#lets just think that he is a creature of thousand folds or smth

[fatherofpuppets]

Silliest

[katsitting]

17&63? This could turn out to be shit if it’s in i.e ww2 or smth idk you’re the writer xx

War AU +  Everybody Knows/Mistaken for Couple.

I don’t know what you want me to do here, but let’s see what my brain decides. You also didn’t give me a ship, so let’s simply defer to tomarry.

Warnings: Corpses, Blood, Unhealthy relationships, and standard war themes.

Everyone knew. 

The stares at the back of Harry’s head, pitying and upset in equal measure, telling of this point.

He hadn’t wanted this, but this was the reality of a world where the government as they knew it painted a target on their backs. No one was safe. The rebels were being picked off one by one, a spy within their ranks feeding information to the opposing side.

No one could be trusted. There was no such thing as friends, not when everyone simply aimed to survive.

But how did Harry fit in in all this? How was he caught between two beasts in this war?

Simple. He’d fallen in love with the wrong man. 

He fell prey to a monster that hid behind the face of a sweet and earnest man. A man that had never experienced love, that had never experienced warmth, or true friendship. 

Harry had wanted to give that to him, to show him before it became too late, before he was beyond saving.

And now, he was paying the price. The leader on the other side of a war that he had never wanted to fight. He didn’t want to be the leader, to give the command that would snuff out the life of a man he should hate, but couldn’t. Even betrayed as he was, he never could manage to stamp out the goodness in his heart.

So perhaps, the more stubborn in his ranks were right in mistrusting him. They were right in avoiding him when they could, giving him a wide berth when he stepped into the tents to gather his supplies before a raid. 

There was much doubt if he himself, given the opportunity, would be able to lay the killing blow, and they were right to feel this way. Harry too had his doubts, his heart ached with each whisper of Tom’s name--or the stupid title he’d given himself before he’d turned on Harry.

Still, Voldemort--Harry’s heart tried not to burst from just even the mention of such a name--had to be stopped. He couldn’t let this war go on with hundreds--if not thousands--of casualties on both sides.

No one was safe. Not the soldiers, not the generals, not the civilians, not the children, not the animals, not this world.

Everything was burning, and Harry wondered if it wasn’t too late to put out these flames. After all, there was simply no going back for him, not when he loved a monster, not when he still fucking hesitated, to put a bullet between the man’s eyes each time his gun was pressed against Tom’s--no, no, no, that’s not Tom, and you know it, he’s Voldemort, say his name you coward--temple.

“Harry.” 

A soft breath escaped him at the sound of Hermione’s familiar drawl. It was low, nearly a whisper. It was a miracle he had even heard it with the storm raging outside the tent and the shouts ringing in the night. 

There was no pause button when it came to war, only action, even when the sun has long since set, when this should be the time for rest.

But the wicked don’t rest. Don’t you know that, Harry? With how often Tom kept you up into the late hours of the--

Harry stamped out the thought before it was finished, casting Hermione a wary glance.

There was a furrow between Hermione’s brows that not even the tight ponytail restraining her riotous curls could eliminate. It was incredible just how much a person aged when caught in the cogs of war.

“We’ve found a body. I think you should take a look at it.” Hermione’s eyes were brilliant, like they’d bottled fire within their depths. 

The fact that she had come in Ron’s stead to deliver this message was bad enough. Ron was shite at delivering bad news, always caught between an angry bellow and cry when a soldier was killed in battle. Many spoke terribly about him for that, but Harry found it comforting. It was good that there were still people capable of empathy, capable of mourning without the decay of listlessness and ennui buzzing in the back of their heads.

“That bad?” Harry asked, throwing on a rain parka made to protect him from the rough elements outside. It wasn’t raining now, but it would be soon. There was something about England that attracted such horrid weather, even a good hundred miles away from civilization. 

“You’ll see,” was all Hermione said before crouching out of the flap in the tent. Harry followed after her, keeping a good pace with her brusque path through the shrubbery of the forest floor. 

It wasn’t far, but it was always wise to prepare as if one were going to head further out than was planned. It was this caution that had saved his neck many times. The recklessness of his youth, the brashness, and brazenness of his actions would do nothing but fan the flames of war. It was because of that recklessness that he had even met Tom in the first place, that he had stumbled into his bed and became caught in one of the many masks of a monstrosity.

When Hermione finally stopped, Harry did too. The stench of something vile swarmed him, and Harry swallowed down the bile and his disgust. Someone was dead alright, and had been for some time.

“Look.”

Harry stepped around Hermione and stopped dead in his tracks. Grief overtook him, his spine nearly bowing from the weight of it as he took in the terrified face of one of his soldiers. It had been the youngest amongst his recruits, a simple man that had wanted to do his part.

At first, Harry had found his energy and hero worship irritating, undeserving in fact. He was no hero. He hadn’t been for a long time, not since he--

“Colin.” The name fell easily from his tongue, burning its way up from the pit of his stomach and up his esophagus. Harry wanted nothing more than to shoot back cheap whiskey to mask the bitter pang of sorrow.

“Shit.” A hand made its way to his shoulder, its warmth penetrating the thick parka and the layers of clothes beneath it.

“There’s more.” Harry raked his fingers through his hair, already dreading what would come next. The fact that Hermione had not outright said anything, but waited for him to compose himself before doing so spoke volumes.

“We found a message on his body when we found him. It’s for you.”

Swallowing hard, Harry moved without being told to do so. Hermione pulled something from out of her pocket, handing it out to him.

He shifted his gaze away from it, taking it from her hand, hating the look of apology in her gaze. This wasn’t good.

“I’ll leave you alone. Travers, Lee, head out. We need to see if the rest of the men that left with Ceevy are here.”

With that, the men stood to attention and dove into the shadows. They didn’t turn to look at him, but he could feel their judgment. Nothing could hide that, could erase it. This was how it always went, who he was to his men.

Hermione was the last to leave, a sad smile twisting up her face between she turned and left, leaving him alone with Collin’s cold body and the creatures buzzing in the night.

Taking a slow breath, Harry opened his hand revealing a folded piece of paper. It was thick, a familiar scent wafting through his nose.

It was Tom’s. Harry could never forget it.

All the nights of them in bed, Tom’s sweat-slicked hair and his neck beneath his tongue, bitter and sweet with his cologne. It made his throat tightened, a burning sensation creeping up his nose.

Steeling himself, Harry opened the note and began to read.

Dearest Harry, I hope you are doing well for yourself. Every day I find myself wondering when you will cease this pretense of caring for others and realize where it is that you truly belong: at my side. After all, I am only doing as you asked. To change this world, one must raze it to the ground and start again. You know this. This world is beyond saving.

Tears burned in his eyes, but Harry refused to let them fall. His fingers tightened on the edges of the paper, threatening to tear the fancy parchment in half. 

I still recall the taste of your lips against mine, dream of your fingers knitted between mine after an evening of lovemaking. I remember how much you enjoyed it, adored the warmth of my skin pressed against yours. You were never shy about your admiration of me, just as I was not afraid of my adoration for you.

Harry wanted to laugh, then. Tom loved no one, save for himself. He was incapable of it. These were just pretty words to bring him over, to play with his emotions as they often were. It was what he did whenever he knew he did something wrong, whenever he had hurt Harry in some unfathomable way and wanted to ease the sting.

The question was just what was Tom apologizing for? He’d never apologized for this war, never gone out of this way to write some pretty words and leave them with the fallen in battle. Tom reserved his words for special occasions.

Anxiety twisted his belly into knots, and Harry dove right back to Tom’s message, knowing that there was something terrible to come.

But this is not why I write to you now. You know the extent of my affections for you, although you undoubtedly question its sincerity. Harry, if you are in possession of my note, then you have perhaps found the body of one of your men. He was rather young to be involved in our war, it was almost a shame to see the light die in his eyes. I found it interesting that the last thing he said was your name, here I was certain that most of your men hated you--questioning whether you were truly on the side against my reign. Everyone knows who you are, Harry. Who and what you meant to me in my youth, who you had become in my eyes, and what you did to inspire me righting the wrongs in this world.

Harry scoffed. Tom was never altruistic. Had never been and never would be. He did nothing without expecting something in return. 

However, it seems that some have misconstrued the nature of our relationship. I have remedied this.

A shock of ice shot up his spine. It was certainly no secret that Tom and him had been an item once, but for Tom to go out of his way to tell others--

Friends, Harry? Hardly. We are so much more. And I hope that after you’ve received this message and the gift I have personally delivered to your tent, you will see that as well. Sincerest regards, Lord Voldemort.

Harry crumpled the letter in his hand, his realization fueling his movements.

He ran back to camp, fingers releasing his gun from its holster as he wove through the trees. He was familiar with the area, but Tom had promised an unwanted visitor. He was up to something, something between the spaces of the words that were more than the threat of exposing the more salacious nature of their relationship and murder.

A flash of light ahead of him nearly blinded him, and then he stopped, walking slowly through his camp with his gun now up and ready. It was quiet, the rustling trees and the sound of animals baying in the darkness the only interruptions to the quiet.

It made him nervous, a slow trickle of sweat gathering on the back of his neck when he saw no sign of any of his men on the camp.

He took slow and steady breaths with each careful step, counting the seconds in his head and listening for anything that broke the still air around him. 

This went on until he finally made it back to his tent, the flap wide open and lit. It was a white light, different from the yellow one standard in his camp. 

Grip tightening on the gun, Harry parted the fold with one hand while keeping a steady grip of his gun, and entered.

Harry nearly dropped his gun. 

There was blood everywhere. It was smeared on the cloth, on his desk, on his bed. There were dismembered arms shaped into the symbol of a heart. 

Bile rose up his esophagus, but he didn’t throw up even when he wanted nothing more than to do just that. 

Because for all the macabre in his tent, the most terrifying thing was not the arms or the blood splattered all over his tent, it was the single chair at the center of the heart with a bouquet of flowers sitting innocently atop it.

There was a note over the top of the flowers, but Harry didn’t need to read them to know this was all Tom’s doing, that the bodies in his tent were the missing men from Collin’s group.

A breath stuttered from his mouth and he dropped his gun. There was no threat here. Tom wouldn’t come out this entire way just to see him, just to make him squirm.

He reholstered his gun and walked toward the flowers, narrowing avoiding the arms with a precise step over them. 

He didn’t want to touch them more than he needed to. Death didn’t unsettle him the way that it used to, but still, that did not mean he welcomed it either.

He pulled the single note out, small and bright. The same powdery blue as the flowers atop the chair.

I hope you enjoy the flowers. Love, Tom Marvolo Riddle. The man you have always known.