the gift of fear (tomarry) (harry x death)

waging a war on the weak

Tom watches Harry burn down the Orphanage and thinks, somewhere forbidden and distant and foggy in his mind, that even God once flooded the world.

A moment ago, he had been taken gently by Harry Potter -- a cruel and kind and confusing man, finely dressed and with greying hair, who had taken one look at him and done what no other adult had before -- adoption paperwork tucked under his arm, and led into his new life.

Tom was grateful. One might even say happy. For a moment, at least. But only for a moment.

Harry stops them on the sidewalk outside of Wool's. He sticks out his palm, says quietly to Tom, "Watch this." And Tom stared at that palm with the same devotion that Moses did to God's burning bush.

But nothing happened to the palm. Harry snaps his fingers and lets his arm fall to his side and Tom is sure that's not what he wanted to show him. Is any act of God so minor, so tame?

Tom almost opens his mouth to comment. Then his gaze moves from the hand to Wool's Orphanage.

And there it is, among the flame. God's touch.

"Harry," says Tom, recalling somewhere distant in his mind that that is this man's name. Though the fire itself is mystifying -- created, certainly, with the snap of his guardian's fingers, for could such a thing be a coincidence? -- it is not the most concerning thing about the situation. "There are -- there are people in there."

Is that Tom's voice? It doesn't sound like it. Harry's hand places itself on his shoulder and that, too, feels so distant it's hard to believe it's real.

It's hard to believe any of this is real.

Harry bends down to his level. He glances at Tom and back at the building, crumbling in all its glory. "There are," and he sounds almost fucking happy about it. He is like God, Tom thinks, vaguely, with his instinct to rejoice upon the death of the unworthy.

Tom's voice is small when he speaks. "Why aren't they leaving the building?" And why doesn't this feel real and why are you doing this and why, why, why -- and why does Tom feel afraid?

Tom never feels afraid. He supposes Harry is a lot of things, and on the top of that list is terrifying. Even to Tom.

Especially, from the looks of it, to Tom.

Harry's eyes, which earlier Tom had almost thought kin to shimmering, precious, emeralds ripe for the taking, now reflect the raging inferno in which Tom once lived. "They're not going to, Tom. They're not going to come out."

But Tom didn't ask that. And maybe Tom doesn't want to know. He asks again anyway: "Why?"

Harry licks his lips, the angles and lines of his face highlighted with that distinct orange hue, marred with death. Tom thinks that if he concentrates too hard, he can smell flesh burning.

"I suppose," says Harry, lightly, his voice sounding impossibly loud against the surging flame, still roaring in the backdrop of the falling apart of Tom's life, "because I wanted to."

Tom feels tears roll down his cheeks and feels -- distantly, falsely, impossibly -- warm, calloused hands wipe them away. Tom lets his eyes fall shut. Tom lets Harry wrap his arms around him and Tom lets him pull him to his chest.

Tom listens to the soft thud of his heart.

The fire smolders on.

Tom has never been a religious child. He sits through sermons with the blank, polite, and contemplative expression that is expected of him. He repeats his memorized Bible verses with a practiced and admirable efficiency. To all others, he is spirituality inclined -- but when prayer time comes, and he bows his head with all the other orphans, he keeps his eyes cracked open. He thinks that if he keeps looking long enough, he'll finally see this 'God' everyone is always talking about. When he sees nothing, he comes to the doubtless conclusion that there is nothing; there is no saviour coming to save him from this hellhole, there is no one all-powerful, all-knowing, all-seeing.