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

he's counting the matches (before he sets fire to the sheep)

Two weeks into the new year, something strange happens. A break in the routine Tom had grown sorely used to, like the way someone playing hide and seek, stuffed into an uncomfortably small position for a long period of time, 'grows used to it.' But it's fine. The world is not flooding. That's what he's taken to saying to himself these days, an odd comfort.

When he feels guilty for his shared moments with Harry: The world is not flooding. The world is not over. It's fine. You have done things far more unforgivable, regardless.

When he reads over mathematics books far above his grade level and finds, spectacularly, he fails: The world is not over. Keep trying. You'll get it.

When he wakes up nightly in a cold sweat to dreams of pushing a small elf down the stairs: The world is not flooding. It is alright, it is fine. It's in the past, unchangeable. Go back to sleep.

So everything is good. Well, not good, not great, but fine. Everything is fine. He has friends and plans in the making to take down Harry, and between those he has Harry. Harry, who has seen the darkest parts of him. Harry, who has forgiven him for them. How could he not cherish such a treasure, however secretly?

This is Tom's routine. Tom has adapted to it, this easy version of a self taught life.

The day that breaks the routine, the day that changes it: two weeks after the start of the new year.

Harry Potter calls for everyone to gather around. He has a very important announcement to make. "We're to expect some guests over this evening," he says, loudly, clapping his hands in front of him. "You all are to, of course, be on your best behaviour. Try not to talk to him about things considered secretive, yes? I don't want to have to erase the mind of our new friends. You've all seen how that works out."

There are murmurs in the crowd. Hands raise. Beside Tom, Klippers whispers, "Damn. I wouldn't suppose it's a house elf."

"No?" says Tom.

"No," says Kreacher. "He wouldn't be making all this fuss for one of us. I bet it's a human."

"Someone like me," says Tom. He shudders at the prospect -- he means the statement both on a surface level and on a deeper, more therotrical one.

If he is magic, if Harry is magic, and if any of these new guests are just like him -- then is the new guest magic? He would learn more about it, this mingle of people he somehow might belong to, without having to decipher it from Harry's stories, offered too few and in between to make any sense.

And if he is human, just human -- a Muggle... well, then, Tom is okay with that, too. It has been so long since last he's seen a person, since last he's interacted with anyone outside of this too-large, too-full house. A person, just a person, would be okay, too.

"Think of the possibilities," says Klippers, rubbing her hands together. "A person from the outside world? Could you imagine?"

"I could, actually," says Kreacher, humming quietly. "This is our chance. We could use him to escape."

"Or her."

"Or her," amends Kreacher.

Already scheming, muses Tom. Of course; plenty in character. While Tom is thinking about human connection, they consider freedom. The similarities between them, Tom's come to realize, upon Corbin's (and how reluctant he is to admit it, to put the action into words) murder, are superficial. Face value.

But Tom's okay with that. He has come to like the people he has surrounded himself with, willingly, and thinks that one day, he'll come to love them. Like how Harry loves him God and how Joseph loved a son that wasn't really his; unconditionally. The idea is terrifying. He had said that never would he love dangerous, violent people -- but as time passes, he finds it harder and harder to resist. Who wouldn't love these people, these wonderful, hateful people?