping itself around his own.
"Let it out," Harry whispered, leaning up so that his words were angled to hit Tom's ear. His breath was warm.
No.
Snapping out of his momentary haze, Tom pushed Harry away from him, stumbling backwards, arms flailing. He barely caught himself by bracing himself using a chair. Strangely, it didn't bring Tom the satisfaction he usually felt.
Pathetic.
"I can't stand you," Tom seethed, slashing his hand through the air. He stalked forward, looming over Harry, intent on doing it again. Perhaps his lack of emotion was a fluke. After all, he wanted to make Harry hurt, make him feel and suffer for daring to think that he could understand what it was like.
You'll never understand.
Breathing deeply, he stopped to glare at Harry, a faraway look in his eyes. There was something a little off in his unfocused expression.
Suddenly, his eyes snapped to stare at Tom with a single-minded intensity that made him shiver. Tom suppressed it, of course.
"Will you feel better if I let you hurt me?" Harry whispered, his voice hoarse, gaze unwavering in its firmness.
He considered Harry with cool eyes, face devoid of emotion.
I should.
Harry made the choice for him, extending his arm with his palm facing upward, pale and white in the dim lighting.
Foolish.
Stepping forward, Tom cocked his head and stared into Harry's eyes as he reached forward and encircled Harry's wrist with his middle finger and thumb, both fingers meeting over the pulse point. He tightened his grip, causing his fingers to overlap, his thumb on top of the nail of his middle finger. Harry uncurled his fingers, letting his wrist go limp, relaxing further into the grip.
You know better than to trust me like that, Tom thought. He tightened his grip further, the skin wrinkling and creasing as he did so.
"Well?" Harry inquired, eyes still eerily intense as he leaned forward into the death grip. "Does it?" His breath was warm.
It didn't make him feel better.
Tom considered this new revelation as his grip remained steady, Harry's pulse never missing a beat or increasing in its rhythm.
Hurting Harry felt like a pale imitation of hurting Malfoy. It wasn't a substitute for what Tom truly wanted.
Tom thinned his lips. Unwrapping his fingers from Harry's wrist, he reached out with both hands to push him. Harry dodged the attack, jumping sideways, and he crouched into his dueling position and sprung his wand out, pointing it at Tom.
"You just want a fight," Harry breathed, panting slightly as the corners of his lips curved upwards. A few locks of hair had fallen into his face, adding to his disheveled appearance. "You want someone that will fight back."
His ire spiked, causing him to grind his teeth together. "You don't know what you're talking about," Tom snarled, brandishing his own wand and shifting into his dueling position.
Harry grinned, his expression one of savagery, not happiness. "I know exactly what I'm talking about."
Anger suddenly rose and rose and rose until Tom was no more than a mere spectator, washed away in the sea of rage. Spurred on by the tidal wave of wrath, he stalked forward and jabbed his finger into Harry's chest.
"You don't," he snarled, digging his finger deeper. "You don't know what it's like to realize your accomplishments were a fucking farce. That everything you've done has amounted to nothing."
I despise them.
Tom narrowed his eyes and spat, "These purebloods are pathetic excuses of what it means to wield magic, tittering and gossiping behind closed doors, too blind to see the reality in front of them."
Harry remained as still as a statue as he spoke. Running out of steam, Tom paused in his speech, contemplating his next words, drumming the pads of his fingers on his palm.
"I thought they would see me for who I am."
Tom laughed, feeling the sharp teeth of bitterness tear at him.
"I was wrong."
From a detached place in his mind, Tom knew he was revealing too much. But each word that he uttered felled another wall within him, leaving him no choice but to let loose the tidal wave. Hot, heavy satisfaction ran through his veins as he continued speaking. It ran parallel to the feelings of irritation and annoyance, which he was trying to suppress but was failing miserably.
It felt better than when he had hurt Harry earlier.
Harry stared at him steadily, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Oddly, Tom was calmed by this. If Harry had agreed with him, Tom would have hated him for being sycophantic. If Harry had disagreed with him, Tom would have hated him for purposely antagonizing him.
Harry reached out slowly, brushing aside a lock of hair that had fallen in front of his eye. Tom exhaled, not realizing that he had been holding his breath.
"You're upset because you've finally realized that you can't make everything go your way," Harry said softly.
Tom sneered, crossing his arms. "I never knew you were so fatalistic."
He hated it when Harry talked to him like that. Like he was a small child, impatient and spoiled rotten and needed to be punished by the headmaster.
Harry never stopped looking at Tom with those green eyes, luminous and sparkling in the low light. His gaze was thoughtful and sympathetic, but his tone of voice was devoid of any emotional attachment. "Someone needed to curb your hopeless idealism," Harry said coolly.
Tom glared at his best friend with the intensity of a thousand suns, feeling his jaw clench and teeth grind against each other. "You think my humiliation was necessary?"
This is why I don't trust—
"No," Harry said, shaking his head impatiently. "Don't you see? It was inevitable; it was the only possible conclusion of you trying to assimilate into purist culture."
Tom straightened his posture and narrowed his eyes. Perhaps he had misjudged Harry.
Still, I never took Harry to believe in predestination.
"Something had to give when you entered Slytherin," Harry said, a fire alight in his gaze. "And it was never going to be the conservative stronghold. It was always you."
No, I don't believe I misjudged him.
Anger flooding his body, Tom was shaking now, forearms trembling from the effort of restraining them, shoulders jerking around in random motions. The words wouldn't come.
Shut up.
"What do you think would have happened if you had continued this charade into your professional life? Would you have been satisfied as a politician, ultimately knowing you could do nothing to 'teach the purebloods a lesson'? What then?"
"I would—will—destroy them once I'm at the height of my power," Tom spat, aching to swing at Harry. However, he felt increasingly clumsy and uncentered the longer he spoke. "They won't see it coming."
How could he possibly still not understand?
Harry's face hardened, and he let out a little scoff. "You'll never be more than a freak to them. Even if you're the Minister, you'll always be the nouveau riche poser with an unpalatable past that they gossip about behind your back. Your existence is a threat to their rigid thinking. They're happier pretending you don't exist."
I hate you.
His mouth set in a snarl, Tom retorted, "They won't have the opportunity—"
Harry scoffed louder and gestured with his hands at their lavish dormitory. "All of this, the ornate lamps and vintage dressers and baroque beds—it's a sham. You can pretend to be like them and emulate their mannerisms and lack of glottal stops, but they hate you all the same. I don't understand why you try so hard to assimilate into a culture that despises you. The most you'll be is tolerated, never accepted."
I despise you, Harry Peters.
Feeling increasingly off-kilter, Tom snapped, "I must do this."
Harry threw him a frustrated stare, lips pressed together.
"It was an active choice you made with your first step into the Wizarding World, and it has been a series of choices you made from that point onward." He held up his palm as Tom narrowed his eyes. Tom was simmering with anger, but couldn't bring himself to refute his statement, the words caught in his throat.
"Really, it wouldn't be so much of an issue if you hadn't started internalizing that belief system—"
"Shut your mouth," Tom cut in, sneering heavily. His heartbeat was elevated, and he was breathing faster than he usually did.
Don't you dare talk to me like that.
Harry pressed his lips together in annoyance and rolled his eyes. "Sometimes, I wish you hadn't chosen Slytherin."
Tom let a hiss escape his mouth. "It seems that I must keep repeating to you that Slytherin will be the most beneficial to us. If we can survive Slytherin, we can survive the rest of the Wizarding World."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Have you considered that you don't need to kill yourself in order to prove yourself? Your approach is overkill. I fear that Slytherin has given you delusions of grandeur."
All this time, Tom thought. And he still understands nothing.
But he knew it would be no use to tell Harry that. Instead, Tom crossed his arms and sneered, "Better to have magnificent visions of the future than to not have any at all."
Harry scoffed, throwing his arms up and shaking his head slightly in disbelief. "This is the issue with you! You always believe that you'll accomplish the impossible—"
His indignation rising, Tom cut in, saying, "I am more pragmatic than you."
"In some aspects, maybe. But you've never really let go of the dream of becoming one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, have you?"
Merlin, Harry has become delusional.
"That dream is the truth," Tom said coldly.
Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. You're hanging onto the Sacred Twenty-Eight by a slight technicality. Just because you're half Gaunt doesn't mean you'll truly be one of them. Being one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight is more than heritage, it's a lifestyle."
Tom opened his mouth to refute Harry, then closed it. There's no point.
At last, he said in a neutral tone, "You, Harry Peters, are a lost cause."
To his immense surprise, Harry laughed, the sound a harsh, barking thing. "Go look in a mirror. I don't hold myself to impossible standards. I don't chase impossible dreams. Whereas you," Harry shook an accusing finger at him, "you refuse to believe that you could possibly be wrong—"
"No!" Tom snarled, clenching his hands into fists. "You—"
Harry stared at Tom with disbelief in his eyes. "You never know when to stop, do you? I had to drag a confession out of you after you lost my cloak. And that came after I revoked borrowing privileges, something I had never needed to do before."
"I admitted I was wrong," Tom said tersely. Trying to ignore his discomfort only caused him more discomfort. Fuck. He clenched his jaw.
Harry drew his hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh. "We're getting nowhere. Yes, you admitted you were wrong, but you still lie to yourself. You're living a lie, Tom, and I want it to stop."
Tom narrowed his eyes. "You say we're getting nowhere but you're the one causing us to go in circles. I have told you many times explicitly that my ambitions will come to pass."
"It's not even about that," Harry said in an annoyed tone as he leaned back, stretching his arms above his head. "It's more about the way you live your life. You tell me you hate purebloods, but you actually just envy them."
Tom felt his body stiffen. "I do not—"
Harry challenged him with an eyebrow as if to say, you're in denial.
Tom inhaled deeply, working to keep his breathing steady. "If anything, you're the one that envies purebloods."
Harry closed his eyes briefly to let out a frustrated huff, saying, "Don't deny that you want what Black has. Sometimes, I catch you staring at him like—"
Tom couldn't take it anymore. He felt like he was drowning. All his plans, his worldview, his life, it was falling to pieces before him.
"GET OUT!" Tom roared, slashing his hand through the air. There were so many things he wanted to say and could have said, but these two words sufficed.
Harry let out a loud sigh. Otherwise, he was seemingly unaffected.
He never knows when to stop.
Too angry to think straight, Tom stomped over to the cloak and threw it over his body. One silencing charm later, he set out for the Room of Requirement, walking through the now-emptied common room and vast castle.
While he walked to his destination, his thoughts grew muddled and confusing, threatening to overwhelm him with their intensity.
I hate all of them, the purebloods, the halfbloods, muggles, squibs, muggleborns, Darks, Lights, everyone.
Tom stopped abruptly and let out a scream, fairly certain that his silencing charm would hold.
The rest of the walk was spent in utter silence, his mind having calmed down as he focused on maintaining steady breaths.
He paused at where the room was and paced back and forth thrice, wishing for a dueling room. The door appeared, and Tom opened it and entered the room.
Neat rows of dummies lined the wall, a familiar sight that comforted him.
Perfect. Tom cracked his knuckles and grabbed a towel. Frowning at it, he transfigured it into a platinum blond wig and walked over to the nearest dummy, fitting it snugly onto the dummy's head.
The dummy wasn't Abraxas Malfoy, but it would have to do.
Tom stepped back, closing his eyes and relieved his humiliation, growing more agitated as he remembered the gleam in Abraxas' eyes as he tried to break his wand. Seeing the crowd jeer and hurl slurs at him only increased his rage.
Breathing heavily, he opened his eyes and crouched into a dueling position, feeling the anger surging through him like he was struck by lighting, the rush of adrenaline electrifying him.
Tom channeled it all into intent, the fuel required for Dark Magic. His heart was pounding wildly, and he was panting, his mouth and throat feeling quite dry.
I want to see him suffer.
"CRUCIO!"
A red beam erupted from the tip of his wand and shot towards the target, striking the dummy in the center of its torso. The dummy remained in place, the torso lighting up into a medium green shade.
Tom let out a giant exhale, unaware that he had been holding his breath.
Too bad it doesn't scream.
He couldn't even bring himself to be angry at how sloppy his spellwork was. His anger was too wild, too uncontrollable to be focused on something so trivial. Moreover, the heady rush of satisfaction from the Dark Arts was inescapable.
Again.
Tom adjusted his posture, bending his knees further and inching his feet further apart. He relaxed his death grip on his wand and prepared himself mentally once more.
"CRUCIO!"
This time, the dummy lit up a shade darker.
Again.
"CRUCIO!"
Tom steadfastly ignored the battered mess of twisting emotions vying for control.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!
"CRUCIO!"
He knew he was being reckless. He knew it was a waste of his time and energy to be throwing around Unforgivables, and he would have to perform a cleansing rite two weeks earlier than he had planned. He didn't care. All he had were his feelings of hatred and disgust.
After an indeterminable amount of Cruciatus Curses, Tom paused his practice to catch his breath, panting for air. If he continued, he'd come down with a bad case of magical exhaustion, but it wasn't a pressing matter on his mind.
How pathetic.
It was infuriating to learn that one's achievements were a farce, as he had told Harry. Being the Slytherin trailblazer was what he wanted because he thought it would improve his chances and ease his path to success. Little did he know that he wasn't really being revolutionary at all, rather, he was still following the status quo, albeit a very hard to follow status quo. He hadn't set out intending to become a revolutionary for the sake of it, but he had come to adopt that title as he thought it was a nice ego booster.
Moreover, it hurt to learn that he still was unable to change the establishment. Contrary to what Harry believed, Tom was not naive. He knew he wouldn't change the pureblood establishment this quickly, but he thought his word would have a little more clout than just being blatantly tossed aside in favor of angry chants from the mob.
I loathe them. I loathe them all.
Tom clenched his hands into fists as he heard the door click open, followed by the soft pitter-patter of footsteps.
He truly doesn't know when to stop, does he?
Harry's soft voice reached his ears. "I'm not going to apologize for what I said, but I apologize for the way I said it."
When will you learn to just leave things where they lie? Tom wondered, the hatred dissipating from him. He rubbed his eyes, feeling that he was remaining awake by pure willpower as the rush of Dark Magic fled from his body, leaving him more tired than he remembered being in a long time.
"Leave," he said in a clipped voice. He tried not to let the emotions spill out or exhaustion show in his voice.
The door clicked close as Harry sighed, a tremulous, soft thing.
You shouldn't have come here.
The hatred flared up again as Harry stayed where he was. "If you're not with me, you're against me," Tom spat, staring at the dummy, the shade of green fading away. "I won't say it again: get out."
More footsteps followed as Tom resolutely remained still, like he was frozen in place. Tom felt a hand land on his shoulder, but he refused to move his head or address the unwanted visitor.
"I'll never be against you, Tom. I may say my own opinions, but I'll always be with you," Harry whispered. "I don't want this to cause lasting strife between us."
Tom finally turned around, glaring at Harry, who was now rubbing his fingers in soothing circles on his shoulder. He shook the hand off as he said stiffly, "Do not touch me."
"What is it?" asked Harry quietly, letting his hand fall to his side. "What's bothering you?"
"I've already explained what was bothering me multiple times."
He wished he could summon that anger again, but it seemed to have disappeared into the void.
Harry shook his head. "I know, but I want you to tell me what's really bothering you. If you don't want to, I understand, but please, think about it."
Seeing Harry's open expression, Tom sighed. Perhaps it was the magical exhaustion or surrealness of the day that caused him to open his mouth. Perhaps it was by pure chance that Tom spoke, albeit hesitantly.
"I feel that I am inadequately prepared for the path ahead."
"In what way?"
Tom let out a bitter scoff, feeling more exhausted than ever. "If I can't succeed in Slytherin, how will I be successful when I graduate? It's a relatively tame test compared to the real world, but I can't seem to get a grip over myself."
"You don't know that for certain," Harry objected.
Tom closed his eyes. "There are two paths that I am willing to walk: that of a revolutionary or politician. Both paths require that I thrive in my current environment."
Harry considered his words, remaining quiet for some time. "Is this what you want? Or is this something you've convinced yourself into wanting?"
I...
Tom considered the question, rolling the words around in his mind, repeating Harry's words in a loop.
I don't know.
Tom really stared at Harry, taking in the sight of his emerald irises that stared right back with infinite patience. "I want it because I refuse to live under anyone's thumb."
Harry stepped closer. His voice was soft. "Fighting the pureblood establishment isn't the only way you can accomplish that goal, and it's by far the hardest method."
Tom felt his throat tighten. "But I must," he said. He paused, feeling that he was sounding more and more ridiculous by the second, and amended his statement. "I'm destined for greatness, and I want the world to conform to my beliefs."
"What are your beliefs?"
"I have already told you multiple times," Tom said, his annoyance growing. "I'll change society when I'm older."
Harry persisted, asking softly, "And once you've achieved that, then what?"
Tom stood there, feeling stunned that he couldn't come out with a satisfactory answer. He could say power or money or adoration or success, but those answers felt hollow.
What is there to do at the top of the world?
Harry's voice was a soft whisper. "What do you truly want?"
"I want..." Tom trailed off again, unsure.
What do I want?
"If you died tomorrow, what would you want people to know about you?"
Tom instantly answered, "That I was successful, not mediocre. I want them to mourn and remember me forever."
"Do you feel successful?" Harry asked, sitting down on the couch. Tom followed, sitting beside him.
Tom kneaded the cushions in his hands and said evasively, "I will in the future."
Even still, his pride wouldn't let him admit his weakness.
Harry's hand brushed Tom's thigh with a light touch. Strangely, Tom didn't mind it. "Have you ever felt successful?" Harry asked gently.
Tom considered this, running back a reel of his major accomplishments in life. After each one, the answer was no. Each time, he had jumped to the next greater, more implausible accomplishment, never focusing on what he had achieved.
The biggest leap of faith wasn't admitting it to himself, it was admitting it to someone else.
With a deep breath, Tom said quietly, "I have not."
His lip twisted downward. It was a bitter pill to swallow, to realize that he had never allowed himself the time to bask in his accomplishments.
I feel... lost.
Tom's face crumpled a little, something in his chest giving way. Harry sighed softly at the sight, his eyes gentle. Then he reached forwards and hugged him, rubbing tiny circles into Tom's back with his thumbs. Tom slumped forward, his entire weight leaning into the embrace.
"I want you to be happy," Harry whispered.
There was a hand tangled in Tom's hair, gently massaging his scalp, softly encouraging him to rest his head in the nook between Harry's neck and shoulder. And Tom—
Tom should have pushed him away, but he didn't. He was so tired.
Perhaps Harry was right.
Tom closed his eyes as he relaxed into Harry's embrace.
———
Author's Note: Tom finally realizes what everyone knew all along. It hurts.