#tomarry d&d-athon

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 21: Chill

“I know you’re not Harry,” Tom hissed. “So I’d appreciate it if you stayed right over there or this is going to get ugly.” Tom flicked his wand towards a chair in the corner, then brought it back to Harry.

Harry made his ridiculous frowny face, the one that made a small furrow between his eyes and scrunched his nose enough that the frames of his glasses sort of rode up into his eyebrows. “Tom, what’s going on?” He asked, sounding a little confused. He took a step forward, and Tom hit him with a stinging hex. Harry winced and drew his arm in, more out of betrayal than pain. “Ow, Tom that hurt.” Harry rubbed his arm, the beginnings of a pout forming on his face.

Tom didn’t falter.

“Tom, you can’t be serious!”

“Deadly,” Tom said. “Now, sit.” He flicked his wand and Harry jerked backwards and landed on the small armchair with a small ‘oof’.

Harry crossed his hands over his chest, the position making his jumper roll up to expose his surprisingly delicate wrists and stretch the material across his muscled arms. “Tom, you’re being an ass. We’ve talked about this. Just because I’m shorter doesn’t mean you can manhandle me.”

Tom simply watched him with blank eyes and ignored him. “Now, like I said, I know you’re not Harry. That’s obvious. I just need to know if you’ve killed him and taken his place or if you’re wearing him like a little Harry-suit.”

Harry laughed, droll and dry like the sarcastic little sass monster he was. “Hilarious, Tom.” Harry shook his head and made to stand up, all deliberate casualness. “What a ridiculous--”

Tom knocked him back and bound him to the chair with a non-verbal swish and flick. “I really am insistent on you. Staying. Put.”

“Tom.” Harry took a beleaguered breath. “Are you sure you’re the one that’s feeling okay?” Harry asked, disgruntled, and he fought against the ropes. He reached into the pocket of his ridiculous cargo pants as best he could, attempting in his little Harry way to be sly.

Tom pulled out Harry’s wand. “Looking for this?” He asked.

“Tom. This isn’t funny!” Harry struggled, starting to get that beautiful flush that tinged his golden skin like a nice ripe nectarine from his cheeks down to his neck. Harry struggled, trying to get purchase with his trainers on the floor. “Give me my wand back,” he ordered, in that imperious tone that normally never failed to get Tom hot under the collar.  

Tom hummed, and put the wand back into his breast pocket for safe-keeping. He took a few steps closer, brought himself down near Harry’s face. He stayed out of range of actual touch, but peered close enough to see Harry’s pores, the gleam of his sweat. “Now, as I see it, I’ve done a pretty extensive search for my boyfriend’s body, and you look physically perfect, down to the way your bottom eyelashes clump together and that weird little not freckle behind your left ear. That sort of detail’s pretty overkill for most mimicry purposes and would require a lot of energy to maintain. My prevailing theory is the Harry-suit. I can’t fault your taste.”

“Ron and Hermione won’t let you keep me like this!” Harry struggled, jerking the armchair, but it was too heavy for him to shift off its feet. Tom had picked it for a reason.

Harry looked adorably cross, heaving and sweating and glaring hard enough Tom would normally worry he might strain something.

Tom shrugged. “Probably not. Their hearts are soft. Mine’s not.” Tom stepped back away, twirled his wand in his hands.

“Now, as far as I’m concerned, I only have one problem: you wearing Harry.” Tom tapped his wand into his hand as punctuation. “I’m afraid that’s intolerable.” Then Tom grinned. “But I believe in problem solving. So, if you let me know what you need to make a comfortable relocation, I don’t need to excise you forcibly and we can skip all the unnecessary pain bits that I’ll Obliviate out of Harry later. I’m good at those bits. Harry knows what I’m talking about, even if he pretends he doesn’t.”

Harry started to cry. “Tom, Tom. You’re scaring me, Tom.”

Tom rolled his eyes, and the little niggling feeling in the center of his chest died an abrupt death. He turned on his heel and faced the Harry-thing with a smile. “Oh please, I’m a sadist; I like it when Harry cries. I like it even more when I don’t have to care about making it better. So please, continue. I’ll save this memory for later.”

Finally the thing wearing Harry relaxed. It smiled, perfectly symmetric across the cheeks. A chill dropped down Tom’s spine, but he kept his face blandly smiling. He’d been Slytherin King for a bloody reason.

“What, going to offer to take your boy’s place?”

Tom snorted. “Dear Morgana, no. Why on earth would I do that? I’ll merely find you some other poor idiot to ride.” Tom leaned in, let his eyes flash red, bared his teeth in something that could never be confused with a smile. “I’m afraid this one is mine.”

[sonder-writes]

Tomarry D&D-athon day 5!

My word was ‘brainwash’

“Just stare into that, Harry,” said Tom.

“What? That swirling thing?” Harry squinted at the hypnotic image in front of him.

“Yes, Harry,” Tom took a deep breath, “it’s a cheat to help you with your N.E.W.T.s. Trust me, I found it in the Room of Requirement a while ago and it works perfectly.”

“Alright then, Tom,” Harry stared into the spinning swirling thing until his eyes lost focus. Tom watched Harry intently. Waiting.

After a while, it seemed as if Harry wasn’t really there at all, so Tom decided to give it a shot. He cleared his throat, “okay, Harry, stand up and look at me.”

Harry did so, until they were standing face to face. Technically, Harry’s eyes were on Tom, but at the same time they were out of focus.

“Okay, then tell me, why did you arrive late to our common room last night?” Tom asked, watching Harry carefully, his eyebrows creased.

“I was with Ginny,” he said. Tom narrowed his eyes, but nodded.

“Harry, I want you to forget what you did with Ginny, and now I want you to fall so deeply in love with me that you’d literally do anything for me,” Tom said with a smirk, “Oh, and not so much that it’s annoying, though.”

“Tom-” Harry said, reaching his hands out to Tom. Tom placed his own hands on Harry’s shoulders.

“Not yet, Harry,” Tom begun, “I want you to blink and pass all of your N.E.W.T.s, and forget this ever happened.”

Harry blinked, and suddenly looked very disoriented.

“What on earth?” Harry looked around, dazed. Tom turned around to face his tiny audience.

“And that, everyone, is how you successfully brainwash someone,” Tom took a bow and everyone clapped. Harry stared, confused. Tom turned back to him and took his hand, “now shall we go to our dorm?”

“Oh, yes!” beamed Harry, and they ran off together.

[sakuraganesan]

Day 14: Heat

Well, these are getting increasing short compared to the first couple days. 

————

Harry looked up from his cone to study the man that is sitting on the other end of the bench. He could not figure out why the man, Voldemort, he said he was, would treat him to ice cream of all things. When he saw an older version of Tom Riddle from the diary standing on the doorsteps, he immediately tried to get out his wand. It took a sentence from him and Harry stilled in his actions. He straightened and looked at the man warily. Voldemort was wearing a Muggle business suit. What happened after, Harry would not have believed it he did not experience for himself. He, Lord Voldemort, had asked if he, Harry Potter, wanted ice cream. 

Funny how life works sometimes. 

[duplicitywrites]

day 16 - constant

here we are with another section because i was bored and procrastinating. read the first three sections on ao3 HERE.

renamed from before (somewhere in time) to ‘with a thousand dreams (i’m holding heavy)’

part four: constant

Harry Potter wore glasses. The frames—pitch black, round, shiny—were the first thing that Tom noticed. And then, beyond that, the brilliant viridescent eyes that lay behind the glass barrier. Pools of colour that had to be the result of magic, for there was no other explanation for the way they drew Tom’s gaze, like a moth to a Floo-fire flame.

“Mr. Potter,” Tom greeted. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Tom,” repeated Harry. “Call me Harry, please.” He was smiling, cheerful, with dimples on either side of his face, as though Tom’s visit was the best thing that had happened all week. Which it very well could be, given the emptiness of the house and lack of blood-related heirs.

This was Tom’s mysterious benefactor. Harry’s hair was greying, his face gaunt and angular from what Tom guessed to be a severe illness of some kind, because Harry could not have been older than eighty.

“I shall leave you both to discuss,” Granger said softly, and then she retreated from the room, the door shutting with little to no noise.

“Have a seat,” Harry said. Though he appeared weak, his voice was firm, kind. “Hermione assures me the chairs are very comfortable. I wouldn’t know, seeing as it’s been a while since I’ve used them.”

This was Harry’s house, wasn’t it? How long had he been bedridden that he had forgotten what his own chairs felt like? Tom seated himself, smoothing the non-existent creases in his clothing.

Then Tom waited, expectant, for Harry to say more.

Harry didn’t. His eyes, riveted, were fixed upon Tom’s face, greedy. It was not an expression Tom was unused to—gawking came with the territory of a handsome visage, and Tom was no stranger to unwanted advances. But coming from this man, from Harry, it felt… different. More intimate, as though Harry was peering past the layers, beyond the cotton of his shirt, deep into his heart, or even through the heart and into the soul.

Tom cleared his throat, the sound rough. “Ms. Granger told me you wished to speak to me?”

Harry blinked, his expression morphing into that of a chagrined schoolboy. “Sorry. It’s just—it’s been a while.”

Tom nodded, smiled. He would be patient. He could withstand some awkwardness.

“There’s something in the drawer next to you,” Harry continued. “Could you please fetch it for me?”

The drawer opened up to reveal a photo album. Thick black leather cover. Gold filigree pressed upon the corners. “Is this it?” Tom asked, holding the album up for Harry to see.

“Yes,” said Harry. “Please, take a look. I feel like it’ll explain better than I ever could.” This was followed by a brief chuckle, which ended in a fit of coughing.

“Do you need some water?” Tom asked.

Harry waved a hand, wheezing. “It’ll pass,” Harry croaked out. “Look at the book.”

Hesitantly, Tom fingered the cover and lifted it open. 

Black and white photographs, all magical, as Tom would have expected. The very first photograph was a blown-up shot of Harry on the Quidditch pitch. He was attractive in youth. Wind-tousled black hair and handsome square jaw.

“You played Quidditch?” Tom asked idly.

Harry made a strange noise, prompting Tom to raise his gaze once again, concerned that the man might be about to nosedive into another coughing fit. “I played Seeker for the Cannons for decades.”

“Oh.” Tom didn’t pay much mind to Quidditch. “That’s very impressive,” he added, so as not to seem rude.

“Keep looking,” Harry said, an odd fondness infusing his voice.

Discomfited, Tom dropped his eyes back to the album and flipped the page. Then he paused, frozen, for the image he turned to was impossible.

It was Harry, still in Quidditch gear, brilliant, dimpled smile on full display. And next to him, arm slung around his waist, gaze full of adoration, was Tom. Or else it was someone who looked like Tom Riddle, from the curl of his hair down to the Gaunt ring which rested upon his left hand.

Seized by the need to confirm this, Tom flew through the rest of the book. More photographs, more photos of them together. Tom was a constant by Harry’s side. The mannerisms of his likeness were unmistakable—counterfeit photos were near impossible to fake accurately. Tom recognized himself in these photos; these had to be him.

Only the events of this photo album had taken place decades in the past, before Tom had even been born.

“Tom?”

“These photographs are of us,” Tom said, bewildered. “You already know who I am?”

Then, slowly, the pieces began to pull together. This explained why Tom was receiving such an inheritance. The Harry Potter in these photographs was clearly besotted with Tom Riddle. So besotted, in fact, that he had been inclined to seek him out decades later. 

“I’ve known you for a long, long time,” Harry said softly. He shifted in the bed, pulling himself upright and into a sitting position. The movement winded him, and it took a few torturous moments for him to recover his breath. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me, Tom.”

[ao3feed-tomarrymort]

by TomarryHereWeGoAgain

When Harry first moved in, he was sure he’d be moved right back out by the end of the week.

Words: 1224, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 20 of Tomarry D&D-athon

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Voldemort

Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort

Additional Tags: Tom Riddle Is A Sentient House, You Have Been Warned, technically Harry lives inside Tom so

[ao3feed-snape]

Plate Up

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/2yAkPNw

by Dangereuse

Every plate out of Tom's kitchen has to be perfect, especially when he's feeding famous food critic Harry Potter.

Words: 219, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 15 of Tomarry D&D-athon

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Severus Snape

Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort

Additional Tags: chef!au, Tom is totally like Adriano Zumbo, Crazy perfectionist with seventeen layer microcakes

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2yAkPNw

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 18-Celebration

The whole village is celebrating. It's Imbolc. Baskets and baskets of goods are being piled at the feet of the shrine of the village's god. Everything is wonderful in the new light and warmth of spring. Celebration all around.

Except for Tom.  Tom is currently tied to a pole, arms behind his back, getting a chill because it's not quite warm enough to wear this ridiculously thin shift. He can see his own nipples through the sheer cloth. The whole village can see his nipples. 

He’s nearly spitting with rage. He'd spent the first half of the morning verbally eviscerating anyone who came within twenty feet of him. But now his mouth is dry, and more importantly, the villagers threatened to gag him if he kept it up. Tom wants to be able to call for help when the ‘god’ inevitably leaves him to die of exposure.

Bella gives him a jealous look as she lays down her family's offering. She's still upset that the villagers voted near unanimously that Tom was the prettiest, and her pout is ridiculous. “I'd happily trade places with you,” he clips, at her. She huffs at him, and turns away. Tom fists his hands behind his back and breathes in and out.

He hates being ignored.

***

It's a long time before the villagers lay the last offering. Tom's shoulders are aching, the muscles pulled back for too long, even if he's tried to keep up circulation by moving and clenching his hands.

He's wondering if it's worth the hit to his pride to slide down the pole and sit. But the ground is dewy still, and he doesn't want to get even more chilled. Plus, this is the only outfit he has, sheer and ridiculous as it is, and he refuses on principle to ruin it.

The forest gets louder the longer the villagers are gone, and Tom tries to focus on the bird calls so his mind doesn't chew itself up from sheer boredom.

Then the forest goes silent. Pressure builds in Toms ears like he's underwater. His body reflexively holds its breath.

A huge shadow casts itself from the forest. The ground thunders with each step. Tom can't bear to look, to see--

“Er, who are you?”

Tom blinks, and the voice is in front of him. The god is tiny, only up to his chin. He's sleekly muscled and broad in the shoulders, his legs stocky and strong, skin golden under the sun, green eyes glowing so deep and so bright  with what can only be magic, and he's shorter than Tom.

Tom blames that for this:

“I'm your requested tribute,” he drawls, insouciant, fluttering his eyelashes. “The prettiest bedwarmer.” Tom bares his teeth with a vicious snap, trying his best to ruin the effect of the flowers in his perfectly curled hair, the rouging on his cheeks and lips. The gossamer robe. His heart is beating so fast he's not so sure he's breathing.

The god blinks at him. 

Then he breaks out in giggles, bending over at the waist, unable to keep his mirth in. His messy hair flips around his face, garishly uncombed.

Tom's never been so offended in his life. “Am I not fine enough for your divine eyes?” He snarls. “Is my hair too dark? My skin too pale? Or would you have preferred a woman?” Tom will happily storm back to the village right now, and request they send Bella in his stead. 

The god pulls himself up, puts the back of his hand over his mouth. His veridian eyes are dancing, still. If Tom's hands were free he might punch him right in his impish face. Bad enough he's been ejected from his hard-won apprenticeship with Master Scribe Slughorn because of the fairness of his face. But to be found wanting by the god? Tom is exquisite. His face is a miracle. His body a triumph. How dare this short little god--

“No, no and no,” the god chuckles a little, unable to stem it all. “I couldn't have picked a prettier mortal.” Tom’s pride is barely salved. He scowls.

“And--if I'm to dally,” the god’s eyes dance, trailing head to toe over Tom in his translucent shift. “I’ll pick a male companion, nine times out of then. You're very fine.” He pauses, smiling bright and mischievous. The glow of his eyes is magnetic, the pressure of his gaze heavy on Tom’s skin. “Extremely nice to look at,” he repeats, words weighted with desire, and Tom sniffs. Finally, the appreciation he deserves. 

“It's just…” The god makes another huffing laugh, bending over half at the waist, unable to hold it in any more. Tom’s certain there are tears coming from the corners of his eyes, and he doesn’t know whether to be alarmed.

“I asked for the finest blanket!”

[sonder-writes]

Day 28: smooth

Omg, we’re so close to the end of the month!

“Hello,” said Tom, mixing his potion, dark eyes concentrated intently on the contents. Harry put his books down quickly, then fidgeted with his hands, looking at Tom.

“Hi there,” Harry replied, “I was wondering, you know how the Yule-”

Tom wasn’t saying anything, he was just focused on his potion. Harry started to freak out; what if Tom wasn’t even listening? Would Harry have to repeat himself? Merlon’s beard, that would be difficult, he’s already having a panic attack.

“Harry, could you pass the griffin claws?” Tom asked, looking up for a second. Harry stammered, but then promptly handed them over.

“So, ah, as I was saying,” began Harry, “you know that ball thing that happens and stuff? And people go with other people, because, like, that’s what people do? Yeah? So, um, I was wondering, as a person, if you could, um, if you’d like to- no pressure or anything, but do you wanna-”

Tom started pouring his completed potion into little vials, “oh, sorry, Harry. I need to go, my next class is at the other end of the school.”

“Oh yeah, that’s fine, go ahead! I’ll um, I’ll ask you later,” Harry looked down at the table as Tom walked out of class, oh so beautifully with his posture, wonderfully taken care of black hair, nice robes and utter all rounded perfection. Harry bit his lip, remembering what he had said earlier, then mumbled to himself, “Yeah, That’s was really great, that was real smooth Harry, well done...”

Professor Slughorn walked over to Harry’s table, “I see Riddle’s done. Are you nearly finished, Potter?”

“Um, not yet, sir. I just need to-” Harry looked around for his potion and then sighed, “I just need to start...”

“Well, you’ll need to do it quickly, class will be over soon,”

Harry had made a crappy, but finished potion, and at least he wasn’t getting detention for doing nothing in class. Harry walked down the halls to charms, passing a gaggle of Slytherins.

“And you wanna know who Tom thinks is the hottest person in Defence Against the Dark Arts?” whispered one of them, “Harry Potter.”

Another one gasped, “you mean the Gryffindor?”

One of the girls looked disappointed, “wait, so he’s gay?”

Harry’s face was burning. Perhaps he needed to go to the hospital wing, “excuse me, but my face lit on fire because my crush thinks I’m hot,” he would say, and they might reply, “well, clearly you are very hot if your face can just light up like that.” Okay, so maybe he wasn’t on fire. Maybe he was just... embarrassed? Confused? Very, very much in love? Harry really needed to find out how to understand his feelings.

In charms, they learnt how to write notes on objects that after being read by the intended receiver, disintegrate.

After finally successfully writing, ‘Harry Potter’, on a block of wood, like he had been asked to, the teacher read it, it disintegrated, and then he started on his own, personal, note.

He pulled a leaf out of his pocket that was just hanging there, and began,

‘Tom,

Sorry I can’t fit much on a leaf, but would you like to go out with me?

From Harry’

Harry breathed out deeply, and stashed the new leaf in his pocket.

Next class was Latin. A new class Hogwarts had decided was necessary since practically all of their spells were in Latin. Of course, it had been optional, but Harry had decided to take it, and Tom just happened to be there too.

They had to say something in Latin, if they knew anything at all, just to see what everyone was at. Tom, apparently, was very educated in Latin.

“et eritis mihi in socium?” Tom said, with a glance towards Harry.

“Very good. A little rusty, but for a beginner, that’s quite well done,” said the professor. Harry looked towards Tom.

“What did you say?” Harry asked Tom quietly.

“Will you be my boyfriend,” Tom replied. Harry’s face went pale, and he was sure that this time he would need to go to the hospital wing, but he definitely didn’t need that leaf note anymore, as it turned out.

“W- what? I mean, yes, yes of course! But, um-” Harry’s heart was beating faster than the speed of a cheetah, which he was sure wasn’t a good thing, and he was definitely about to die.

“No, I mean that’s what I said in Latin. Well, not exactly, but that’s the gist of it,” Tom said calmly, which managed to calm Harry down. At least a tiny bit. But now he knew that Tom didn’t really want to be his boyfriend at all, which Harry was kind of disappointed about, and he would make sure to destroy the leaf, but it was-

“But sure, I’ll be your boyfriend,” Tom finished with a smile, and Harry nearly fainted. Was it normal to have an entire range of emotions in just a few seconds?

[sakuraganesan]

Day 6 of Tomarry D&D

I’m sorry I’m so late with the D&D- Have this while I go spit out some more bs and hopefully catch up. 

Word: Charming ————

Landing himself 54 years back in the past to Tom Riddle’s sixth year was not on Harry’s to-do list. Maybe because he never paid much attention to the welcoming ceremony, but apparently transfer students were not that uncommon. The ongoing war with Grindelwald could also be a factor to orphans popping up at Hogwarts. Getting himself sorted into Slytherin was also not on his bucket list, but what could he do? 

Harry sat in a beanbag seat in one of the corners of the Common Room and stared at Riddle. Really, he had no business being that handsome or charming. Was that, was that a taunt that he saw? He could be charming as well, and after changing his hair a bit, he could be a looker. He was Harry James Potter for Merlin’s sake! There was no way that he would lose to Riddle, past, present, or future!

[duplicitywrites]

day 20 - faint

wrapping up the previous scene of ‘with a thousand dreams (i’m holding heavy) with this part.

first three sections on ao3 HERE. section four is HERE.

part four, cont: faint

Decades. Harry must have been waiting for this moment for decades. Tom felt shaken to his core, certain right down to his bones that this simple fact was true. Harry had waited for him.

“How many years?” Tom asked.

Harry smiled, rueful. “A lot.”

Tom’s hands, still clutched around the photo album, trembled. “And we were together?”

“We were.”

Tom didn’t do relationships. He did not have attachments. He had dalliances, and when he had no one, he was unbothered by it. He had his work, his ambitions, and those were more than enough. But these photographs told another story entirely.

Harry was calm, his lively eyes fixed on Tom, his mouth curled on the ends. “Unexpected, I know. But I am telling the truth.”

“I believe you,” Tom said. He ought to set the album aside, but his hands held fast to the leather, to the cardboard edges. The Tom Riddle in these photos looked happy. “You want me to go back.”

“I’m not aiming a wand at your head, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Tom fingered the corner of the album, thinking. However he had managed to travel back in time, it had happened. He had done it, and he had won Harry Potter’s heart. This act was what would lead to Tom receiving a sizable inheritance many years later.

Tom would do it. He already had done it, and the proof was resting on his lap.

“Very well,” Tom said. “It would seem my way forward is clear. May I keep this?”

Harry laughed. The sound was faint, faded. It blended right into the ambient noise of the old, shivering house. “Of course, Tom. Merlin knows I’ve got the whole thing memorized.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to ask of me?” Tom said, wondering what sort of etiquette existed for this specific situation. Would Harry like a kiss? Tom could do it, if it was asked of him.

“Seeing you is more than enough,” Harry said, and Tom got the impression of humour hiding between the words, as though Harry had guessed at the direction his thoughts had taken. “Some days I wondered if I had dreamt it all up, you know? For the longest time, there was nothing, no trace of you at all. And even after, there was only your name on a page.”

It should have been unsurprising to hear that. Harry would have followed his life, from his birth to his education to his workplace. If he were to look, perhaps he would find that parts of his life had Harry’s fingerprints on them. Something for later, Tom decided. For now, there were still facts to uncover.

“Why now?” Tom asked. The answer was obvious, but he wanted it confirmed all the same. “What if we were supposed to meet by accident?”

“I’m dying,” Harry said plainly. “And Godric help me, but I am a selfish man when it comes to you. I had to see you, to know what we had was real. To know I didn’t spend my entire life pining after a fantasy.”

[ao3feed-tomarrymort]

by TomarryHereWeGoAgain

Tom threw away relationships as fast as Harry could catch a snitch.

Words: 1254, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 16 of Tomarry D&D-athon

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Voldemort

Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort

Additional Tags: Minister for Magic Tom Riddle, undersecretary Harry Potter, Slytherin Harry Potter, I don't know how else to take this, sadness should be an archive warning and that's all I've got to say on that matter

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 22: Punch

“I’m going to die alone,” Harry mumbled into the breakfast table.

Ron pat his back, spoke through his mouthful. “Don’t say that, mate. You’ll find somebody.” Hermione whacked him on the shoulder with her butter knife and gesticulated angrily. It was a toss up whether she meant to scold him for the sentiment or for talking with his mouth full.

Harry shifted until just one brilliant green eye was exposed. “Oh yeah, how do you figure? Cedric was the best fighter at Hogwarts University and he didn’t even manage to get a punch in when fighting sixteen-year-old Tom! He’s objectively ranked the lowest. Can you think of one person who would even be willing to throw down in a boss fight with Voldemort? Besides Dumbledore. Which, ew. He’s like four hundred years old. The chance of anyone getting through all seven of them is infinitesimal. ”

“I still don’t see what you saw in that dude.” Ron said, shaking his head.

Harry bared more of his face to increase the efficaciousness of his glare. “Not helping.”

Hermione cut in. “Well, Harry, not all fulfillment comes from within a relationship. Maybe you should try being with yourself for a while. Learn who you are. See even if you want to date.”  

Harry made a face. “Hermione, let’s face it, I hate being alone. I spent my whole childhood essentially alone and it sucked. I’m a baby adult now, and I don’t have to do that ever again. I’m only as isolated as I want to be, and that’s not at all. I’ve got my friends, and now I want a person.”

“Maybe you could fight for your own right to date?” Ron asked, around a whole square of toast with jam. Harry was idly impressed. He wasn’t sure if Ron did this to annoy Hermione or to rebel against his mum.

“How do you think I got into this mess in the first place?” Harry put his face back down on the table.

Hermione reached over the table and patted him on the back. “Maybe you should try and talk it out like adults?”

***

Harry toed his shoes. “So, what I’m saying is, that I would really appreciate it if you all would stop trying to kill my future dates. This whole defeat of the seven split-off personalities of my ex is just overkill, and I’d like for you to stop.”

The seven of them were lounged around the room. One on his desk chair and two on his armchair, three on his bed, and diary Tom had even condescended to lay on Harry’s beanbag, head and legs dangling off the sides, throwing M&Ms in the air to catch in his mouth. Harry had corralled them all with drinks and snacks after luring them in with a single ‘SOS’ on the group chat followed by complete radio silence. Predictably they’d all started popping up by themselves and in pairs.

“Oh, but Harry,” Voldemort leaned in, where he was holding court on the armchair with another Tom lounging on the arm. Harry thought he looked like a Bond villain. “We all,” he gestured around the room, like he was the Obi Wan meme, “never agreed to be exes.” A small murmur of agreement went around the room. 

Harry stomped his foot. “That’s not going to work this time! Hermione already told me breakups don't have to be mutual!”

Voldemort continued as if Harry hadn’t spoken, picking through a small bowl of chex mix searching for all the little garlic loaves and popping them in his mouth with an obnoxious crunch. Harry hated when he did that. “Well, in any case, we certainly don’t see the problem in running off homewreckers from our boyfriend.”

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 19: Finch

Today is a Trip, bbs! Tom has a really horrible, no good, bad day!

***

When Tom woke up, Harry’s side of the bed was cold. His hand shot out immediately anyway, reaching for his husband, not curled up to his chest where he was supposed to be.

Then he smiled. Harry must be doing what he called ‘being spontaneous, Tom, you should try it’, and trying to be romantic. Perhaps he was making Tom breakfast in bed. Tom resettled in the sheets, and stretched out his legs to his toes. He loved when Harry got in this kind of mood. Harry was so affectionate, his heart so big, and Tom wanted to suck up as much of it for himself as he possibly could, Harry’s attention entirely on him.

Then Tom paused, disconcerted. Harry still liked to make things the Muggle way, despite how Tom teased him for it. And the Muggle way was loud, pans clanging, grease popping, faucet running, and above all, Harry singing, terribly and off-tune. The flat was silent.

Tom got up. It took a half minute to case the flat, despite its size, but Tom knew as soon as he focused that Harry wasn’t here. They’d been married so long that Tom could feel Harry’s magic like a little warm buzz against his skin when he focused and they were in close proximity. Tom was cold. Tom checked the usual places that Harry would leave a note if he was called away. Harry taught DADA at Hogwarts, but he often consulted with the Aurors when they needed an expert opinion. Or had Hermione asked him for help? Harry was a magical powerhouse, but he rarely used it for himself in his own day to day spellcasting. Hermione would borrow him from time to time, a huge mystical battery for some of the more complex spells she was working in the Unspeakable department.

Either way, Harry would have left him a note, even as he rolled his eyes over it. Tom had worked Harry into it through the years. Harry was impulsive and he would get excited and be raring off to go, but Harry also was exceptionally empathetic. He knew just how much Tom liked to know where he was, that he was safe, when he would be back.

There was nothing. Tom was beginning to get pissed, working himself up into the strop he would set on Harry for not leaving a note, and greedily considering how he would capitalize on Harry’s guilt;  maybe get Harry to rub his feet or go to a terribly boring state dinner in robes that Tom hand-picked.

Then Tom came to a crashing halt in the middle of their living room. Their wedding pictures were gone from the mantle. Tom suddenly burst into white hot rage. Had someone stolen Harry, stolen their wedding photos too?

Except the other photos were wrong too. There was Tom at graduation, but Harry wasn’t under his arm, pressing a kiss to his cheek and knocking his graduation tassel askew in his fervor. There was Tom getting his dual Mastery, and Harry wasn’t there, whistling obnoxiously and clapping fit to burst. His first address as Minister was there, but Harry wasn’t standing behind him, looking like the most awkward and adorable but incredibly proud First Lord.

The photo of Harry receiving his Order of Merlin was gone too. Harry’s stag party with a drunk Ron and Hermione was nowhere to be seen. First anniversary with Harry’s adorably flushed cheeks and swollen lips had Vanished. Most damning, was the lack of his own wedding ring, glaring at him from his bare finger. 

Had Harry...left him? Taken his ring? And pulled himself from all their shared photo frames?

Tom shook that thought off. Harry would never be so petty. Harry would have never been so stealthy and sly. Tom would have had some inkling. Harry couldn’t lie to save his life, much less pretend everything was wonderful and then slip away without a trace in the night.

Tom looked around. None of Harry’s jumpers were discarded over the back of their sofas. Harry’s huge cast iron skillet was gone from the kitchen. Harry’s mauled (squeezed from the center) tube of toothpaste and muggle vibrating toothbrush (Hermione’s influence) were gone from the bathroom. Harry’s separate closet Tom had folded into the wall with an Extendable Charm was gone without even a tingle of residual magic. His drawers in the armoire were filled with Tom’s own clothes.

Tom did a quick spell, to summon anything of Harry’s, trying to catch a forgotten sock or a fallen follicle of hair. Nothing came.

Harry was gone from his life, like he’d never been.

***

Tom’s admin was the same, which he found out when a panicking Draco came through the Floo, without even a by your leave. He never did that, normally, after the first time he’d spotted Tom fucking Harry over their kitchen table. Just another mark against this terrible, terrible world.

Draco did a double take when he saw him, then blurted. “Minister Riddle! You’ve a meeting in ten minutes with the Budgetary Committee! You’re not even dressed!”

Tom didn’t even look over where he was carefully measuring exactly ten drops of rose oil into the solid gold cauldron in front of him. True enough. He was still wearing his pajamas and his silk dressing gown (embroidered TMR, no trailing P), but he’d transfigured a pair of his own respectable slippers into the fluffy monstrosities that Harry preferred to cover his feet for potion’s safety. Really.  

“Draco, I find I am terribly unwell and I won’t be able to make it into the office this morning. I wouldn’t expect me in for the rest of the day, and perhaps the remainder of the week.” He put the rose oil dropper down, stirred the potion three times widdershins, then crumbled in some powdered bicorn horn. At least his potions laboratory was exactly the same and he could find what he needed.

“Minister!” Draco protested. “The meeting discussing Dragon Pox vaccination distribution is at three--.”

Tom finally looked away from the potion with a snarl. “Draco. You will tend to my affairs today. I will not be in, even if the Minister for France shows up on our doorstep and wishes to officially declare Magical Britain’s complete and utter superiority. For all intents and purposes I am grievously ill and will be completely unreachable for today. I will give you three seconds to get through my Floo before I ensure you will never be able to Floo anywhere ever again. Am. I. Perfectly. Clear?”

Draco bolted for the Floo. At least that was the same. Tom turned back to his potion and raised his wand. He carefully bent over and pulled a short but beautiful silver glimmer of memory with his wand. He had nothing of Harry’s hair, of his blood or skin or nails, no object he had ever touched, no object he had ever owned. All he had was this, his memory, Harry imprinted into Tom’s mind. The breathy sound of Harry’s giggle hit Tom’s ears like a cuff as he laid the memory in the cauldron. As soon as it hit, the potion turned to beautiful white smoke.

Tom took a deep breath, and tipped the cauldron over, spilling the mass on the ground. Out bounded the familiar silvery sight of Harry’s Patronus, lighting the room with it’s ethereal glow. The magnificent creature pranced for a brief moment, before it caught sight of Tom and stilled, head cocked and absolutely stationary. Tom paused. Was he to be denied this too?

Then the great creature jumped forward and knocked him with its massive head. Tom rocked back on his feet, let loose a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His hands reached out to its muzzle.

“Prongs,” he breathed out, and stroked the great beast down its beautiful silver snout.

***

Prongs was as good as a bloodhound, gamboling beside Tom as he led Tom and his stolen broomstick (really, the neighbors should really lock their shed) all the way to Hogsmeade. He hated flying, as much as he could and still be Harry’s husband, but it wasn’t like he could just Apparate.

The great beast was almost as soothing to his nerves as Harry. He couldn’t even mind when it paused ever so often to lip at Tom’s hair.

Prongs led him to a bright and cheery cottage on the edge of the town. Tom made a sigh of relief when he noticed Harry’s special brand of pruning on the roses in the window box.

Prongs melted into nothing at the cottage’s bright red door, that same breathy giggle as before tingling down his spine and pulling up the hairs all the way down his arms.

Tom straightened his robes, ran a hand through his hair. Harry always liked it a little disheveled, so Tom didn’t draw his wand on it. He took a deep breath, stepped up to the warm little door, and knocked.

The door swung open after a minute that lasted an entire eternity, and there, finally was Harry. Tousle headed, eyes dancing with happiness and still laughing back at something somebody had said inside the house, his attention caught inside. Harry turned with his happy smile to Tom. Tom sucked down the sight of Harry like he was the last three drops of moisture in a great salt desert.

Harry sobered and straightened up immediately at the sight of him. “Er, hullo. Minister Riddle? Er,” he scratched his nose, looking surprised. He glanced behind Tom on both sides. “Can I help you? Or, er, are you here for Justin?”

“Harry, who is it?” called a male voice from inside. Footsteps. Then a man--Tom vaguely remembered him from their year at Hogwarts, Justin Finch Fletchley or something--came down the cottage’s narrow hallway and wrapped his arms around the waist of Tom’s husband.

Harry let him, leaning back into the weight of Justin, tilting his neck just so that the man could slide his face to the side of Harry’s neck and reveal the bright purple bruising of suck-marks just barely peeking out from underneath the over-stretched neckline of his jumper.

“Well, er, it’s the Minister of Magic,” Harry said, sounding confused. His left hand came up to pat Justin’s arm around the waist, metal glinting on his ring finger. “He came to give us a house call?” The ring was a terrible plain thing, some dim low carat gold, nothing Tom would ever choose. It absolutely was not the ring that Tom had already chosen.

Tom saw red.

***

Tom shot up, as best he could from his hospital bed, absolutely filled with rage. The phantom feel of his wand was still heavy and hot in his hand. He could feel black magic roiling in his blood, see the slumped figure of Justin Fucking Finch-Fletchley hitting the floor in the corridor of the cottage burned like the sun’s after image on his retinas.

“Whoa! Tom!” Harry shouted from the chair beside him. “You’re okay! We’re at St. Mungos! You’re safe! Breathe!”

Tom’s gaze snapped to Harry. Harry looked sleep-deprived and worried, the left side of his face still sporting a crease where he’d fallen asleep on his crumpled up jumper tucked to the arm of the chair.

Harry’s hands were splayed open, and Tom spotted the gleam of his ring winking at him from Harry’s finger. Tom shuddered. He couldn’t breathe properly until Harry reached out, running his small hands down Tom’s back, and then his breath came in juddering gasps. He could feel the slight tug on his nightclothes as the calluses on Harry’s hands caught on every stroke. “Where’s my wand?” Tom clipped. He couldn’t look away from Harry, his face.

“Right here,” Harry offered, drawing the length of yew out of the wand holster on his own arm, beside his own. He pressed it into Tom’s hand with steady fingers. “You’re alright. The Aurors got there after you wiped the floor with the arseholes responsible, scraped them up and took them to Azkaban for you.”

Tom gripped his wand with white-knuckled fingers, and then he reached out with a rough hand and seized Harry’s hand just as tight. He could tell it hurt Harry a little, but he couldn’t bear to loosen the grip even a bit. He brought Harry’s hand to his mouth. He took deep breaths through the scent of Harry’s skin, savored the buzz of Harry’s magic against his skin. He still felt volcanic, seething. He knew Harry could tell. He ran his thumb over Harry’s ring to reassure himself, reveled in the comforting weight of his own. 

“If you ever even touch Justin Finch-Fletchley again I will kill him.” Tom said, pretty evenly, considering the circumstances.

Harry blinked at him, looking adorably worried and confused. “Wot? The new Muggle Studies professor? Why would I even...” Harry looked at Tom’s face, trailed off.

Tom nodded, ultimatum laid down, and finally fell back into the sheets. He kept Harry’s hand captive to his face and just breathed in the scent of his husband.

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 23: Presumed

Sleep? What’s sleep? Have today’s word obscenely early. No delayed gratification for you! 

***

“Harry,” Hermione hissed, dragging Harry into the pantry and out of the line of sight of Tom. “You can’t just ignore this! Tom didn’t come back right. He’s off-putting at best and completely terrifying at worst!”

Harry unwrapped her hands from the front of his jumper. “I don’t care!” Harry said, fierce. “I don’t care if he came back wrong! I’m just glad he came back at all!”

Harry took a step back, edged his way out of the pantry, shaking his head, refusing to entertain this. Then he paused. Tom was waiting, right outside.

“Problem?” He asked, in that perfect posh tone Harry knew he’d practiced over and over in his teen years. His eyebrow was winged up in question. Harry loved him.

“No, not at all,” Harry lied, just as Hermione sealed her fate with a clipped:

“Yes, actually.”

Harry closed his eyes. “Hermione, no.” He brought his hand up to readjust his glasses to the bridge of his nose.

“No! You’re not looking out for yourself so I’ll have to do it for you! Tom, ever since you’ve come back from the dead you’ve been wrong. Awful. I think it would be best for Harry if you just left!”

“I was only presumed dead,” Tom rejoindered evenly. He reached out long-fingered hands to stroke Harry’s face. They were chilled on Harry’s skin, slender blocks of ice. Harry leaned in to them anyway. “I think you’ve a fever, love. Come, sit. I’ll get you some paracetamol.” He guided Harry away, out of the kitchen.

“And now you’re making Harry sick!” Hermione followed, shrill. Tom stiffened.

“How I’m to control viral transmission on command is beyond me,” Tom snarked, dry. He carefully sat Harry down on the couch, threw a knitted throw over him. It was still warm from Tom’s body and Harry felt the heat settle into his joints. It was strange. He never usually felt the cold. Harry huddled under the blanket.

“Could I get a cuppa?” He asked, anticipating wrapping his hands around the mug.

Tom nodded.

“I’ll get it!” Hermione insisted. She turned on Tom with a snarl. “So I can be sure you’re not poisoning it!”

Tom’s lips thinned but he didn’t say anything, just curled his hands into Harry’s shoulders. They were tight, almost to the point of pain, but that just made the muscles there feel good. He ached too. He wondered if he could leverage a rub out of it, if Tom was feeling solicitous. He rolled his shoulders a bit, and Tom took up the motion immediately.

Hermione made the tea and pulled the paracetamol out of her own purse, to Tom’s thinly disguised ill humor.

Harry let her. “Harry, please.” She begged. “Why don’t you come stay with me and Ron, see if you get better.”

Harry put a hand to his head, let himself tip over into the couch. This was too much. He knew if he continued this conversation he’d get a headache. “No, Hermione. I know you and Tom have never got along, but this is insane. Yes, him missing did really fuck me up. But he’s back now!” Harry gestured semi-violently at Tom, who was really showing an admirable amount of restraint. Harry would have to make it up to him later. “And I’m doing so much better.”

“I’ll call the police!” Hermione insisted, vehement.

“You do that,” Harry said, dry. He ran his hand down his face, hard enough that it stretched the muscles in his cheek and tugged on his lips. “But I’m really not feeling up to this conversation right now. So I’m going to ask you to leave.”

It took another thirty minutes, some furious protestations, a truly vicious stabbing headache behind his right eye, and Tom using his obscenely long limbs to get Hermione out the door, but she finally went.

***

“Tom?” Harry asked, voice soft in Tom’s neck. The flat was finally quiet, everything soft and intimate. He was lying on his boyfriend on the couch; Tom’s boniness the perfect cushion.

Tom hummed. He was petting Harry’s hair, wrapping the curls around his long fingers and then tautening them, until their natural spring and their soft silkiness pulled them back in. Each tug felt like it was directly unraveling his heachache, a thread at a time.

Harry swallowed, dry enough that his throat felt sore. “I know Hermione’s not wrong,” he whispered, like the softest gunshot in this still room. “So if you’re killing me, I’d appreciate if you make it quick. I don’t want to be sick forever.” His voice broke but Harry continued in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t want to waste away.”

Tom’s hand stilled. Then he started back up, gesture still soft and tender and lovely. “Do you feel like you’re wasting away?” He asked, voice casual.

Harry shrugged, buckled down further into Tom’s body. He breathed in, right where his neck met his collarbone in a little dip. Harry had missed this so much. “No, not really. Just cold.” He slid his hands into Tom’s shirt, retribution for all the times his boyfriend had done that to him.

Tom hummed in acknowledgment. Harry felt it resonate in Tom’s chest, thrum against his skin like a gentle tickle. “Don’t worry, Harry. That will pass soon.” He settled Harry closer into his body, entwined their legs and allowed Harry to press his socked feet to his warm calves. He pressed a tender kiss to Harry’s head, still kept petting. “I’m only making you like me.”

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 24: Formula

“Tom, Tom. Toooooooom.” Harry’s voice chorused in his ears. “It’s time to get to beeeeeed,” he sang.

Tom jerked in his seat, unstuck his face from the parchment. “The formula,” he blurted, high on the certainty of dream logic. “Could be balanced with arithmancy to accept the life force of a goat.” He scrambled for a piece of parchment, but as soon as he started to inscribe the symbols the logic fell away and he threw his quill in disgust. Ink splattered.

Harry made a fond chuffing noise. “You should go to bed,” he ordered softly. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

Tom ignored him, refusing to turn around. He carefully dragged his bleary eyes to the tome. Maybe his subconscious was telling him something, and if he kept looking he’d find what he needed.

“Tom,” Harry’s voice hardened. “You’re hurting yourself like this. I can’t watch.”

“Well, you should have thought of that before you died on our honeymoon,” Tom spat with real heat.

Harry rolled his eyes. He phased through Tom, making him jerk at the unnatural feeling of occupying the same space at the same time as a block of dry ice.

Tom forced himself not to shiver. He determinedly re-focused back on the book. Harry sighed, sounding far away and ephemeral . The candle by the window guttered and the pane began to frost over. Ghostly fingers drew over the pane, disturbing the frost.

Tom watched him out of the corner of his eye, where he seemed most solid. Harry’s movements were soft, repetitive as he drew out a small little Quidditch team in the frost. When he was a wizard, Tom had shown him a small spell to animate them.

Tom found himself sliding off his hand to the book face again with a small thud.

Harry reappeared, see-through at his elbow. “See, c‘mon. You’re being stupid. There’s no way your reading comprehension is any good like this.” Tom couldn’t see anything, but the book started to tug itself away.

Tom dithered to haggle. “Only if you lie beside me.”

Harry paused. He flickered in and out like he did when he was torn. Harry shook his head. “No,” he said, with no pleasure. “You get too cold. And you won’t turn up the heat to compensate.”

Tom very purposefully went back to his book, tugging it back into place. “You know it becomes difficult for you to manifest at higher temperatures,” he said idly.

Harry slid out of existence and then back in a serious gutter of the candlelight. Tom frowned at him. Harry was standing through the top of the tome and table, arms crossed angrily and just opaque enough Tom had to squint through his torso to see the words. His arms ached to hold him.

“You need to rest,” Harry insisted, stubborn. “Don’t make me grab the pans,” he threatened. Harry would bang and clang and make a terrible nuisance of himself past the point where Tom could focus.

“Then rest beside me.” Tom rejoindered, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

Harry reached out, carefully traced the air above Tom’s cheek. “Okay,” he yielded.

***

It had been a long time since Tom could actually herd Harry anywhere, but Harry let Tom coax him up the stairs as if he could. Harry gamely floated a half inch over the floor, let Tom box him in with his body and open all the doors.

“Lemme grab our sheet,” Harry said.

“No, I’ll fetch it.” Tom shook his head, to cut Harry off. “You wait in bed for me.”

Harry bit his cheek, and flickered. “I’ll chill it down before you get in.”

“I’ll be warm anticipating my husband waiting for me,” he said smoothly.

Harry sighed and drifted over to the bed, shoes disintegrating into air as he went. He paused for a moment, and his shirt went the same way.

Tom stepped into the bathroom, quickly brushed his teeth, washed his face. Changed into thick fleece pajamas with a woolen lining. Then, Tom opened up the cupboard with their towels, ran his hand over the fabric sitting sheer and soft in its place of honor on the top shelf. Their own wedding linen, in a way.

Their sheet was sheer, so close to being translucent Tom could actually catch the haze of Harry through the weave if he tried, and was almost as soft as his memory of Harry’s skin. He pulled it out carefully so as not to let it snag.

Harry was waiting for him, half naked, bare toes peeking out, on top of the duvet. His body didn’t depress the fluffy down.

Tom pulled the duvet back up and through him, then carefully paused. “Ready?”

Harry nodded, and Tom carefully spread the gauzy white across Harry’s chest and legs. The fabric draped over him, a little tent with no supports. There was the barest blush of ghostly nipples and soft groin, broken up with the prominence of Harry’s knobby knees and elbows, his bony feet.

He reached out a trembling hand, caressed the length of Harry’s flank through the fabric. It was like touching ice through the fabric, viciously cold but far enough removed that he could still press and stroke and hold. Harry shifted under his touch.

“We should use a thicker fabric,” Harry fretted.

Tom ran his hands down his husband, ignoring the chill. He carefully caressed one faded pink nipple with one forefinger. “No, we shouldn’t.”

Harry batted him from under the sheet, glaring. His body was dead. In all ways. “You need to sleep.”

Tom slid into the bed beside him, nonplussed at the scolding. “Turn on your side. I want to spoon you.”

Harry glared. “What if I want to spoon you? Jetpack it,” he stuck out an ephemeral pink tongue.

Tom viscerally remembered how it had felt to suck that tongue into his mouth, how slick it was when brushed against his own tongue. He brought the edge of the sheet up over Harry’s chin, bussed his ice cold lips with his own. Quick so he couldn’t dwell on what he was missing.    

“Please,” he whispered, close enough to Harry that his breath fogged.

Harry folded immediately but with a grumble. He turned on his side, the jut of his elbow obvious underneath that sheer sheet.

Tom clambered in behind him, turned off the bedside lamp with a tap, plunging them into darkness. Harry’s body was familiar against his own, especially since in the lack of light his eyes couldn’t report the differences. Tom took even breaths, tried not to smell. Harry didn’t smell like anything anymore, and Tom couldn’t scent the progression of Harry's day in the mass of his hair. Tom missed the softness of his curls against his face with a dull ache in his belly.

“I wish you’d let me go,” Harry whispered, picking and plucking at the sheet with his deft fingers. His spirit was anchored back in the work room, a piece of him carved out and laid in a bed of perfect glassy obsidian, warded to hell and back against anything except Tom’s own touch. Especially a certain set of ghostly digits. “I'm no good for you.”

Tom swallowed, arms tightening around his sheet covered husband, squeezing him tight the only way he knew how. “I know, my love, I know,”

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 2-Anger

Inside Out AU, for @duplicitywrites

Fear is screaming again, and Joy amuses himself by watching the wrinkles in the back of his neck make faces. He hasn’t been by the control board in ages, refusing to get involved in the ridiculous elbowing matches between Fear and the tiny and malformed Disgust. He’s pretending to reorganize his small number of golden orbs, but really he’s remembering how sweet the forest of Albania smelled, when Voldemort had nose enough to scent it. He’s not required most days. He can’t remember the last time he even spoke up, but to mock the others for their lack of hair.

He doesn’t even tune in when Anger works his way to the control board, knocking Disgust from his tiny cradle to the floor. Disgust hisses at him, spindly arms flailing, but he knows no one will pick him up and thus confines himself to obscenities in Parseltongue.

“He is what?” Anger bellows, and he and Fear jostle each other for primacy. Disgust hisses again as he gets kicked by Fear’s bare foot, but he simply crawls away from the battle ground. “How dare that filth steal a piece of Lord Voldemort’s soul! How dare he stand before us!”

“If you kill him, Nagini will be the last! You saw into his mind! A piece of soul will be lost!” Fear screeches, clawed fingers scratching up the too pale skin of Anger’s forearm, making waxy runnels in his flesh. Anger doesn’t feel it, his body too inhuman, until he does, turning on Fear with a snarl and a vicious backhand.

But Fear has been the leader for too long, and he retaliates with a brutal wave of wandless magic, sending Anger to the floor in the grips of the Cruciatus. Anger curses and twitches.

“We can’t keep him,” hisses out Disgust, from the floor. “What a revolting container. Better to lose it than suffer an unfit vessel.” Joy is growing bored again, tuning it out, turning back to the golden sunshine of Albania. He tried for a few moments after the cauldron, but Anger and Disgust had too much pent up energy from the horrible bodiless days none of them have even filed, so desperate not to remember.  

“We should keep him.” The voice is thready and lost. It’s Sadness, who they all shun. He’s too small, too vulnerable, too weak. He never grew. Joy can’t even look at the horrible uniform from the orphanage that he still wears, voluntarily. “He’d make good company.” 

Joy snorts, and it’s followed by the rest of them. Well, just Anger, who, despite the waxy blurred quality of his face, still can. The other two make small disgusted noises in the backs of their throats.

“A vote, then,” Anger hisses, turning on Joy. “Two to two. Shall we keep this malformed piece of splintered soul or not?” It’s obvious what he’s expecting. Joy doesn’t usually involve himself in their drama, but he does love to spite Fear and Sadness when he can be bothered.  

Joy stretches  long limbs out as he stands, enjoying the drama. He shakes out his perfectly tailored robes, even though they’re already immaculate, and ignores the chorus of groans and depreciations in Parseltongue. He can’t help if he’s the last of them to have any style.

He strides over to the control panel, and deliberately elbows his way to the front, peering through Voldemort’s eyes for the first time in so long.

There’s the boy, Harry Potter, kneeling on the forest floor before them. He’s bleeding from his nose, and still twitching from Anger’s Cruciatus. He’s almost surprised to see him look...actually grown. He idly remembers their nemesis as more...childlike, but to be fair, he cannot be called upon to remember all of Fear and Anger’s ranting.

Potter is sort of pretty under all that dirt, Joy supposes, considering him with that long buried streak of hedonism. Nice face, good cheekbones. But what is most startling, are his green eyes, glowing a green so deep it reminds him of the Killing Curse. Joy looks at him, and in that moment, he knows that Potter’s Fear isn’t driving. He is definitely scared, yes, a little sad, of course, and a whole lot angry, but Joy instinctively knows who is running the control board behind Potter’s glowing eyes.

He’s happy to sacrifice himself for his friends. Crumpled here, at Voldemort’s feet, Potter’s Joy is driving. Joy feels his own mouth pop open.

“Keep him,” Joy orders, and for the first time in a long time, the rest of Voldemort's emotions do as he says.