#boograms

With shaking hands, Tom fit his key into the lock of his apartment, still half-delirious from the intensity of the ritual.

He had done it. It’d taken him years of slaving away at Borgin & Burkes, years of kissing ass and simpering up to pureblooded fools who carelessly neglected the priceless artifacts in their care, years of scouring through forbidden tomes bought secondhand in the dregs of Knockturn Alley. He’d fended off the veiled jabs and digs from his Hogwarts peers, the insulting pity in Abraxas’ missives, the concern in Orion’s messages feeling more like mockery than care.

But finally, he’d learned exactly how to obtain immortality, getting his hands on each individual component required for a successful sacrifice.

And it did take a sacrifice, one he was all too pleased to make. 

Harry Evans, a whirlwind of a boy, messy on the best of days and a wreck on his worst, had foiled far too many of Tom’s schemes. He’d crash into the shop when Tom had just been about to coax a ritualistic dagger from a dementia-riddled old woman who probably wouldn't even remember losing it, or snag the last of the books on immortality right before Tom stopped by his usual sellers, or even try to subtly hex him each time he saw him — Tom was certain that Harry had charmed Tom’s hair a disgustingly neon pink right before Borgin had returned to the shop, his belief becoming far more fervent with how cheerfully Harry denied it each time he brought it up.

It was childish. Petty behavior, more fitting for Hogwarts rivals than adult men with responsibilities. Tom felt no need to put up with it any longer.

He’d torn Harry apart on a ritual altar, carved runes into his skin, created a spell powered by blood and bone and death and sacrifice. He’d watched the life leave Harry’s eyes, the bright, piercing green fading into something glassy and dull, without a trace of mischief or daring. 

And he’d luxuriated in the rush of immortality, the power zinging through his veins, the electric strength of his magic.

He hadn’t bothered to regret the loss of Harry. So what if he’d never get the chance to argue with him again, never again know the thrill of dodging Harry’s attempts to thwart him? Harry was an inconvenience who had made his plans unnecessarily difficult, even if he’d never felt more alive with anyone else — there was nothing at all to mourn. 

He’d wandered Knockturn for a bit afterwards, riding the high of immortality, pleased to be able to leave the shithole now that he’d gotten what he needed from it. Watching the hags and harpies cringe away from the death magic surrounding him had been a foreign thrill, one he was prepared to experience for the rest of his life. Soon, everyone would bow as he passed. Soon, the world’s submission would become his eternity. 

The key finally turned in the lock; Tom stumbled into his apartment. 

“Welcome back!” came a cheery voice from Tom’s threadbare sofa. 

Tom blinked rapidly, unable to process what he was seeing for a beat too long. 

Harry could not be sitting on his couch, wearing a baggy Gryffindor jumper and Muggle denim jeans. He could not be grinning fiercely at Tom’s confusion, aggravatingly pleased with himself. He was dead, and Tom had killed him. 

And yet, there he was. 

“You really fucked up that ritual, Tom,” mused Harry, crossing his legs under himself. He was wearing fluffy socks with cartoon ghosts printed on them. The sight was too surreal to believe. “See, it’s a good thing I snagged The Power of Darkness the Light Knows Not from you, huh? You screwed up your runes irreversibly.” 

“How?” croaked Tom, frozen in the doorway, his world crashing down around him. 

“Remember the sowilo you carved into my head?” asked Harry, horribly entertained. “You made me an integral part of the ritual. Instead of being just the sacrifice, you marked me as an equal.”

Tom blanched. Could it possibly mean…

“That’s right, Tommy-boy!” laughed Harry. “You made me an immortal, too!”

Tom stared blankly ahead, blocking out the sound of Harry cackling in front of him. 

His dreams of the glory of immortality were dashed in an instant. 

This was no feat of power —- it was an unbreakable curse, dooming him to hell with the greatest thorn in his side, forcing him into miserable, eternal comradery with a man whose only joy seemed to be watching Tom suffer.

There was no other solution. 

Tom knelt over the grave of his father, the engraving on the man’s tombstone easy to identify under the light of the full moon. He had killed the man last summer, slaughtering probably the only living family he had left in his fit of rage now that Morfin had finally rotted away in Azkaban.

He didn’t regret it. He was above regret – he had already ascended past the boundaries of magic, already begun to carve out a completely unique place in the world, one above the mundanities of death and age.

And yet, as he sunk his hands into the dirt over his father’s body—a man who had shared his sharp cheekbones, his almond-shaped, downturned eyes, his natural frown—he wondered just how different things could have been if he hadn’t cast to kill. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to dig up the man’s grave for a sample of his blood. Perhaps his father could have learned to respect him and his power, could have learned to bow to his will. They could have been amicable.

But Tom was above regret, and with a shake of his head, he began to reach for his wand. He’d harvest the blood from the body, save some of the grave dirt, and with all his ingredients gathered, he’d be free to finally—

An absurdly bright beam of light flooded his vision, and Tom covered his eyes with a gasp.

“The cemetery is closed at sundown to all except the dead and me,” said a mild-mannered voice in front of him. “Are you among the dead, sir?”

Was that a threat?

A jolt of fear electrified Tom, though he knew it was unreasonable. The man in front of him was likely just an older Muggle gravekeeper, patrolling his grounds to keep order, harmless and stupid as all Muggles were. There was no need to resort to violence, not yet.

Though logically, he knew that the man in front of him couldn’t do a thing to him, he did cut an imposing figure, all shadow and midnight darkness behind the blinding flashlight held in his hand.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” said Tom, putting on his most pitiful expression, helped by the way his eyes had begun to water in the light. “It’s just– my father died this past summer, you see, and I’ve been away at boarding school. I just wanted to visit his grave.”

A gust of wind rattled the trees around them, the clash of the bare branches harsh and unsettling in the quiet of the cemetery. Slowly, after a pause, the man lowered his flashlight, leaving Tom to blink his vision back.

“You’re just here to visit your father?” said the man quietly, voice soft. “We get a few delinquents every year, you see, trying to dig up my graves.”

“I would never,” responded Tom, face contorting with offense. 

The gravekeeper nodded once, apparently willing to buy Tom’s lazy story, as feeble-minded as all Muggles were. “I won’t trespass you, then, but you do need to leave now. Come back in the morning to mourn.”

“Of course, sir,” said Tom, bowing his head. “I’ll leave right away.”

This had become far too much of a pain. With a sigh, Tom reached for his wand, preparing to Imperio the idiot and send him on his merry way — he needed to be back to Hogwarts by daybreak, and time was running out. 

But before he could get a firm grasp on his wand, it came flying out of his hands, caught in an instant by the gravekeeper.

"Someday, Tom,” sighed the gravekeeper, twirling Tom’s yew wand between his fingers, careless and unhurried in his movements. “In some universe, you’ll learn not to lie to me.”

Fuck.

Tom scrambled to his feet, thinking furiously on what he could do. He’d be severely disadvantaged without a wand, only capable of doing basic spells wandless, but he couldn’t just run when the man held his loyal wand captive. Could he bargain, arguing for his way out? Apologize again, more sincerely? Promise to never come back, and bide his time before trying again?

“Who are you?” said Tom instead, the words tumbling out of his mouth on instinct before he had the chance to think them over.

The man in front of him tilted his head, a pleased smile playing over his face. With a single step closer to Tom, the moonlight danced upon his face, illuminating piercing green eyes and a sharp, jagged scar cleaving his face in two. He was no human, Tom realized immediately — there was something inconceivably wrong with him, an understanding behind his smile that no human could mimic, a complete and utter separation from mortality. “I’m the Master of Death. And in this universe, that means ensuring that the only ones in my cemetery after dark are myself and the dead.”

“I’ll leave now!” said Tom frantically, giving up all hope of recovering his wand. “I’ll leave, and never come back, I promise!”

“You have no respect for death,” frowned the Master, his eyes narrowed. “You desecrate the graves of your ancestors, split your soul, lie to me…it’s my responsibility now to teach you.”

“This had better not be a repeat of last year,” said Hermione, her strained smile inadequate in concealing the cold intensity of her words. “Rose had nightmares for weeks. We had to put her on a Dreamless Sleep taper.”

“I swear we’ve figured it out this year, ‘Mione,” Harry grinned, his eyes alight with a mischief that probably did not make him seem any more trustworthy. “Last year, we harvested all those boggarts, but we hadn’t figured out how to control them properly. But this year, we were able to give them some really great censorship guidelines so that they’re not too crazy!”

Hermione pursed her lips. “This feels like a mishandling of Ministry resources.”

“No, we would never,” responded Harry in a sing-song voice, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Halloween was his favorite, and this year, he and Tom had constructed something better than ever before.

Hermione was right, of course. Tom’s work as an Unspeakable in the Brain Room of the Department of Mysteries exposed him to all sorts of magical secrets, with the Unspeakables working closely together to unlock just how wizarding brains worked. Though a complex series of vows prevented Tom from sharing all the gory details with Harry, he knew that Tom had been specializing in fear — from calibrating exactly what would be scary enough to make an individual lose their sanity to rewiring people in panic, the role fit perfectly with Tom’s manipulative, megalomaniac tendencies, and Harry was always so pleased to see Tom coming back from work looking so satisfied with his day.

Was it legal to use what Tom learned from his study of boggarts for their annual haunted house? No. Was it safe to be using untested fear magic on their friends, family, and neighbors? Probably not. Would they face another Ministry inquiry with this year’s haunted house after the whole debacle with last year’s attempt, which had required Tom’s liberal usage of Legilimency and Obliviation on more than one of the attendees to ensure their sanity? Quite possibly.

But for those who had the balls to enjoy the scare, the haunted house was so much fun every year, and Harry was bursting with excitement to see how attendees would react to their latest display.

Tom stepped beside Harry, resting a hand around Harry’s waist. “Harry’s right – we have put up far more guardrails this year. Anything you see will still inspire fear, but nothing will be quite as visually stimulating. Nothing will be able to touch you, and we’ve prevented the boggarts from conjuring up any images with blood or immense bodily harm. While dearest little Rose will still leave frightened, there’s no risk of her seeing, for example, a man getting ripped apart by dogs.”

“She’s still scared of dogs a full year later,” muttered Hermione with a glare. “Won’t even look at the neighbor’s poodle.”

“So she’d probably see some sort of dog,” chimed in Harry. “But without any blood from the dog mauling someone! And no attacking her! It’s up to her if she wants to give it a whirl, of course, but it should definitely be better than last year.”

Rose peeked out at Tom and Harry from behind Hermione’s leg, mouth twisted with a child’s headstrong determination. “I want to try it again.”

“Are you sure?” asked Hermione, kneeling down to Rose’s eye level. “Remember how scary it was last time?”

“That’s the whole point of Halloween, mom,” said Rose with a huff. “I can do it.”

And with only a single glance back at her mother, Rose walked through the doors of the haunted house, head held high, the first of many to try out this year’s haunted house.

***

“This is perfect,” whispered Tom in Harry’s ear as the last of their visitors left. The haunted house had been a wonderful success – while some children had left crying (and a few adults, too), on the whole, most attendees had truly enjoyed themselves, giggling with all the exuberance of an intense adrenaline rush as they made their way out, giddy in the excitement of having faced their fears. “You’re a wonder, Harry.”

Harry leaned back into Tom, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “You’re doing all the dirty work researching. All I’m doing is setting up a little bit of a test run.”

“I never would have thought of this,” argued Tom, sounding almost in awe. “A place where a random sample of the British wizarding population voluntarily chooses to have their fears tested? The data we’ve gathered in the past few hours alone is already invaluable.”

Harry tilted his head. “Enough to begin your work?”

Tom was silent for a moment – Harry could almost see the pieces of the plan slotting into place behind his eyes, each moment they’d plotted out carefully, each trap they’d planned on laying. 

The way that Tom would master his fear magic, moving out of the Department of Mysteries to work directly under Minister Fudge, a move that was near-guaranteed with how carefully he’d curated his network. The way he’d infuse the man with paranoia, making him doubt his every decision, his fear only receding once he’d spoken with Tom to get his approval. The way that within a year, Tom could be behind every decision being made at the Ministry, keeping everyone in line with carefully applied fear magic, presenting himself as the only source of safety in a terrifying world.

And once Tom ran the Ministry, what would stop them from pushing the boundaries of magic even further?