Before the Storm

Chapter 17

For the first time in his life, Tom dreamed.

It came to him in snatches here and there. Harry was there, but of course he was. They were at the ocean, basking in the sun warmed sand. Shoes long abandoned next to a forgotten chessboard and an open book. Harry spoke, the syllables twisted, hissing parseltongue, and though Tom couldn't focus on the words, he paid rapt attention all the same. At some point in the dream Harry moved to his arms where he kissed softly at Tom's jaw and whispered hisses of, "I love you," in his ear.

In his arms Harry, warm and solid, moved restlessly. A little at first and then more forceful, when he said, "Tom!" plainly spoken and English, Tom jerked awake instantly, pulled from the warmth of slumber into the dull illumination of his room.

Harry was still there, still in his arms. Sometime in the night Tom must have pulled him close, tucking Harry practically under himself so that he could tangle their legs together and bury his face in Harry's neck. For once Harry was wide awake when Tom wanted nothing more than to press his eyes to his pillow and fall back to sleep with Harry's scent on his tongue and heart steadily beating against Tom's own.

But Harry was not to be ignored.

"Tom," he said again, and, now that he was awake, Tom caught the hint of desperation in it, "Tom, it's looking at us."

That certainly worked in waking him up the rest of the way. Tom twisted to see what in the world Harry could be talking about, catching movement out of the corner of his eye from above. With a groan Tom knew what it was, grindylow. He flicked his arm at it, a haphazard cascade of sparks flew from his palm to the ceiling, startling the creature off. The stretch, once started, took over on its own, turning into a full blown yawn.

Harry was smirking at him when he finished, green eyes glittering in the low light, "sleep well?" he asked, playfull, "you know, you really should construct some sort of curtain."

Tom laughed softly, "let them look," there was certainly something for them to see that morning. Every second of their time in the Chamber was burned into the fibre of his being. The ritual replayed itself in his head with stark clarity. The same exhilaration and....love, he had felt in the heat of the ritual still thrummed through him, called for his complete attention.

He had not been able to rest until they were back in his room, Harry safe in his arms once more and no one around to see them, to take him away. Coming face to face with the fact that he, Tom Riddle, was the single most deadly thing in Harry's life, the thing that was almost certainly what would end him, had not been an easy truth to come to terms with. He had needed to see Harry, happy, whole and safe, for himself. Unable to let him out of his sight, out of his grasp, until sleep had finally stolen upon him.

It did not sound like a terrible way to pass the day, but already Harry was stirring. He had retained his underrobe in the night, not that the sheer silk had stopped Tom from mapping the planes of his skin again and again. The reminder was enough to have Tom reaching for Harry as he slid out of bed, his hand falling uselessly to the mattress as Harry slipped out of his grip.

"We have to meet Ron and Hermione, and Fred and George, in Hogsmeade today," Harry reminded him, though Tom had not forgotten. He tracked Harry's movements as he picked his way through their discarded clothing of the night before, for once Tom had not felt compelled to put every last thing in its rightful place.

With great reluctance Tom left the bed himself and didn't so much as reach for a shirt to cover up with, choosing to add to his day of firsts by treking across the room in the buff. It was as though he was now standing on the edge of a vast valley, looking down at all the things that had ever darkened his door with worry before and wondering why he had ever been afraid or angry at any of it in the first place.