"...The killing curse Potter casts towards him is the green of death. It is rot in winter, it is the necrotising shade putrid flesh turns as it withers on bone. The green of the avada kedavra is inevitable.
Tom dives out of the way. He tastes rot on his tongue; sickly sweetness that makes him want to gag. He lands heavily in the dirt, losing hold of his wand. It rolls from him when he goes to grab it.
“Has anyone told you how to duel?” Potter is a presence at his back, a looming shadow of an overcast sky, thunder about to break. The scar across his face is vivid lightning vivisecting his features as Tom grabs his wand and spins around. “First, we bow,” he sounds mocking. Like he’s quoting something or someone.
Tom doesn’t pause to listen.
“ Expulso! Confringo! Bombarda! ”
The shield Potter conjures is almost lazy, a casual flick of his wand as he steps forwards. Tom staggers to his feet.
“Flagrate!”
Potter just bats it away, clicking his tongue. “Impatient,” he notes. “Impulsive too—guess that doesn’t change.”
“Oh, stop talking,” Tom snaps. “Crucio.”
The rust-brown spell forces Potter to dance to one side. He looks positively thrilled . “See?” he laughs. “You show your true colours now. This—I know this seems cruel, but it’s a kindness. A mercy—”
“It’s a mad justification to make yourself feel better,” Tom snaps. “You’re casting the unforgivables too. You’re just the same as I.”
A look crosses Potter’s face. Shock? Disgust?
No, something deeper, more intrinsic. A raw heart string that sits frayed in his chest that Tom has accidentally plucked, torn and dragged into the light.
Self-loathing.
“At least you will be dead. And so many will live instead,” Potter says, like that makes sense. “Enough talking. Avada Kedavra.”
“Expelliarmus,” Tom snaps out, an immediate, instinctive response."
