Pet

Author: Etidorpha

Warnings: Slash (HP/LV with sub!Harry and dom!Voldemort), lots and lots of angst, and a character death or two in the mix, some severe OOC-ness

Summary: Lord Voldemort has a fascination with pretty things, and Harry just wants to feel loved. One-shot!

Author's Notes: First time I ever heard this song, I immediately thought, Harry/Voldemort. Seriously, just listen to the bloody song, people; you'll see what I mean.

"Pet" – A Perfect Circle

Don't fret, precious, I'm here

Step away from the window
Go back to sleep

Lay your head down child
I won't let the boogeyman come
Counting bodies like sheep
To the rhythm of the war drums
Pay no mind to the rabble
Pay no mind to the rabble
Head down, go to sleep
To the rhythm of the war drums

Pay no mind what other voices say
They don't care about you, like I do (like I do)
Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils,
See, they don't give a fuck about you, like I do.

Just stay with me, safe and ignorant,
Go back to sleep
Go back to sleep

Lay your head down child
I won't let the boogeyman come
Counting bodies like sheep
To the rhythm of the war drums
Pay no mind to the rabble
Pay no mind to the rabble
Head down, go to sleep

To the rhythm of the war drums

I'll be the one to protect you from
Your enemies and all your demons
I'll be the one to protect you from
A will to survive and a voice of reason
I'll be the one to protect you from
Your enemies and your choices, son
They're one in the same
I must isolate you
Isolate and save you from yourself

Swayin' to the rhythm of the new world order and
Counting bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drums

The boogeymen are coming
The boogeymen are coming

Keep your head down, go to sleep, to the rhythm of the war drums

Stay with me
Safe and ignorant
Just stay with me
Hold you and protect you from the other ones
The evil ones
Don't love you son,
Go back to sleep

He felt rather than heard him enter the room.

Tom was always silent on his feet, but somehow he just knew the instant he came within the vicinity. He always had, even when they were on the opposite ends of the battlefield, and now that they shared a bed, the perception only solidified. It wasn't his scar; it never hurt anymore, since they were no longer enemies. No, it was something with his magic, an indescribable feeling of rightness that he just couldn't explain. Tom said it was because they were meant to be together, that their magic made it so. He didn't question the answer.

Harry's breathtakingly beautiful emerald eyes were restlessly pursuing the dark grounds below the bedroom window, and he didn't turn even when Tom stopped behind him. Pale, slender, pianist's fingers reached out to explore the smooth, unmarked skin of Harry's back, trailing gently down and dipping briefly below the waistline of his black satin sleep pants before reappearing and coming up and tilting Harry's head to the side to lay a possessive kiss on the pale, bared flesh.

"I told you to get some sleep, pet," Tom rebuked, turning Harry firmly to face him. With a guilty blush, Harry averted his eyes. He hated to disobey Tom, but he couldn't fall asleep when his entire existence was about to unravel. The man standing in front of him was far taller than Harry, with deep crimson eyes that showed emotion only rarely with Harry and never with anyone else. His short, wavy black hair, usually neatly combed, showed evidence of him having clenched the strands between his fingers, telling Harry that his dominant's day had been less than great. It only made him feel more discomfited for disobeying his wishes.

"I tried," Harry protested quietly, "but I couldn't. Dumbledore's going to be coming for me; he wants to take me away from you." Tom growled.

"How did you find that out?" he asked harshly.

"I – I heard some of the Death Eaters talking about it," he confessed slowly. "Please don't be mad, I didn't mean to –" Abruptly his pleading words were cut off as a demanding, none-too-gentle kiss descended upon his full, pink lips. Keening softly in the back of his throat, Harry submitted instantly to the kiss, opening his mouth to accept the tongue that was demanding entrance. It swept in, mapping out the mouth that already belonged to him as Tom slid his hands down over his back and arse to Harry's thighs. With an insistent tug, Harry hopped up, wrapping his legs around his older lover's waist and never breaking the contact he just realized he had desperately needed. Tom was already working on the flimsy cloth of Harry's pajamas as he steered them toward the black-sheeted bed. Harry landed with a soft thump on the bed, Tom following him down immediately as his lips resumed their earlier position. After a minute of so, they left Harry's now conspicuously swollen and bruised lips to work on his neck, Harry all the while letting out breathless mewing sounds as he desperately worked to remove Tom's clothing.

Later on, as he laid under Tom, the man pounding into him and clenching his hips hard enough to draw blood and leave hand-shaped bruises, Harry was unable to remember what led them there in the first place.

Harry knew Tom didn't love him.

No matter what the older raven-haired man said as he reached his climax, whatever he crooned to Harry when he was being churlish, whatever he promised as he planned another raid on the people Harry once cared about, he didn't love Harry. And he was all right with that. He shifted in Tom's arms, ignoring the flash of burning pain in his spine, and observed the other's face. He didn't need to be loved, he just needed to feel loved, and when Tom took him into his arms and his bed, dominating him entirely and controlling him, Harry felt loved.

He had only been fifteen when he took off. He didn't know exactly where he was going until he ended up at the gates of Slytherin Manor and before the man who had lurked in his mind and his dreams since the end of his fourth year. Surprisingly enough, he didn't think about the graveyard or Cedric so much – the boy knew the risks the moment he put his name in that forsaken goblet, and if he didn't, well, that wasn't Harry's problem – but rather the look Tom gave him that night. There was a raw lust and avarice burning in the crimson eyes that made a shiver crawl down Harry's spine, but in a good way. Harry knew he was pretty. He had been told that since he was a young child, with his porcelain skin, pure black hair, and shimmering emerald eyes, and honestly, if you heard that from the same people who starved and neglected you for your entire life, you knew it had to be true. Even Hermione and Ron had told him he was pretty, although in Ron's case, it had been in a slightly disgusted way. He had always thought Harry was too feminine for a guy. It had been one of the reasons Harry never told them he was gay.

But to get back on track… it was that look that drew Harry to Tom. It was the look of a man who would protect Harry and make him feel needed and loved, and even if it was for superficial reasons, Harry cared for that feeling more than the Dark Lord's motivations. Tom had always had a fascination with pretty things, Harry noticed. It was one of the reasons he had been willing to spare Lily Potter that night; she, like her son would thirteen years later, drew his eye – that, and Tom knew that the possibility of her having extra protections placed on her only child were high.

It was the day before Christmas break that Harry left Hogwarts. There was far too much chaos with restless students eager to go home, teachers trying to finish classes, and feast preparations, for Dumbledore to keep his eye indefinitely on Harry, and when Ron Weasley and Seamus Finnegan got into an argument that quickly escalated into a free-for-all brawl, Harry slipped out through the front doors and never looked back. It had taken Dumbledore all day to notice he was gone. He was relieved, but there was a small part of him that was rather insulted. He was supposed to be the all-important "Chosen One", and the supposedly omniscient Dumbledore couldn't even notice he wasn't there until he'd been missing for well on five hours? A slight grin crossed Harry's face. The rage had been spectacular, apparently. Severus had reported that Dumbledore had actually thrown things. And that was another thing – Severus had always been on the dark side, never Dumbledore's. The spying he supposedly did for the Order of the Phoenix was nothing more than a sham designed to gain information, which they used to conduct raids.

Now, though, after two years, Dumbledore had finally found him, and, word had it, was rallying a large force to storm the castle and liberate him, as apparently he was "being held against his will to serve as a consort for that sick bastard." Harry shivered faintly. He would die before leaving his home in the hands of Albus Dumbledore. Then the body wrapped around his shifted slightly, and Tom's sleepy, annoyed voice murmured,

"Stop thinking and go to sleep already, pet. Your thoughts are loud enough to wake me up."

"I was thinking about Dumbledore," Harry confessed.

"Harry… I told you not to worry about him." Tom's tone was surprisingly patient, even if vaguely annoyed underneath, and resolute.

"I won't do it, Tom. I won't leave. I belong here, with you, in this bed." The arm slung carelessly across his torso squeezed him for the briefest of instants before Tom repeated,

"Go to sleep, pet." With a sigh, Harry obediently burrowed his head into Tom's shoulder, closed his eyes, and slept.

The next morning, Harry awoke to a still slightly warm bed that told him Tom had left only a few minutes ago. Pulling himself up, he slipped out onto the cold hardwood floor with a practiced ease, ignoring the protest of his back and arse, and started rifling through his wardrobe for some appropriate clothing. After several moments' deliberation, he decided black slacks, a black turtleneck, and black and green robe were acceptable, and put them on, adjusting them slightly to smooth out the creases. Tom never liked him leaving the room looking less than his best, even more so considering the people this house often harbored.

"Mindy?" he called softly. Almost instantly a small female house-elf wearing a terry cloth toga sewn with the Slytherin crest appeared. The house-elves had always been very fond of him ever since he arrived, as apparently his presence had somehow calmed Tom's temper just the slightest to the point that he no longer took his aggressions out on them. It was something they appreciated enormously, and combined with Harry's naturally quiet and gentle nature, the house-elves had quickly taken a liking to him.

"Master Harry?" she asked, bowing.

"Where is Tom this morning?" Harry asked her as he grabbed a hairbrush and ran it through his chin-length black locks.

"His study, Master Harry," Mindy replied promptly. "Do you want me to have breakfast sent up for you?" Harry shook his head and smiled slightly at her, and taking it as the dismissal that it was, she bowed and disappeared as silently as she had come. Harry didn't meet anyone for ten minutes as he transversed the hallways of the manor, but that was not unusual. Tom felt it better that he was isolated in a house of Death Eaters, and while Harry was perfectly capable of holding his own, it just wasn't worth disagreeing over. Not that he particularly wanted to, anyway. Tom's possessiveness gave him a warm feeling, and he wasn't about to do anything that might change that.

As he found himself slowly more and more immersed in the Death Eater population, he received looks everywhere from appraisal to suspicion to outright hostility. He ignored them all, though, and approached Tom's door.

'Harry, not now,' Tom's voice spoke into his mind before he had even knocked. 'I have delegates in here.'

'Yes, Tom,' Harry replied immediately, stepping back as he internally debated where to spend his morning if not in his lover's company. After several moments' deliberation, he decided on the library. Not the funnest thing to do, but it usually wasn't inhabited by homicidal grudge-holding Death Eaters. As expected, the extensive Slytherin library was completely deserted when he cautiously wandered in, and so Harry headed to a bookshelf far in the back of the library where he knew he hadn't read the books from yet. Quickly his eyes perused the titles: 50 Ways to Torture your Enemy and Hide the Evidence, by Aethilios Miranda, The Third Unforgivable: Really Unforgivable? by Yelena Rookwood, Freedom in Fighting, by Alastor Moody… Harry's eyebrows shot up at the last one.

Moody wrote a book? And Tom had it in his library? Now intrigued, Harry slid the relatively thick book from its place between the other two and settled down in a nearby black armchair, tucking his legs up under him and placing his wand in his lap within easy reach. He cracked open the book and allowed his eyes to drop down onto the first page. He had not gotten more than a paragraph into what was a surprisingly well-written and interesting lecture on the benefits to an unregulated fighting method when he heard voices.

"…get rid of…"

"Don't… stupid… stake… sunrise." The conversation was starting to grow clearer the more the two moved back into the library, and Harry quickly cast a Disillusionment charm on himself, just in case, his ears straining to catch their words.

"He has an unhealthy amount of influence on our Lord!" hissed a woman that Harry was positively sure was Bellatrix Black-Lestrange. Her companion, a man, snorted.

"Stop being a bitch just because the Dark Lord decided to take some halfblood little bastard into his bed instead of you, Bella."

"Potter's destroying him!" Bellatrix protested wildly. "Surely this is of concern to you, Barty?" Harry's eyes narrowed. Barty Crouch, Jr. That was one Death Eater he was still unsure of – his loyalties were hardly in question, but his views on Harry were. The man just acted too damn neutral; Harry couldn't get a read on him one way or the other about anything.

"The Dark Lord has been torturing us less ever since he got the child in his bed, so no; Potter 'destroying' our Lord does not concern me. If you want to try and kill Harry Potter, Bella, you go right ahead, but I will not be a part of this, and when the Dark Lord tortures you to death for it, I will laugh at you." His tone was faintly disgusted and Harry could hear the sounds of him leaving the library. For a long, tense, half a minute, Bellatrix did not follow, but then fortunately for Harry, her footsteps too moved away, and a moment later, the closing door signified to Harry that he was once more alone.

Well, well. Bellatrix Lestrange wanted to kill him. Again. There was nothing new in that, but what was disturbing to Harry was that she was trying to recruit other Death Eaters into her twisted little scheme. Although, if they were all like Crouch, it would seem he didn't have much to worry about. Apparently the house-elves were not the only ones who appreciated the effect he had on their master. Harry looked down at the book he was holding, considering for a long minute just staying and reading it, Bella be damned, but something was telling him that he needed to get to Tom as quickly as he could. Standing, he dropped the forgotten book negligently on the chair as his feet carried him across the library and into the open corridors.

'Tom?' Harry demanded mentally. There was a slight trace of panic in his voice he was trying to suppress as he followed the familiar route to his lover's office. It wasn't Bellatrix's threat that had him in the beginnings of hysteria, though; he was used to Death Eater threats. No, there was something off about everything right now – his instincts were screaming at him to get to safety, and to him that was Tom, and Harry never ignored his instincts. Not when they had saved his life before. 'Tom?' he pleaded again, panic coloring his words despite his best efforts as he didn't get an answer.

'Harry? What's wrong, pet? You're practically hyperventilating.' Harry could have sobbed in relief as Tom's dark tones answered in his mind. The mild concern in the words was warming to Harry, but it didn't make him feel any less antsy.

'Something is wrong; so, so wrong. I – I don't know – there's…' Harry never got to finish his sentence. He was sure that even if his very soul depended on it, he would not be able to speak at that moment.

Albus Dumbledore was blocking the hallway in front of him.

Harry stumbled backward, his eyes wide and horrified. What the fuck was the Leader of the Light doing inside the fortress of the Dark? More importantly, how did he get in? Harry shook his head in disbelief, unable to process what he was seeing. Albus Dumbledore was standing in his hallway, wearing purple, orange, and pink robes, holding a wand and watching Harry with a smile and that damned twinkle.

"Harry, my dear boy, I am so relieved to have finally found you." Harry could hear Tom yelling his name in the back of his mind, but the only one thing would process:

Could not be.

Dumbledore frowned worriedly at his lack of response or relief, and he directed his next words to the place behind him. "Come, Kingsley, let's get Mr. Potter back home. Clearly he's been severely traumatized by his time here." A large, familiar dark hand reached around Harry to take a gentle hold on his arm, and that was when Harry came out of his shock. He began struggling wildly, trying with everything in him to break the Auror's grip.

"Tom!" he screamed. "Tom!" His arms and legs flailed wildly, blindly striking Kingsley anywhere he could. He barely noticed as his foot connected viciously with the man's shin. "Tom!" Distantly, he heard Kingsley saying something to Dumbledore, and a moment later, his entire world went black.

Dumbledore had a troubled expression on his face as he stared at the limp, pale figure held securely in Kingsley Shacklebolt's arms that he had just stunned. "He seems to have become attached to Voldemort," Kingsley observed quietly and worriedly. Dumbledore nodded sagely.

"Muggles call it 'Stockholm Syndrome,'" he said wisely. "It's when a person emotionally bonds with their captor." Kingsley nodded his acceptance just as Moody came stumping up. He appeared a bit frazzled as his large, electric blue eye whirled dizzyingly.

"We have got to get out of here," he growled to Dumbledore. "We've already lost two of our boys to Riddle; he seems rather bent on getting Potter here back."

"Poor child," sighed Dumbledore. "I can only imagine what horrors Voldemort put him through these past two years. He will need a lot of time to heal, in all aspects. Perhaps visits from Molly would do him good."

"Deal with it later, Albus," Moody insisted. "That knockout gas the Twins coughed up will only last ten minutes, and it didn't reach everyone in the building." He gave a pointed look to the slowly blossoming bruise on Kingsley's jaw line.

"You are right, of course. Portkeys activate in three… two… one…" In tandem, every Order member in the building flashed out of sight, just as a frantic and enraged Tom reached the hallway they had been standing in. Harry never saw him.

Harry came to abruptly, with no time in between sleeping and full wakefulness. Even before he had opened his eyes, though, he knew he was not where he was supposed to be. He felt a wrenching sensation somewhere deep within him and a few tears slipped out of his eyes, carving trails down his cheeks as a deep shuddering breath wracked his body. Dumbledore had found him and taken him away from his home and the man he loved. This could not be happening to him.

Could. Not. Be.

'Tom?' he tried hesitantly. Harry realized he was afraid of not getting an answer, and the sudden fear and doubt shook him. He had never doubted Tom Riddle before. 'Tom?' he asked again. There was only silence over the bond. Tom wasn't answering him.

Snap out of it, Harry! He growled to himself. You are not doing this. You are not doubting Tom. He did not allow Dumbledore to take you. These thoughts are ridiculous.

Then why didn't he try to save you? Whispered the evil, doubting voice in the back of his mind. The door creaked open.

"Harry?" Head shooting up, Harry's wild emerald eyes locked with the onyx black ones of Severus Snape. Gently he closed the door and took a cautious seat on the edge of the bed he was lying in. The sight of someone so familiar caused the hysteria to well up again in him. Tears congealed in Harry's eyes as he wiped them furiously with his palms. The next thing he knew, Severus had moved over next to him and pulled him into a soothing, secure hug. That was the last straw for Harry's fragile nerves. He burst into sobs, burying his face into the Potions Master's black robes. It took him several minutes to realize that, far from being angry about Harry crying all over him, he was stroking his hair and murmuring comforting nonsense to him. Strangely, this caused him to dissolve into fresh tears, and it was ten minutes before he was able to pull himself together, take in a shaky breath, and pull out of his teacher's arms.

"What the fuck is going on?" Harry asked, rubbing wearily at his eyes. "Where are we? How long was I out?" Severus sighed. For the first time, Harry saw how stressed he really was. The dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept in some days, he was paler than normal, and everything about his bearing indicated large amounts of anxiety.

"You know that Dumbledore always believed that you were kidnapped, and then when it was proven that you left on your own accord, he argued that you were coerced. In short, he refused to believe that you defected, and he didn't let anyone else believe it either. He set about trying to pull together a team to find and 'save' you, but the problem was that no one else really believed his bullshit. He probably wouldn't have succeeded, though, if it weren't for one of the Death Eaters approaching Dumbledore with information about your person and location. It seems she claimed hearing you screaming on several separate occasions and also that she witnessed you being physically abused. She managed to convince the old coot that they had a mutual interest in getting you out of that stronghold and away from the Dark Lord." The familiar feeling of rage and betrayal welled up in Harry.

"Who was it?" he demanded. When the man hesitated, Harry growled warningly, "Severus…" Finally he caved, recognizing the direct order in his former student's tone.

"Lestrange. Bellatrix Lestrange." Expecting himself to erupt in anger, Harry merely sighed. Somehow he couldn't even be surprised about that. "In short, Dumbledore got the support he needed and stormed the castle, incapacitated half our forces, and set up to ambush you as you left the library."

"So that's what Bellatrix was there about…" Harry muttered to himself. "She needed to make sure she could find me there… The meeting had nothing to do with trying to get Barty Crouch to help assassinate me. She knew he would never go for it anyway."

"Probably," Severus agreed grimly. "Then, after the attack, I got word from Lucius that she tried to… well, she tried to bed Tom."

"She what?" Harry exploded. "How the fuck dare she! That little bitch!" Picking up one of the white pillows from his bed, the only thing in reach, he hurled it at the wall, watching it impact with a thoroughly unsatisfying thump.

"Yes, I believe Tom reacted similarly, except I can assure you that it was not a pillow he put into the wall. But I digress… after Dumbledore got you off Manor grounds, he took you here – the new Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. If you'll recall, he needed a new one after Tom raided it a year and a half ago, and they chose one of the hereditary Dumbledore Estates, which is why we've been having so much trouble locating it. You've been unconscious here in what he's termed 'your bedroom' for four and a half days." Harry blinked.

"Come again?"

"Not only were you hit with one of Albus Dumbledore's stunners, but you were also emotionally and magically drained. Frankly, I'm surprised you're awake now as is." Harry ignored the statement for the time being and looked around the room he was in. It was large, although not as large as the one he shared with Tom, and the walls were painted a sedate light blue. The floor was comprised of pale oak floorboards, and the bedding on the four-poster bed was white. All in all, it was nothing like the one he had slept in for the past two years, and the difference rankled at him even as it caused a swelling of sadness and longing.

"If they still think I'm unconscious, then you can bust me out of here, right?" Harry asked finally, eyes fixing again on Severus. He sighed with resignation clear on his face.

"If I could, Harry, you have to believe I would. Dumbledore tied your magical signature directly to the castle's wards. The minute I try to take you outside of their boundaries, you die." Harry snarled.

"That's illegal!"

"Yes. Yes, it is. But the Ministry is happy enough to have you 'rescued' that they're willing to turn a blind eye to it, and Dumbledore has convinced everyone else in the Order that you're suffering from a muggle disease called Stockholm Syndrome."

"Son of a bitch."

"Indeed."

Harry sniffled. "I just want to go home, Severus," he said quietly. He wiped roughly at his eyes for a second time as Severus rested a strong, reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Be strong, child. We'll get you out of here." Harry nodded, and the hand squeezed once before removing itself. Footsteps moved across the floor, and the door clicked quietly shut a moment later.

As soon as he was in the hallway, Severus looked furtively around, checking for signs of anyone else. He was usually stealthier than that, but damnit, this was not the time. With no one in sight – not that he expected there to be; Dumbledore wanted to give the boy "space" – he pulled up the hood of his black cloak and instantly disapparated. A split second later, he reappeared on the front lawn of the ancestral Lestrange castle. It had been the Dark Order's back up plan, in the contingency of an attack like what had just happened, and as very few people were even aware that it was still standing, much less inhabitable, it was a good choice. However, what had once been strong wards around it had deteriorated over time, causing Voldemort to choose the relative security of the Malfoy Manor over the anonymity it offered. A bad choice, as it turned out. He hurried across the damp grass, a black shade in the dusky twilight, before moving up the front steps and into the receiving hall. It was gloomy, but that was to be expected, and anyway, the décor was the least of his issues. Seeing a young newly-initiated Death Eater passing, he roughly grabbed him by the arm. Void-black eyes menacing and lips peeled in a degrading sneer, Severus demanded,

"The Dark Lord. Where is he?"

"He's not left the library," the thoroughly terrified recruit managed to answer. The potions master released his arm and stalked off down the hall, his fellow Death Eaters smart enough to move out of his way. It wasn't his demeanor, though; no, they were used to that – what commanded their silent regard was the fact that Severus Snape was one of the deadliest fighters alive today, and as one of the top potions masters in the world, one of the few men on earth capable of killing them without leaving any trace whatsoever. Severus moved quickly up the three flights of stairs, cloak whirling behind him, before approaching the large library doors. There was a heavy, oppressive aura emanating from the general area, and so with gritted teeth, Severus pushed open the doors. What met his eyes could only be best described as absolute devastation.

Books littered every available surface, resting where they had been thrown as if afraid to move and draw notice to themselves. Here and there, free pages, ripped from their spines, floated softly down, and in the middle of everything, Tom Riddle sat. He was in a reading chair, bent over a book. It took Severus some moments to realize he was not turning the pages, nor was he reading them. Instead, he was staring at them with a strange expression that was so out-of-place that he couldn't even name it. Severus took a step forward, and instantly Voldemort returned as Tom shot up and whirled, wand out and curse at the ready as his body shot taut with adrenaline. Seeing his dark-haired spy, he put the wand away and asked curtly,

"You have news?"

"He's awake," Severus responded promptly. A brief feeling of relief burned through the Dark Lord and the tenseness of his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. "He misses you… he cried on me for a little bit, but he seems to be holding himself together fairly well. Dumbledore has tied his magical signature to the wards surrounding the estate, so currently I cannot rescue him. He also has the Order believing that he's suffering from a muggle disease called Stockholm Syndrome, so they're not going to harm him any. In their minds, he's mentally ill right now." Tom said nothing for a long moment, choosing instead to stare at the man as he absorbed everything. Then without warning he turned his back briefly, grabbed the book he had been holding, and handed it over to the spy.

"Give this to him," he ordered. Severus took it and bowed, and understanding the phrase for the dismissal it was, backed quietly out of the room. Once safely in the hallway, he glanced down at the title. It was Freedom in Fighting, by Alastor Moody. Gathering his resolve briefly before common sense could drive it out, he pushed open the doors again.

"My Lord?"

"Yes, Severus?" The man's reply was weary.

"Harry is a strong boy, my Lord. He'll get through this, and we'll get him back to you." Tom studied his form for a tense minute, but eventually he nodded. Severus bowed his head respectfully and left Tom alone with himself once more.

It was five months later.

Harry sat in the middle of the bed, staring blankly. It was all he really ever did anymore. 'Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom…' He chanted his lover's name in his head desperately, hoping that somehow their bond would flare to life and he would get an answer. It hadn't yet happened, and Harry was slowly cracking under the stress and the pressure applied to him by Dumbledore and his followers. He barely noticed as the door cracked open and soft footsteps made their way across the hardwood to him. A small, delicate hand – a female's hand – laid itself on his shoulder.

"Come on, Harry, it's dinner." Ginny Weasley's soft tones spoke gently to him, almost like a child, but he paid her no mind. They all spoke like that to him now. She frowned slightly as she received no response, not even a flicker of his eyes. "Harry, mum says you need to eat more. Please come eat with us. You'll enjoy yourself, I promise." Again, there was no response, and she sighed in defeat. "Okay, then; I'll make you a deal. You promise to eat, and I'll tell the house-elves to send your plate up here. Can you do that for us?" Harry mulled the deal over in his head – really, what was the point? But he was hungry… he hadn't eaten anything in days. Sighing internally, he gave a slight nod and could almost feel the smile that blossomed on her face. She leaned forward, maybe to hug him, or, Merlin forbid, kiss him, but he shrunk away, pulling himself well out of the reach of her hand or any other part of her. Tom was the only person allowed to kiss and touch him. He felt her hurt but thankfully she chose to say nothing, instead just walking away and out of the room, closing it off behind her.

Within ten minutes, as she had promised, a plate appeared on his desk, a delicious smell wafting off it. Spaghetti, his mind reaffirmed what his nose was telling him. He shimmed to the edge of the bed and got unsteadily to his feet, pausing to gather his balance. Already a slender teen, Harry was beginning to become dangerously thin, and his skin had lost its glowing tone, settling into an unhealthy paper-white. His green eyes showed a certain defeat and soul-deep depression that not even Severus's assurances could hold off anymore. Approaching the plate, he picked up the fork and began to take a few bites, but almost instantly his stomach rebelled, and he made a mad dash to the adjoining bathroom, where he noisily vomited. Trembling, he stood and stumbled his way to the sink and washed out his mouth. Harry raised his eyes to the mirror.

"Tom," he whispered, almost pleadingly. The oppressive silence that answered him came as no surprise, not by now, and he slowly made his way into the room, pausing briefly by the plate before sliding into bed and grabbing the book he had read so many times its spine was cracked and nearly falling apart. "Lindy?" he called quietly. With a small pop, a tiny, wrinkled house elf appeared. This particular house-elf had been assigned to him by Dumbledore; he was one of the oldest in the house and therefore the calmest and hadn't yet managed to give Harry a heart attack due to his nerves – which he supposed was the old man's intent in the first place.

"Master Harry?"

"I don't think dinner's going to work out tonight," he said with a ghost of his usual smile. The house elf smiled sadly, as if he had expected it, and he approached the bed, patting Harry's hand briefly.

"Yes, Master Harry. I know." Retreating, he grabbed the plate and popped away, never noticing that it was missing a piece of cutlery.

Tom,

I know you'll probably be angry, and I'm sorry. But I'm not coming back. I'm just too far gone, mentally and emotionally. There's nothing left of me; I have nothing to give you anymore. I know that doesn't excuse it, or make this right, but this was the last option open for me. I remember how we always said it would never amount to this, that Albus Dumbledore would never, ever find us, but I guess even Dark Lords and Saviors can fool themselves. There was no chance for us, and we should never have allowed ourselves to believe otherwise. I wanted it, though; I wanted it so badly. I wanted that life with you in that manor, away from the world and in that bed. But when someone takes your life away from you, sometimes you can only do the same.

I will always love you,

Harry

Tom's fingers gently traced the words written on the inside cover of the book he sent along to Harry, noticing the stains of tear drops littering the surface and the edges stained with blood. Some feet away, a silent Severus Snape stood, watching his Lord closely, and lying on the black sheets of the aforementioned bed was Harry Potter – or rather, the body that had once been Harry Potter. His wrists were slit, his skin a ghastly shade of white that signified his death. Standing, Tom carefully set the book on a table and moved to the bed, sitting down next to his dead lover. His fingers reached out with an incredible amount of tenderness to carefully pick away the pieces of hair obscuring the young man's face. There was a sense of peace in his face, a gentle turn of the lips that suggested a deep inner contentment even as he committed suicide.

"I told him once that our magic was what allowed us to be together," Tom murmured, his voice weary. "He never understood, but I think he took comfort in it." He paused briefly. "He thought I didn't love him, and I suppose that in the beginning he was right. But as those two years went on…" His voice trailed off as he finally cleared off Harry's face, and leaning down, he kissed his forehead with an affection deeper than Severus ever thought possible from him.

"I will always love my soul mate."

I am really, really happy with this. Like, delightfully happy. It's also my first shot at a more angsty sort of story, and I didn't do half bad, if I do say so myself. But yeah, I think Imma post this and go to bed, because I currently have a migraine. Night night!

~Etidorpha