Chapter Text
He opened the chapel door and ran.
Night had fallen on Little Hangleton, the waning moon rising in the sky, illuminating the path to the old churchyard. Harry didn't go there; instead, he looked up and begged God for forgiveness for failing in his duty.
Tom Riddle was beyond redemption, and Harry wasn't going to waste any more time trying to save someone who didn't want to be saved. Now, he would fly high and merge with the veil to pass into another plane of existence where he would never have to see the damned sinner again.
Looking at the beautiful moon, Harry spread his wings; he was uncomfortable with the human clothes clinging too tightly to his shoulder blades, but he tried to ignore it as he lifted a few inches off the ground.
And it was just as he was about to take flight that he heard a shout.
"Diffindo."
The world suddenly slowed down; his feet touched the ground again, and he felt as if a bucket of lukewarm water had been poured over his back.
The smell of iron betrayed that the liquid wasn't water.
The hand he'd brought to his back was stained with a deep red. It took Harry a moment to realize it was blood, but that had to be impossible because Harry didn't bleed; angels never bleed.
Incredulous, he looked at his wings, but they were no longer where they should have been.
Sprawled on the grass were his white wings, speckled with red where they should have been attached to his back. The moonlight reflected off the drops of blood before clouds obscured the celestial body.
Tom's hysterical laughter reached Harry as he fell to his knees from the searing pain of being mutilated.
With a calm gait, Father Riddle approached, laughter accompanying him the whole way.
Harry didn't know when Tom had taken his wings; he only realized they were now in front of him when his gaze focused on the white patches on the ground. Tom knelt down too; now they were face to face. The priest's hands and cassock were stained with blood, surely from dragging the bloodied wings. He was breathing heavily and smiling with such jubilation that one would think he had earned his place in heaven itself (but the flames of hell were screaming his name).
Black patches appeared in Harry's vision as he looked at Riddle.
Tom brought a hand to Harry's cheek and stroked it tenderly, wiping away a stray tear that Harry hadn't realized he'd shed.
"Tell me how," Tom began, devotion seeping through his voice as he touched Harry's lips with his fingertips, "...tell me how you plan to abandon me now, darling?"
Harry didn't answer because darkness had taken hold of his mind, his heartbeat slowed, and his head fell back onto Tom's chest.
Whiteness quickly overcame the darkness, and in a familiar train station, Harry remembered.