#Harry the Greek | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

k-nayee · 3 months ago

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Bring Me to Life Harry Potter

wc: 4.3k a/n: was inspired by my classics mythology course, specifically Pygmalion!

Slight Greek Mythology!AU

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

You were never meant to be in your grandfather’s study.

The room was always locked, but that never stopped you from getting in.

His study held an irresistible mystery—the scent of old books, the glimmer of aged artifacts, shelves of tomes older than the house itself.

The musty air clung to your skin as you ran your fingers along the spines of countless books.

Some of the titles were so faded you could barely make out the letters while others glinted with metallic ink, daring you to open them.

It was late afternoon when you had snuck in, the light filtering through the high windows casted long shadows across floors

You glanced nervously over your shoulder making sure the door was still closed behind you.

The last thing you needed was your grandfather to catch you in here.

Your fingers stilled over a small leather-bound book labeled simply: T.R. Something about it stood out.

Unlike the others it seemed unassuming—no grand title or gilded edges, just those two letters in plain black ink.

Without thinking you slid the book from its place. It was heavier than it looked, the pages stiff and worn as though untouched for years.

Opening the cover the smell of old parchment paper filled your nose as you took in the sight of rows various photographs.

Moving photographs.

The first few pictures were unremarkable: familiar faces from your family’s past—likely great-grandparents or distant relatives.

As you turned the pages a particular set of photos began to repeat: two boys in Hogwarts uniforms standing side by side.

One of them was unmistakably your grandfather; his sharp features softened by youth.

But it was the other boy that drew your attention.

In each photo the second boy lingered in the background or beside your grandfather, his face was always slightly obscured—turned away, blurred, or caught in motion.

There was something about him that intrigued you though you couldn’t explain why.

Maybe it was the way he carried himself all so poised and controlled, or the way your grandfather seemed so at ease around him.

As you flipped through more pages the pair appeared again and again—posing in front of the Hogwarts castle, sitting on the grounds, even at your family’s estate.

You frowned as you squint at the photos wondering who this boy could be and why he was such a frequent companion of your grandfather.

You’d never heard your family mention anyone like him and your curiosity deepened with every turn of the page.

One thing for sure: the mystery boy never smiled. If anything he looked detached.

It wasn’t until you found a picture that made your breath catch in your throat.

This one was different. His face was in full view.

The image showed him sitting alone this time at a desk with a quill in hand, his gaze focused on a book as though unaware the camera was watching.

His features were sharp and defined—high cheekbones with dark slicked-back hair that gave him an air of cold elegance.

Brows furrowed in concentration as he wrote, he suddenly pause before glancing up as though someone had called his name.

He scoffs with a roll of his eyes and return to his work.

And yet there was a small tug at the corner of his lips, a flicker of amusement that softened his otherwise intense expression.

The subtle motion played on a loop that you watched it over and over, entranced.

Something stirred in you—a strange fascination you couldn’t explain.

There was something hauntingly perfect about him, a beauty almost otherworldly.

You had seen many pictures of young wizards but none of them had held your attention like this.

"That’s enough of that." The sharp voice made you flinch.

Album nearly slipping from your hands, you spun around to see your grandfather standing in the doorway with a frown of disapproval.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked, striding across the room with surprising speed for a man of his age.

"I-I'm sorry I didn’t mean to—" Before you could stammer out an excuse, he snatched the album from your hands and slam it shut with a thud that seemed to echo through the room.

"These are not things for you to meddle with!" he said sharply, voice unusually harsh.

He turned away, gripping the album tightly as if the contents were too dangerous to leave in your hands.

A shadow passed over his face when noticing the photograph you had been staring at.

"Who was that?" the question blurt out before you could stop it. "The boy in the photos with you. Who is he?"

For a moment your grandfather didn’t answer. He stood there, his back to you as if weighing whether or not to tell you.

Finally with a deep sigh, he turned to face you, his expression softer now but still guarded.

"Tom Riddle," his voice quiet but laced with an undeniable weight. "We were in school together. He and I...knew each other."

There was something in the way he said the name that made your skin prickle.

Tom Riddle. It echoed in your mind like a forgotten story, a warning wrapped in two simple words.

"Tom Riddle?" you repeated softly, the syllables feeling foreign on your tongue. "Who was he really? And why have I never heard you mention him before?"

Your grandfather’s eyes darkened. Slowly walking to the desk, he place the album down carefully as though it might shatter.

"Because it’s better you don’t know," his voice was thick with something close to regret. "Tom was...complicated. Dangerous."

You frowned leaning in. "What do you mean by that?"

He gave you a long look as if trying to decide whether you were ready to hear what he was about to say.

Then after what felt like an eternity, he leaned back and began.

"We met in our first year at Hogwarts," he started mind heavy with the weight of old memories. "I noticed him right away. Not because he stood out—no no, Tom was very careful not to. But there was something about him that was...off. Most people didn’t see it. He was charming, polite, even likable when he needed to be. The perfect façade."

"Façade?" you echoed. The boy in the photo had looked anything but fake.

Your grandfather nodded. "Tom was empty even then. But people only saw what he wanted them to see. He smiled when it suited him, spoke with a kindness that never reached his eyes. Most people—especially the professors—believed he was destined for greatness. I suppose in a way he was."

He paused, gaze drifting as though he could still see him standing there. "But I knew better. Saw through him before anyone else did."

“How did you know?”

"Because I watched him," your grandfather admitted. “I was no fool, even then. I saw it the moment I met him—he had ambition more than anyone I’d ever known. I knew he could be dangerous and I wasn’t going to let that power slip by unnoticed.”

You swallowed, an uncomfortable feeling settling in your stomach. "So what did you do?"

A small bitter smile tugged at the corners of your grandfather’s lips. "I tested him; wanted to know what he was capable of so I kept an eye on him. I charmed a quill and loaned it to him when he 'coincidentally' lost his. He didn’t suspect a thing—still new to magic at the time and didn’t realize it."

"Charmed how?"

"It was a tracker," he simply said. "I needed to know know who I was dealing with. That quill stayed with him the entire year. And what I found out..."

Silence settled between you. The air felt thicker now, heavy with the weight of what he wasn’t saying. “What did you find out?”

His jaw clenched slightly. “I found out where he came from...he grew up in a Muggle orphanage.”

The revelation sent a ripple of surprise through you. “Muggle?”

Your grandfather grimly nodded. “Tom was a half-blood. He never spoke about it at school and I understood why. He despised them—the Muggles. He thought they were beneath him, knowing he was the product of a love-potion made it no better.”

You blinked. 'He was a love potion baby?'

The term wasn’t unfamiliar to you—your family had a long history of marriages arranged for power resulting in children born from such unions.

Emotionless, loveless, all in the name of strengthening the family’s bloodline.

It wasn’t uncommon for cousins or relatives to be born with the same emptiness. But this...this was something else.

You swallowed feeling a chill run down your spine. “So...what did you do?”

“I confronted him. In our second year I told him what I knew. Told him I’d tracked him, that I knew about the orphanage and his hatred for the non-magic. And instead of threatening, I offered him a place. Didn’t want to see his potential wasted among Muggles”

"Did he accept?" you asked quietly.

His expression softened slightly. "He was grateful...or at least pretended to be. For a time we were close—not friends mind you. Tom didn’t have friends. He had useful people. And I was useful to him, just as he was to me."

The way your grandfather spoke of Tom was an odd mix of respect and wariness.

Even now, after all these years, he was still cautious in how he remembered him.

"What happened?"

Your grandfather’s expression darkened as his lips press into a thin line. "Tom had his ideas about blood purity. I won’t lie, I wasn’t opposed to some of them. Muggles and Muggle-borns...they didn’t belong in our world—at least not in the same capacity as real witches and wizards."

You could feel the shift in the air. His voice was lower now, almost a whisper.

"At first I turned a blind eye. We were still young, still figuring things out. But then..." He trailed off, hands gripping the arms of his chair. "The abuse of Muggle-born students started. It was small things at first; hex here, jinx there. But by the time I realized how far Tom was willing to go it was too late. He had already gathered others around him, boys who would follow him without question. And I couldn’t stand by and watch."

You swallowed, the weight of his words sinking in. "So you cut ties with him."

"I did. I wouldn’t condone harm and murder, so I left. Tom didn’t take it well but he respected me enough to leave my family out of his...ambitions. Even during the war when everyone else was caught in the crossfire, he never came after us."

You blinked confused. "He never came after our family during the war?"

Your mind spun for a moment. "Wait you mean... the First Wizarding War? The war where Harry Potter’s parents were killed?"

A chill ran down your spine as a realization began to settle in.

There was only one person who could have spared your family from the carnage of that time. "The only person I can think of who could’ve done that is—"

Your mouth went dry as the full weight of it hit you.

You look up at your grandfather. He didn’t have to say anything.

You could see the truth etched across his face.

"Grandpa..." Your voice wavered. "You... you knew him. You knew Lord Voldem—."

"Yes." Before you could even finish your grandfather cuts you off sharply, his tone grave.

The confirmation hit you like a blow. Voldemort—the Dark Lord—had once been the boy in the photographs.

And your family...your grandfather had known him. Protected him even.

"So...that’s why our family stayed neutral," you whispered as understanding dawned on you. "That’s why we stayed out of the war. Because of him."

"Exactly," his voice was steady but cold. "Tom never touched us. But don’t think for a moment that it was out of affection or friendship. It was respect, nothing more."

You nodded slowly as your gaze dropped to your hands.

Tom Riddle—Voldemort—had spared your family. Not out of loyalty, but out of a cold calculated respect.

Even though it made your skin crawl thinking about it...there was something that gnawed at the edges of your mind.

The real Tom Riddle was dead—long gone, nothing but a memory now.

And yet the boy in the photograph, the one your grandfather had once known, was still very much alive in your thoughts.

And it was that boy you couldn’t stop thinking about.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

Years had passed since that conversation with your grandfather, but his words lingered in your mind like a shadow.

No matter how hard you tried, the image of Tom Riddle remained etched into your thoughts.

There was something about his face that made it impossible for you.

It wasn’t just the stories your grandfather had told you either.

Though he had never sugarcoated Tom’s cruelty, the warnings only fueled your fascination rather than extinguished it.

You knew it was wrong, but you couldn’t help wondering what Tom might have been like if things had been different.

What if he hadn’t been born from a love potion? What if he had known love, friendship, or even the simple human connection?

Soon art became your outlet.

Driven to create—to somehow capture that beauty, that impossible idea of who Tom Riddle could have been.

It had started innocently—just a way to recreate the beauty you saw in the photograph you eventually secretly stole from your grandfather’s study.

Countless rough portraits were sketched. And when that wasn't enough, you turned to sculpting without magic.

Now here you are: currently standing in the Room of Requirement surrounded by the fruits of your labor.

You stepped back from the marble figure, wiping the dust from your hands as you admired your work.

Months of tireless effort, sneaking into the Room of Requirement every chance you got to bring him to life through stone.

The statue was life-size as it stood tall, it was so perfect it almost unnerved you.

Every detail of had been meticulously crafted—the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the delicate curve of his lips, even the way his hair fell across his forehead.

But this wasn’t the Tom Riddle your grandfather described, the one who had become Voldemort.

No this was different.

It was the version of him you had imagined—one if he hadn’t been burdened with his loveless past.

A chill ran down your spine. You couldn’t decide if it was from the cool air of the room or the eerie realism of the statue.

This was your finest work. Your masterpiece.

And it terrified you.

You had fallen in love with the image of a boy who no longer existed.

A boy who had become something far more dangerous, something twisted.

But it wasn’t the monster you loved. It was the potential—what he could have been if his life had turned out differently.

The thought gnawed at you constantly in a strange mixture of guilt and fascination.

You weren’t naïve enough to romanticize who Tom Riddle had been, but you couldn’t deny the pull he had on you.

Reaching out hesitantly, your fingers brush the smooth marble of his cheek.

Despite having poured so much of yourself into this creation, it was just a statue: cold, unmoving, forever frozen in the marble.

You could recreate his beauty, but you couldn’t bring him to life.

That thought stung more than you'd admit. Pushing it aside you start cleaning your tools.

You had poured blood, sweat, and tears into this project; and for now that would have to be enough.

As you made your way toward the Great Hall the sound of laughter and excited chatter grew louder.

You frowned noticing groups of students rushing past you, their faces flushed with excitement.

The hell's going on?

Just as you sat at your House table, a sleek and familiar black owl flutters down from the open window with a wrapped package neatly tied to its leg.

Your family owl.

Curious, you unfastened the package and tore open the brown paper. A stunning dress is revealed, the fabric shimmering in the low light of the hall as a small note falls out.

Apologies for the late delivery! I just know you’ll be beautiful tonight. Here’s a charm for your hair—just wave your wand twice and it’ll set. Enjoy the ball!

- Love, Mum.

You stared at the letter as a wave of confusion wash over you. For the night? What was she talking about?

"Oh wow! That dress is gorgeous!!" A girl sitting next to you leans over, eyeing the dress with barely concealed envy. "You’re going to look so amazing at the Yule Ball."

You froze, the blood draining from your face.

The Yule Ball.

Of course. How could you have forgotten?

"W-what?" you stammered eyes wide. "The Yule Ball's tonight?!"

The girl raised an eyebrow. "Yes? The boys have been asking all the girls out. Haven’t you noticed?"

You stared at her dumbfounded as her words slowly sank in.

You struggled to recall any moments like that. Nothing specific came to mind; just fragmented memories of the usual day at Hogwarts.

Your heart sank. No one had asked you.

And even if they did, you had been so wrapped up in your own creation that the world around you was forgotten.

A heavy sigh escaped your lips and you glanced down at the beautiful dress, its fabric mocking you with its elegance.

"Merlin were you under a rock this whole time?" the girl next to you asked still watching your reaction.

You force a smile, shaking your head as you tried to laugh it off. “No...”

Finally turning away back to her own group of friends, your smile drops, bitterness creeping in as you looked around the Great Hall filled with excited faces for tonight. '....I was in the Room of Requirement.'

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

That night you stood in front of the mirror staring at your reflection.

The [color] dress shimmered in the candlelight, hugging your figure before cascading in soft waves.

It was beautiful.

Your mother’s charm had worked wonders—your hair was styled into an effortless updo that framed your face perfectly.

By all appearances you looked like someone who belonged at a grand event like the Yule Ball.

But the smile you forced didn’t quite reach your eyes.

The sound of laughter and excitement echoed faintly from the corridors outside.

You took time getting ready, dragging out the process to avoid the awkwardness of arriving alone.

The thought of walking into the ball by yourself, surrounded by couples and groups of friends, made you sick.

But you couldn’t avoid it forever.

Snapping a quick picture to send off to your family, you slip out of your room and head toward the Great Hall.

Music and laughter filled the corridors as you approached, the excitement of the ball palpable from a distance.

Your stomach twisted a little upon stepping through the grand doors.

The hall was packed with people; groups of friends and couples dancing, talking, and enjoying the night.

You had expected it of course—this was the Yule Ball after all—but seeing it now made you feel even more out of place.

You hovered near the entrance for a moment, your nerves getting the better of you.

No one seemed to notice your late arrival (and for that you were grateful), allowing you to scurry to sidelines in attempt to blend into the background.

You weren’t sure what to do with yourself.

Boys and girls alike passed by, casting appreciative glances at your dress—some murmuring compliments alike.

But beyond that no one approached.

As you stood by the refreshment table, occupying yourself with idle bites of food and sipping from your goblet, your eyes drifted across the room.

Friends laughed and danced under the sparkling lights while couples happily swayed together in the middle of the floor, holding each other close.

The warmth of their connections was so palpable it stung deep upon realization:

Once again, you were on the outside, watching in.

Because the truth was, no matter how much effort you put into fitting in tonight, you were always an outsider.

Most students at Hogwarts came from families that had chosen a side—either in support of Voldemort or against him.

But your family had chosen neither.

To some you were traitors; cowardly for not standing with the Dark Lord and despised for somehow escaping unscathed.

To others you were untrustworthy; too ambiguous in your loyalties to be considered true allies.

It didn’t matter that you had nothing to do with it.

Your last name was enough to create an invisible barrier between you and everyone else.

You took another sip of pumpkin juice, eyes scanning the room again in hopes of hoping seeing even a single familiar face.

But the groups were tightly knit with everyone lost in their own joy. Loneliness clawed at your chest.

Turning toward the large balcony doors, you step away from the crowded hall and out onto the balcony.

Soft slow music drifted out to you.

You glanced back through the doors watching as even the loners—the ones who had come alone like you—were being asked to dance.

Some hesitated at first but soon gave in to the invitation, smiling shyly as they were led onto the dance floor.

The romantic waltz filled your head, stirring something bittersweet inside you.

You leaned against the railing and look up at the starry sight.

A shooting star suddenly blaze across the sky and without thinking you make a wish that's whispered into the night.

It was silly really. The idea of wishing for something more than this.

As you looked up at the sky your heart ached for connection, for someone who could understand.

Not your family’s complicated history, not your place in the world: just you.

You knew it was pointless though; no one understood. No one saw you the way you wanted to be seen.

They only saw what they expected to see—your family’s name.

The tears welled up before you could stop them.

You blinked rapidly trying to push them back, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier.

You didn’t want to cry here in the middle of the ball. You didn’t want to ruin anyone else’s night with your sadness.

So you did the only thing you could think to do. You fled.

You rushed through the darkened corridors, your steps echoing off the stone walls as you made your way toward the one place you could be alone.

The Room of Requirement.

When you reached the familiar stretch of wall the door appears as if it had been waiting for you.

Without hesitation, you push it open.

The moment you crossed the threshold you knew something was different.

There was no longer an art studio. Instead it had transformed into a ballroom: the walls were draped with rich gold fabric while the ceiling was a grand skylight, letting the stars shine down and casting the room in a soft ethereal glow.

It was breathtakingly beautiful.

But the beauty of the room only made your pain sharper.

It was everything you had wanted tonight to be—and yet here you were, alone, as always.

Tears blurred your vision as you stumbled toward the center of the room, emotions too heavy to bear.

Your legs gave out beneath you and you collapse to the floor, the sobs you had been holding back finally breaking free.

All the loneliness and sadness you had pushed down over the years spilled out in waves.

For once there was no one around to see. No one to judge.

“To see beauty shed a tear before me...” a voice breaks through the silence—a deep soothing voice filled with warmth.

You freeze.

Breath caught in your throat, your sobs halt in shock. For a moment you thought you had imagined it.

It was impossible. You were alone—weren’t you?

Slowly you lifted your head and what you saw left you speechless.

Standing just a few feet away from you was a him. The statue. Your creation.

The same Tom Riddle you had painstakingly sculpted for months now stood before you, gazing at you with something akin to love in his eyes.

You could hardly believe what you were seeing.

He was exactly as you had imagined him; tall and striking with perfect and elegant features, just as you had carved them.

But now instead of marble his skin is flushed with color, and his eyes.

Those eyes were glowing with warmth instead of the coldness of the photo that started it all.

"...breaks my heart into two," he finishes, breaking you out of your trance. His voice is so soft and filled with affection that made your breath hitch.

He looks down at you with in awe as if you were the one who had been brought to life.

You could only gape at him, unable to form a coherent thought.

Was this real? Was this some cruel dream your mind had conjured in your moment of vulnerability?

He released a low chuckle at your stunned silence and take another step forward.

This was a different Tom, a gentler version of the boy your grandfather had known—the boy you had wished existed.

"Perhaps a kiss will mend it?" he says with a teasing tilt as he knelt before you.

Reaching a hand out before you could react, he cups your cheek.

The moment his skin met yours you shuddered. The touch was real. Too real.

His thumb brushed the tears from your face and the sensation sent a tremor through your body.

For a moment neither of you spoke, and just stared at each other.

"I’ve watched you," he whispered almost reverently. "Watched you create me with such care, such love. I’ve waited for the day I could come to you like this."

"T-Tom?" you stammered, barely able to breathe. "Am I dreaming? Is...is this real?"

His smile grew causing his eyes to crinkle at the edges as if your disbelief amused him.

"As real as the beating of my heart," he take your trembling hand and place it against his chest.

You gasped at the sensation—underneath your palm you felt the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat.

Warm.

Alive.

Real.

"As real as my love for you." With that, his lips met yours in a kiss.

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