When A Slaughterhouse Becomes A Home (selfcest/tomarry)

seven

Harry's fragile sanity falls apart in his hands. He has just been told by an upperclassmate Ravenclaw that Sybill Trelawney has heard a voice whispering to her in her sleep and has now announced to a classroom full of students that she has reason to believe that he, Harry Potter, is a gay man. Even if Trelawney is full of shit, and even if she apologizes for announcing it later, and despite the fact that Harry denies the rumors a million times over, people are still inclined to believe it.

Harry Potter is a gay man. He hates the whispers and jeers and laughs he gets as he walks down the halls with only Potter for company, Ron and Hermione long ago having taken the hint. He is Harry Potter, famous and not subject to any real public humanity. This is what happens. He's more a concept than a person and he'd thought he'd be used to it by now, but something has gone to his head and it is not sadness.

It is anger. It is rage. How dare he be treated this way! How dare they tear him down, make him feel worse, label him a liar and a fake and then throw slurs in the mix? Harry is not impressed. Harry is not surprised by his treatment, either.

He is a bundle of nerves shot dead; agitated beyond belief. He's spent too many evenings with Umbridge to have compassion for those he does not like, love, or trust, and that's a long list right there.

Something in him snaps.

Tom's innuendos become more and more like encouragements of violence and at some point, Harry screws his eyes shut and just decides to listen. He has tried cowering. He will no try action.

He approaches her when she is teaching. He's skipping class, well aware of Ron and Hermione prodding stares as he got up and left the Greenhouse, taking care to not let the Professor notice. It wouldn't do him any good to get caught before doing anything.

Potter walks by his side. "You've been too quiet lately," he states as they walk down the silent corridors, everyone already sectored off into their respective classes.

"What did you do?"

"Hm?"

Harry glances back at him, his hands fists at his side, his stride harsh and purposeful. "When, in your time, rumor got around you were gay, what did you do?"

"I didn't."

"You didn't do anything?" Harry asks, astonished. He falters in his walk before picking up speed again. "You just let everyone walk all over you, like it was the Durselys all over again?"

"No," says Potter simply. He tilts his head, as if curious for Harry's reaction. "I didn't do anything, because this didn't happen during my timeline."

Harry's eyes narrow and just as he begins to figure out the implications of what that meant, or could mean, he reaches the hallway in which Sybill's classroom is. He begins climbing the ladder, huffing. Potter rolls his eyes and stays on the ground, certain that he can just appear beside him when he's already made it up.

Harry pauses halfway.

"What is it?" asks Potter from below him.

Harry slides to the floor, silently, and begins digging through his bag. He throws out the diary, still torn and ink stained, and begins to quickly write to Tom. Tom appears, takes a glance at Potter, shrugs, then lets Harry turn him invisible.

"I want you both here with me," he answers shortly, then begins climbing the ladder again.

He opens the trapdoor into the classroom, closing it behind him with a loud thud. He takes joy in the way the class goes silent.

All eyes on him.

All eyes are always on him. Him, the Boy Who lived, the concept, the gay, the nonhuman. Always watching until they decide they love or hate him again.

Harry is... tired of it. He's tired of feeling guilty for existing, tired of being hated, and he's tired of doing nothing about it. He ignores the doubt in his mind and strides forward, confidently, to the front of the classroom.

Sybill blinks owlishly at him. "Harry Potter," she says, of course she uses his full name, "what brings you here?"

Harry says nothing. He takes a deep breath, aware of Potter's and Tom's eyes on him, as well as the entire classroom. He is a spectacle. He has made himself a spectacle... but if he has an audience either way, he might as well give them a show.

She suddenly freezes, unable to move, or talk, opening her mouth uselessly, making no noise. And Harry realizes its his fault. He's doing this. Good. He concentrates. He watches her tremble, unable to move from the sheer force of magic he's putting into this.

"You," he says, speaking finally, "need to watch your tongue."

"Please," she begs, spitting out the words sadly, like a dog.

"I'm not going to be taking that, though. Your tongue. Don't worry." He laughs. "That'd just be silly. But I would like to know how much you like it, everyone talking about you, hating you, a scar on your forehead.... I figure you wouldn't like it very much."

She stares at him, terrified.

Harry is distantly aware of someone leaving the room, probably to get another teacher, or Dumbledore, which would be hilarious, considering they haven't talked to each other since last year.

He doesn't care. Dumbledore is not his friend, nor ally. Harry will let the pieces fall where they may.

"Let's see," says Harry. "Let's see how much you like it. I'm curious."

He is, in that moment, Potter. Let him take his god forsaken last name... and make it his own. This Harry Potter is not a concept.

He's a fucking person.

He sends off a deep cutting curse and when the blood clears, there is a smooth lightning bolt carved into her forehead.

And it is at that moment that Tom... Tom begins to fall in love.