Hell had been positively gleeful when Tom Riddle joined.

So much guilt, so much self-hatred, so many weak spots that'd make him fold over, so much love, wrapped up in one neat package-- and not just that, but all of these were tangled together, a simple tug and Tom would fall apart.

And this was Hell, and Hell could do it again, and again, and again.

How long would it take for Tom Marvolo Riddle to truly break?

There was one particularly raw memory, for this mortal.

Stone-cold, unblinking, Tom raises the gun and pulls the trigger.

Harry collapses like a ragdoll, words broken on his lips and limbs useless, eyes staring at nothing, all with that look of emptiness and hurt on his face, and something in Tom breaks.

Hell likes. It will have to do it again.

The first time, Tom closes his eyes for a second, doesn't let his upset show. Friends and family alike call him a heartless psychopath, a murderer, a betrayer.

Tom doesn't let his hurt show.

It takes forty-seven times before Tom sheds a single tear. So many barriers. So much fun.

The faces of people he knows blurs into faceless figures, and all of them slash him with their words, impossible sharp and bitter and coming from his own guilt.

Harry's corpse chokes expletives, begs him for life far too late, looks so disappointed and Tom crumbles.

He breaks down over his body, tears and apologies and everything he stood for. He curls up, away from the confrontation that always follows, content to sob and blame himself for eternity.

Tom rises up, the comforting weight of the gun in his hand, light gleaming off of the barrel. He is cold and unmoving, and he doesn't twitch as he levels the gun with the heart. He aims, and he presses down on the trigger. He knows he will not miss.

He pulls dow-- wait.

Too late.

The gun goes off, and Harry hits the floor. Tom gives up.

There are two ways out of your little spot of torture.

The first, of course, is that you go to Heaven, you realise your guilt is for nothing, that is it okay.

The second is that you become desensitised. You kill someone so many times you don't even flinch. The insult of "Monster," and "Evil" bounce off him and Tom is so very cold. And Tom Riddle is powerful, and he isn't going to care.

Tom raises the gun and pulls the trigger. He does not flinch. He turns to meet the faceless crowd and doesn't flinch as they rain down fists and words.

Tom raises the gun and pulls the trigger-- his aim is off. Tom Riddle is cold, and he doesn't care, but he is strong. Powerful.

The bullet whistles over Harry's shoulder, and Harry hisses angry words, but Tom doesn't care. Merely tightens his hold on Harry's wrist and drags him away.

"Tom, let me go, you monster. I thought you loved me."

Tom doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch.

"That's why I'm doing this."

Again and again, Tom overpowers Hell. Harry whispers "I love you," into the dead of the night, Harry doesn't die. Tom is winning.

Hell is a game and Tom Riddle refuses to play.

Hell knows Tom thinks that if he keeps his walls up, feels no guilt for what he did, then he thinks he'll be safe.

He is wrong.

Hell has many ways of punishing its sinners, and they've barely even begun.

Tom is using the familiarity of the situation against his guilt, overpowering and twisting and warping. Hell knows ways around that.

The whole of the town falls apart at the seams, and Hell sees the flicker of delight on his face for a single second.

Good. Still breakable, then.

Tom Riddle stand alone at the centre of a desert, with only sand to be seen for miles. No water, no food, no plants, no people.

He starts to walk, head held high and eyes narrowed, determined.

He walks for hours and hours, no sign of night returning, only the endless, burning sun. Hell puts a bit more pressure on him, raising the temperature to a level akin to Death Valley.

Tom walks through the desert, and his walls start to break.

Hell sends sandstorms directed at his eyes, his mouth, and Tom can't swallow because his mouth is too dry. His stomach rumbles, and he staggers, eyes burning from the sand and the grit.

Hell makes him want to move, to flee, yet he lies there on the sand and suffers silently.

Hell leaves him there, watching, waiting. Hell lets the sand die down, slowly, offers Tom a single drop of water - but not like that. Tom stumbled into a banquet, but he could taste the first second of every piece of food, so painstakingly made to be addictive, and then it turned to ash.

Tom Riddle was breaking, shattering, and Hell watched and Hell laughed.

At some point, a green-eyed boy flickered in Tom's memories-- and Tom remembered.

His guilt returned, and he unfurled, no sign of the torture he'd been through, feeling the comfortable weight of the gun in his hand, light shining off of the barrel as he raised it. He aimed, and he knew he would not miss.

He pulled the trigger.

Harry tumbled to the ground like a broken ragdoll, and Tom Riddle screamed.

***

Tom is panicking, searching for a seam that will let him out, desperate, fingers clawing at all too familiar tiles, letmeoutletmeoutletmeout.

There is only one way out for him, and he's not looking in the right place.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger, feels a stab of pain and sees a door - just for a second, mind you, but he reaches for a handle he cannot see and trusts that he can make it, and steps outside the cell.

The door thuds shut behind him, and he ignores the pull driving him into the room.

He walks.

The corridors here are made of stone and are grey, ash falling from the ceilings and the uncomfortable heat wrapping itself round him, the pungent stink of sulphur crawling into his nostrils.

There are many doors, many people. He looks in, but he only sees them sitting blankly on the stool, staring ahead. Sometimes, he'll see people half jerk up from it, and he'll think fight. Fight it, I believe in you - but they never do. They sit back down, succumbing to the all-consuming guilt.

He saw someone go to Heaven, once. She stepped out of the room, marching up the stone steps, so certain of where she was going.

Tom peeked into her room, seating himself on the stool and allowing himself to replace her in her loop.

"Katrina!" they called.

Tom was not Katrina; Hell did not force him to go.

He went anyway.

He partied, saw a golden-haired girl, and understood. Katrina was in Hell because she felt guilt for not telling this girl that she loved her, for marrying a man she didn't love.

Tom went along with it anyway.

He kissed a girl he did not know, he did not love, and he felt repulsed. Guilty. He backed out, the scene fading, swinging open the door and slamming it shut.

Never again.

Only his Harry, who he was not worthy of.

That did not matter now.

He walked into multiple rooms, cells, stood to the side and watched people suffer. There were the truly twisted, sick and depraved, torturing people and laughing as they died, then there were ordinary people simply holding too much guilt.

Tom was neither of these.

Tom was a murderer, a murderer of Harry. He remembered walking there, unflinching, of raising the gun and aiming, of Harry, Harry's sharp, cruel words seconds before he fired.

Tom was a perfect shot.

He had known he would not miss.

Tom remembered letting the gun fall to the ground, uncaring of his prints. Someone would report the robbery soon enough, and Tom did not have a license - someone would put it together.

Tom remembered walking past the crowds, ignoring the cries of "Monster! You monster! Murderer!"

He remembered walking back to his office and sitting down at his desk.

He remembered going back to work like nothing had happened.

Tom had treated Harry's death like nothing.

He walked back in the direction of his cell.

Tom paused next to the room beside his own.

A strangely familiar figure was seated on the stool - it looked like Harry, but it couldn't be Harry, because his Harry would never end up in Hell.

Not his sunshine Harry.

He opened the door.

Hell was replaced by an all too familiar town, an all too familiar room, an all too familiar party.

This was where they had kissed.

He saw the figure - Harry, his Harry - drunk and staggering, go towards Hell-Tom, smiling.

He saw the conversation burnt into his mind replay, saw Harry try to fight the kiss, saw him give in.

Of course Harry regretted this.

Of course.

He watched Harry kiss Hell-Tom, watched Harry avoid him for weeks. Watched Harry walk into that park, knowing, knowing that Tom would raise the gun.

He watched Harry spit the same words he'd never forget.

"Don't you love me, Tom? Only a monster would shoot someone he loved. Someone truly evil."

He saw Hell-Tom's face flicker with hurt for a single second, cold mask replacing it as he rose the gun.

Harry crumpled to the floor like a ragdoll, and the party returned.

Hell-Tom lifted the gun and pulled the trigger.

Real Tom stepped in between it, feeling a stab of pain in his shoulder and hearing Harry's gasp.

"Tom?"

"Hello, Harry," he says, trying and failing at a cocky grin. "Long time no see."

***

"Tom, oh my god oh my god oh my god-"

"Harry, Harry, none of this is real. Take a breath. Focus on me. I am real."

Harry shudders, gasping. "This seems pretty damn real to me."

Tom flinches as another bullet hits him. "This is Hell, Harry. Focus on me."

Harry stares at him. "Tom, wait."

Eyes searching his face, Tom waits.

"Tom, I need to tell you," he says. "I think it's why I'm here."

"Harry?"

"I'm here because I love you, Tom, so utterly and completely. I'm here because I loved you and I never told you, I avoided you that one time we kissed and I'm so, so, sorry."

Harry is watching him with those wide green eyes of his and Tom has no idea how Harry can think any of this is his fault. "I killed you, how can you love me? How can this be anything but my fault?"

"You heard what I said."

"I killed you, a few insults are nothing!"

Another bullet hits his spine.

"Harry, this is not your fault, but we have to go. Now."

Harry nods, and they reach for the door together.