A Change of Heart

Chapter Thirty Six

Tom looked at the flowers in his hand before he bent down and placed them on his father's grave. He could not apologize for what he did. Apologies no longer sufficed. He did not know if anything did anymore.

He walked into the empty house. It was just as dilapidated as it had been the last time he'd been here. He shook his head and disapparated to the Gaunt abode.

His mother's house-little better than a shack-was in better condition than his father's. Probably because magic went into its construction. Magic of the Gaunts, who had descended from Slytherin himself.  He had prided himself on the fact once. No, prided was not the word. He'd been arrogant, he'd believed he was special, that being Slytherin's heir entitled him to having whatever he wanted.

He lifted his wand and started casting a complicated ward that would keep anyone out and would also soundproof the house. He did not want any muggle coming to investigate the screams and then be impaled on his wards. After a moment's deliberation, he modified the wards. They would not kill anyone now, but would only keep them out.

He looked at the floor boards. The ring was there. The ring he'd taken from his uncle. His uncle whom he'd framed for his father's death. His uncle whose memory he'd modified. His uncle who died in Azkaban.

Tom lay down on the dusty floor and put his wand aside. He knew what was coming. And he knew there was no stopping it or making it easier. He could not remember all those he'd killed or even how many there were. But some stood in stark relief. His father, that girl in the bathroom, Hepzibah Smith, Frank Bryce, Cedric Diggory, Bertha Jorkins, Harry's parents, that elf who belonged to Regulus on whom he'd tested the potion protecting his locket.... Tom sighed. The list of his murders was endless, but he really was not prepared to go to Azkaban for them.

Incongruously, he thought of the rabbit. He could not remember the name of the boy whom it belonged to. But he remembered the rabbit. Its ears laid back in fear and eyes wide, as he had strangled it and hung it from the rafter.  He also thought of the two small kids he'd terrorized in the cave.

Had there never been a time in his life when he wasn't evil?

He thought of Regulus, full of idealism about pure-blood supremacy; it had not taken him long to realize that the way to bring about it was a lot harsher. He thought of Quirrel, who'd been prepared to share his soul with him. And he'd left him to die.... He thought of Hagrid, not the man, but the boy, bumbling, good-natured, naïve... and he'd ensured Hagrid would always be an outcast....

When the pain started, Tom welcomed it. At least, the pain would stop him from thinking. He'd suffered pain before, but the killing curse rebounding was nothing compared to the pain of his soul putting itself back together.

Tom screamed aloud, the pain too excruciating and debilitating to worry about anything else. Fortunately, the wards he'd placed around the house held, though he was not in a position to be thankful for that.

Tom had no idea how long it continued. He saw flashes of the people he'd killed, of the objects he'd turned into Horcruxes. He saw-

"Harry," he whispered as realization hit, which even the pain could not swamp. Harry was a Horcrux! His Horcrux that he never intended to make. And now he knew why Harry could see into his mind, could share his dreams, could speak Parseltongue.

"Harry!" He screamed as the agony caused him to black out.

When he came to, it was dark. Tom lay still, knowing it still wasn't over. It was only waiting for him to be fully conscious. He screamed aloud as the pain started again.