Thousand

(Yours, In Murder)

–

Harry does care for Tom. A lot. Loves, him, even.

Some things, though, will never be forgotten. There are things Tom has done that Harry will never be alright with, and will never completely forgive. Time will not heal all wounds, and it will not make Tom’s crimes less severe. The trauma Tom has caused will not disappear simply because they’ve found a balance now.

Harry knows that Hermione thinks that he is somehow blind to all this. That he’s repressing all of his issues, avoiding dealing with them and with the wrongness of his whole situation. He knows that Tom believes himself to be in control of what’s going on, and Harry allows him that illusion. He allows that because he doesn’t know how to deal with the alternative.

The nightmares are not completely gone. Things are better and he’s stronger and Tom’s touch does not repel him. He can smile and laugh and be happy. He’s content. He doesn’t want or need revenge. He doesn’t think he’s holding a grudge, really. He does not wish ill upon Tom – not anymore.

But sometimes… the touch of Tom’s fingertips will ghost over him when the chaos inside his heart rises closer to the surface, and it will make him sick. Tom’s voice will sometimes shift, change into a lighter one – that of a teenage boy from a different timeline – and Harry would need to turn and take a look at him, half-expecting to see into the past.

He cannot forget that he’s living with his nightmare, only it’s now in a different wrapping. A matured body that has become familiar in all the good and bad ways.

He does care for Tom a great deal.

But there is a part of him that will never forget, will never forgive, even if he lives for a thousand years more.

Transformation

(Yours, In Murder)

–

There has been no transformation. No sudden – or slow – change. Tom hasn’t become a saint, and everything that he is, is not something to be cured. He knows that Harry, despite his studies and knowledge, thinks that something fundamental in Tom has changed. That he has mellowed out, seen the error of his ways.

Harry is wrong.

Not that Tom doesn’t love the man – he does. He really does. But it hardly matters, really. Loving Harry has nothing to do with getting horny while dreaming of the things he could do to a person, given a knife and fifteen minutes.

Tom sighs and turns on the bed to look at Harry, who’s asleep and oblivious to what’s keeping Tom awake.

‘I could do it,’ Tom thinks, touching Harry’s shoulder lightly with his fingertips. There’s an abundance of knives in the kitchen. He’d have more than just fifteen minutes. He could really get into it, do all the things he has ever wanted.

He won’t, though. Because he loves Harry.

And that’s what love is, to him. It isn’t about sex or dates or being domestic with someone. It isn’t about sleeping in the same room, showering together and eating breakfast while dressed in practically nothing. Love isn’t flowers and kisses and a series of embraces.

Love, to Tom, is a chain. The chain that stills his hand and keeps it from wrapping around Harry’s throat. Love is what keeps his mouth shut when he knows just the right words to cause pain. Love is what keeps him from all the things he desires to do.

No, there has been no transformation. Nothing has changed.

Something new, however, has been added into the equation, and that matters.

Snowflake

(Yours, In Murder)

–

The mere thought of comparing love to snowfall makes the tea turn sour in Tom’s mouth, but he does so anyway. He does so before realizing it, even, as he stands by the window watching snowflakes fall on the ground and melt – disappear. He stands long enough to see them pile one over another until the white sheen doesn’t melt anymore.

He thinks: this is how it happened.

He kept falling for Harry again and again until the feelings became too solid to ignore, and much too real to vanish. All the little things and the big things had overlapped in ways too complicated to untangle. The lust and obsession he had felt in the beginning were now no less than what they had been then, but the suffocating fondness brought a new, admittedly unwanted, dimension to everything.

He wanted Harry and he has him now. He wanted Harry to love him and now Harry loves him. He didn’t – and still doesn’t – want to love Harry in return. Not this way. Not the way other people love.

He cannot say that he wouldn’t have this any other way. He would, if he could. Being in love is scary, and he fears that one day Harry will want someone else. That his brilliance will not captivate Harry anymore, that his looks will spark no attraction and his presence would rouse no desire.

Each day he spends loving Harry feels like a risk. A risk he stumbles to take anyway.