June 3rd, 2010
|05:42 pm - Ten Nights|
Title: Ten Nights
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #10 - #10
Disclaimer: Not mine. Also, pretend Harry’s older – like 16, or so.
The first night is the worst. Supposedly anyway. The first night, when it’s his own hand, not Tom’s mouth, and the bed is too big and Harry can’t find anything to curl around except his pillow and then his head is flat on the mattress, and it’s not working at all so he wraps his arms around his bent knees and tries not to cry.
Lying in the darkness, Harry wonders if there’s a charm for hearing Tom’s steady sleep-breaths, for feeling his heartbeat, and he’s sure Hermione would know, but he couldn’t possibly ask her.
Hey, Herm. So I used to be fucking Tom, but what with him trying to kill Ginny, and then me, and then me killing him, that’s obviously not working out anymore. Yeah, funny, I know. My parents and my virginity, both. Yeah. Is there a charm or something for loneliness?
He hates his bed. Scarlet and soft and perfect, nothing like Tom’s green silk Slytherin sheets.
Harry huffs, grabs his pillow and a blanket, stumbles down to the common room couch.
The second night, there’s a pain in Harry’s gut, and he doesn’t sleep because he’s vomiting in the Gryffindor bathroom, knees aching against the hardness of the tile. He can’t find the energy to go to Madam Pomfrey, and everyone else is asleep.
Classes are over, and Harry’s supposed to be celebrating, and maybe he overdid the Firewhiskey tonight, or maybe it’s this absence that Harry shouldn’t even want to fill, but had damn well better scab soon. Fawkes should come cry on this hurt.
Harry looks across the bright white marble into a mirror and Tom stares back, that irresistible trademark smirk blazing from his eyes.
Softly: I’m going to kiss you now.
(Imagined: I’m going to kill you soon.)
But then the eyes are green, not grey, and there’s a pale scar peeking out from messy bangs, and then Harry’s insides are heaving and he turns back to the toilet bowl.
The third night, Harry holds a potion from Pomfrey, said he’d been having nightmares. She’d said he was a poor thing, looked exhausted, and gave him three nights’ worth.
He swallows all of it.
The fourth and fifth nights are excruciating. No more potion finds Harry up, three, four, five in the morning. He tries to read – adventure novels from the back of the library –doesn’t have the energy to get up and put on the cloak and wander, but it turns out he doesn’t have the energy to force his eyes to trace across the deeds of Gregory the Magnificent, either. So his exhausted brain goes to its default setting – running in circles around Tom, colliding with him every third second.
Tom, you’re evil. I killed you. I can’t still be in love with you.
Seamus sucks. Seamus sucks, but his mouth doesn’t feel quite right around Harry, and after, when they’re both sated, Seamus curls around him and just misses cushioning Harry’s spaces.
Harry rubs circles across Seamus’ back and listens as his breaths even out into sleep, except they’re not quite even, they’ve got this hiccough that Harry’s sure would be adorable, except it makes his arms ache to wrap around another body that fits just right. Harry’s eyes are burning, and he extracts himself without waking Seamus (miraculously)-
Rasped: Mmmph. Wharezit?
Murmured: Shhh. Go back to sleep. I have to get to class.
and heads back to his own bed. At least he’s tired.
Tom rolls over in Harry’s dreams, burrows back into blankets while he flunks Potions.
On the seventh night, Harry asks Madam Pomfrey for something stronger. He squirms under her gaze, and she says he can have it if he’s willing to sleep in the Hospital Wing, and talk to someone tomorrow. Of course. Thank you.
The eighth night, Harry remembers his meeting with the Psychiwizard, remembers his breathing exercises, remembers relaxation, remembers how not to think about Tom, remembers to swallow the Drowsy Draught.
I’m sorry we didn’t work out. I really am an asshole. But I really did love you.
Harry could swear he hears a low, broken chuckle as hands soothe him into sleep.
The ninth night has Harry remembering Tom – in the diary and in the Chamber, like always. The ninth night has tentative glances, and urgent kisses, and the most damning betrayal. The ninth night has Harry remembering the Dursleys (summer in two days!), and Ginny (body splayed across stone!), and Lockhart (Obliviate!).
On the tenth night, Harry forgets.
Brilliant, I know that's not what you would expect, LOL, but this conveys Harry's troubled mind so perfectly and dare I say fits canon Harry perfectly too, especially the not sleeping and walking around at night.
A very powerful piece of writing, I'm so glad you've written something else for these two.
It's a pity that Harry was so young in the early books - it makes my Tom/Harry life (a little) more difficult.
I really should write something happy for the two of them at some point, if only because I'm worried I don't know how to write something happy. (Maybe a cutesy hesitant first-time thing...?)
Also, for your enjoyment/terror, I've gotta write 16 more of these. (I thought it was fewer. 30 Kisses, though. So I gotta write 30.)