Son of Magic

Chapter 7

November 18th, 1941

Slytherin Dungeons

As hard as it had been, over the past few days, Harry had successfully managed to push aside all thoughts of his impending tutoring session with Tom. He resolutely refused to be bent into a frantic state of nervousness over something as simple and innocent as a tutoring session.

So Harry had neatly tucked away any and all thoughts of Tom into a box that was stored on a shelf at the very back of his consciousness. He then proceeded to build an impenetrable barrier around the box in addition to the ones that had already been set in place.

But now—with only forty minutes left on the clock for him to get to the library—all the emotions and thoughts he'd been so desperately trying to box away tore out of their confines, unleashing onto him a violent storm.

Merlin, it was just so embarrassing for him to feel such trepidation towards spending time with a fourteen-year-old. Yet all his anxiety and nervousness weren't able to quench the unjustifiable exuberance he felt towards the prospect of spending time with Tom .

It was precisely because of this exultant feeling that was dominating his emotions that he'd tried so hard to lock away all thoughts of Tom. He didn't want to feel triumphant and exhilarated at the mere notion of spending time with the boy that had broken him so many times, in so many different ways.

It was too easy to ignore, to disregard and overlook the potential the boy had to destroy him. So very easy to forget that this beautiful boy had the potential to grow into a grotesque monster driven by fear and bloodlust.

It was a delicate matter, dancing on the edge as he was. Balancing between loving and loathing him.

He could never allow himself to tip to either side.

Could never allow himself to love him more than he despised him.

Could never allow his desire for him to overpower the repulsion he felt.

If he did, he would inevitably forget. He would lose himself in Tom and there would be nothing left of himself.

He'd forgive him and he'd forget, allowing Tom the opening he needed to once again destroy his world... and whatever was left of his heart.

He could never allow that to happen.

So he danced and pushed and pulled—always and forevermore pushing himself, then reeling himself back in.

Yes, it was a delicate matter indeed. Delicate and deadly.

He knew very well that he couldn't permit his emotions to cloud his judgment, and he was also perfectly aware that he couldn't afford any slips in his composure.

There was no room for him to err. He needed to be calm and collected; poised and in absolute control of his actions and emotions.

Yet he was helpless to the onslaught of emotional waves crashing against each other, each a contradiction to the other, rolling roughly and fighting to dominate.

He was a slave to the storm, pushed and dragged to the powerful whims of the rough currents.

Dragged down, down, down—always deeper and steeper—further down and onwards into the heart of the storm.

All his training and all his centuries of experience were no match against the raw and inexplicable emotions that were tightly woven into his heart.

True love is held back by no logic and is restrained by no barrier. True love is unshakable, its sting embedded into your very being and thus changing you forever. You cannot outrun it, nor can you protect yourself from its venom.