When September Ends

Chapter 4: Botched

It had been just over a week, now, since the mad lunatic had dragged him off the streets. He had to get out. Had to escape. Had to send the cops-and the white coats for good measure-after Tom Riddle before he hunted him down or did the same thing to somebody else.

Escape. Escape. Escape.

Sure, he wasn't being neglected or anything-aside from being cooped up in Harry Riddle's bedroom all day like a prisoner and basic human interaction outside of his kidnapper's delusional overtures of love and expressions of affection-but God only knew how long it would take before the man snapped and he ended up taking a knife to the chest. Not to mention that the dark brunet's attentions were beginning to border on enjoyable: how lucky the other Harry had been to have someone so sweet and, quite frankly, cultishly devoted to him.

No! No, bad thoughts! Bad thoughts! Tom's attentions were not enjoyable! He did not wish, even rarely and even once, that he really could have been that Harry. The Harry that the dark brunet thought he was. The Harry that he wanted.

His husband.

Have to leave! Have to leave! Have to leave immediately!

Desperation had driven him to it. Gormlessly, witlessly, kneeling before the door of his prison room furiously gouging at the lock with a pair of paperclips which he had bent out of shape. Hoping, with every fiber of his being and despite the fact that he didn't have the slightest clue how to pick locks, that his doing so would undo the lock and free him and not caring in the least that Tom was home. Home and downstairs; quite possibly standing directly outside the door watching him, listening to his feeble efforts to escape, waiting with a blade in his hand and the same horrible smile!

His fear faded and his heart soared when he heard the soft click of the latch giving way. Tears of relief and happiness pricked the corner of his eyes; he was half-free; could taste freedom; all that he had to do now was creep down the stairs and out the front door; he'd be on his way home by sundown.

So close. So close. So close.

Free. Free. Free.

These things repeated like a mantra in his head; a crazed, wired chant driving him forward in reaching for the door. Turning the knob. Pushing aside all fears of the potentially homicidal maniac that might be lurking just beyond: better to die fighting tooth and claw to escape than submit to the nutter's will and lose himself completely.

He heard it! He heard it! The blissful sound of the knob turning uninhibited.

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Filled with blissful relief Harry threw himself against the door. Ready to release himself from his prison at last. To let his legs take him down the stairs, out of the house and as far away as physically possible.

His chest met with hard unyielding wood, forcing the air from his lungs with a harsh whoosh and flinging his body backwards onto the floor like a ragdoll. A marionette with cut strings. His first thought was that the dark brunet had chosen that exact moment to come into the room and the act of the door opening had caused him to rebound painfully. But no. When he looked up the raven realized that the door was still closed. The room still empty except for him. But he'd heard the click of the thwarted lock. Felt the knob turn fully and without resistance.

A slide lock. There was a bloody slide lock on the outside of the door; a reassurance for his paranoid captor and something he couldn't reach with a lock pick.

Harry screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed until his voice gave out and he kept trying to scream even after that. Tom, apparently deaf to the earlier broken shrieking, undid said slide lock perhaps ten minutes after and stepped into the room. Quirking up an eyebrow at the sight of the raven curled up on the floor, rocking back and forth and clutching the bent paperclips so tightly that his hands had begun to bleed.