#unhinged harry potter

[coldemergency]

Tom: Why do I eat so much fucking soup

Harry: Sometimes we want our insides extra wet

Tom: PLEASE do not fucking say that

[bonniesfamiliar]

name THE hardest line in all of fiction

"I see what Bellatrix meant," said Harry, the blood thundering through his brain, "you need to really mean it,"

[slytherinslut0]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 10th. tom riddle — oral sex, experienced!tom.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: your ex couldn’t make you orgasm, so you were certain you were broken. tom shows you just how wrong you are.

warnings: 18+, SMUTTT MDNI, tom riddle can eat me aliv—sorry who tf said that?, tom riddle is such a realist; he sees a problem and he finds a solution, tom is a munch, praise kink, oral f!receiving, experienced tom, hufflepuff!reader.

Months pass, and your project remains the only thing Tom ever prioritizes when it's you asking.

Progress is slow—slow because you're usually far too busy talking to actually focus—yet, he always stays. He listens, even when the things you say should bore him, even when they mean nothing at all. He sits there—giving you hardly the barest scraps of himself in return as you fill the space between you with everything that crosses your mind.

Things he'd never waste a second hearing from anyone else.

And tonight, to no-one's surprise, you're doing it again—rambling on about nothing and everything all at once. You've got this way of talking—weaving tangents into something almost poetic, and usually, he lets it fade into the background as he works. You're saying something about the differences between the seasons, or maybe it's just some other kind of sentimental nonsense—at this point, he's not entirely sure.

It's easy to tune out. He tells himself he's not really listening.

Until—

"Actually, I guess I should clarify that—it's all hypothetical. I don't date," he doesn't know what you said before this, but he's certainly intrigued by it now. "And really, it has nothing to do with like, self esteem or anything, I'm just broken. Best to save someone the trouble."

That stops him cold. It's not so much the declaration that you don't date—he could have guessed that himself—but more so the way you've just called yourself broken.

It's not a word he's ever heard you use before.

"What do you mean, broken?" He asks, the question coming out far more blunt than he probably intended.

It just seems so out of character for you—you've always been an optimist, far too annoyingly positive to speak of anything this way. He blinks when you freeze, and blinks again when a moment of self consciousness seems to pass over your face—and he notes how that's a first for you, too.

"Broken...as in, uh, not normal," your eyes flit down to your lap, tracing the wood beneath where you're seated on the floor in his dorm. "My ex made that very clear in his assessment of me."

The mention of an ex is something he'd been anticipating—you're in your twenties, after all—but it's the idea that your ex is the source of you calling yourself broken, that he can't quite swallow.

"You're 'broken' because of one ex?" He says, and he can't stop how derisive and skeptical his voice sounds. He doesn't care to try. "I'm not following."

"I'm what you'd call, damaged goods, I think," you murmur, and there's an almost self-deprecating smirk on your face. He can't help but think how he's never seen that look on you, either. "I've got a slew of unhealthy baggage that comes along with me. You know, childhood traumas, abandonment issues, daddy issues—"

He snorts at that—daddy issues—and your head snaps up, smirk deepening despite yourself.

"Don't snort at my daddy issues," you huff, and there's a familiar annoyance in your voice that puts him at ease. "They're valid and real."

"I'm not denying their validity," he counters, his own smirk beginning to surface. "But daddy issues? Come on. You're not some tired cliché ripped out of a teenage romance novel. I refuse to accept your declaration of brokenness until you give me factual reasoning."

You laugh at that—alive and genuine—and for a moment, he's reminded of why he even tolerates you in his space at all.

"Fine," you cross your arms over your chest. "What do you want to know then?"

He makes a low, contemplative sound at that—because there's a million questions that come to mind with the words damaged goods—and after a moment, he settles on the one that falls out first.

"What is it, precisely, that makes you broken?"

You sigh, a bit theatrically—he knows you're just putting on a show and he wants to laugh at you for it—but he reigns that in, for now, while you figure out how you're going to respond to that.

The truth is, you don't know how to tell him the real reason you're broken—the part that has nothing to do with the laundry list of emotional baggage you could rattle off with ease. It's something...different.

Something more physical.

"I don't know, okay?" You're getting defensive. You're not sure why but you are. "Just—forget I said anything. We have this assignment to—"

"You dodging the question tells me it's more than just psychological," he cuts you off, leaning back into the couch. The way he's looking at you makes it clear—there's no way he's letting this go. "You getting defensive tells me you're embarrassed by it."

You sigh again, leaning back on your palms to mirror his body language, though it doesn't feel half as natural on you as it does on him.

"And you, being an insufferable arse, is telling me I never should have mentioned it in the first place."

His smirk at that makes you want to glare at him.

"Stop dodging," he says. "You brought it up. You don't get to take it back."

It's a challenge—the gleam in his eyes is practically screaming so. You're not sure why the sight of it makes something low in your stomach clench, and you're even less sure of why you want to tell him something like this—something you haven't told anyone else—not friends, certainly not family.

Whatever the reasoning, you can feel yourself relent.

"Maybe," you pause, the look on his face makes you second guess yourself. "...maybe I don't want to tell you because I'm afraid you'll look at me differently." You glance down at your lap, fingers twitching against the yellow pleats of your skirt before finally meeting his eyes again. "And I kind of like the way you look at me now."

Something like curiosity passes over his expression at that—but it's quickly hidden by the type of skepticism that tells you he still doesn't believe you're being serious.

"You're overthinking it," he replies, unmoving. "Whatever it is you think you're going to tell me, I'm not going to look at you differently. You're still you—no filter, unabashedly verbal—"

"Too verbal. Too positive, too loud," you finish his sentence for him—because you know that's how he thinks of you. "Too annoyingly optimistic. Far too hufflepuff for your cold snake skin. I know."

"Exactly," he says, tongue running over his bottom lip in attempt to quell his smirk. "So I reiterate. There's nothing you could tell me that would change that."

"Fine," you relent, giving in begrudgingly because you know there's no other option. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

He just lifts a hand at that, as if to say; whatever you think it is, I can handle it. The action makes you suck a breath into your lungs, trapping it there.

"You're right," you say after a long exhale. "I have a slew of psychological bullshit that would take the span of a year for me to fully go over in one sitting—but, I'm fine with it. That's...that's not the thing that made me call myself broken."

He says nothing, just makes a motion with his eyes for you to keep going.

"It's, uhm...physical." You whisper, and your brain is moving too much and too fast and you're not even completely sure how to say it without sounding insane. "And...I don't know, I just...I can't orgasm. No matter what. I just can't—it's frustrating and embarrassing and it's the reason my ex ended things."

There's a silence that follows, and he knows if it were anyone else, they'd probably find a way to comfort you. Reassure you. Tom, however, isn't anyone else—

"You're joking," he says, and his tone is incredulous again.

A self-depreciating laugh leaves your lips involuntarily, the sound of it making you almost want to cringe.

"Would it be less embarrassing if I was?"

He's still just watching you, dissecting your words as if waiting for you to crack a smile and confess this was all some stupid joke—and the vulnerability of it aches like a stab to the gut.

"This is the reason you think you're broken?" Is what he goes with when he finally realizes you're being serious. "Because you haven’t orgasmed?"

The bluntness of it makes you flush, makes you wish you could sink into the floor. "I know it's not normal, okay—"

"It's not an abnormality, either," he asserts, with casualty. "You might just have a disconnect."

You blink, caught off guard—not just by his choice of words, but by how matter-of-fact he sounds, like this isn't the mortifying confession it feels like.

"A disconnect?"

"A disconnect," he repeats, looking you over, something clinical slipping into his eyes. "Between mind and body. And considering how loud your thoughts are—"

"Hey—" you snap, suddenly feeling a bit indignant, but he just continues on.

"—it's not surprising that you can't get out of your own head."

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him he's not a therapist, so what the hell does he know? But the certainty in his expression makes you pause. He doesn't look patronizing or condescending, just...assured. Like he knows exactly what he's talking about.

You hesitate, lips parting, a protest forming on your tongue. Before you can say anything, though, he raises a hand to stop you.

"Come here," he says, standing up from the couch.

You blink, trying to decipher what the hell he's implying—because if anything, the last thing that's going to make you less paranoid about intimacy is proximity.

"What?"

He just looks at you, making a motion with two fingers, beckoning you to stand.

"Don't ask questions. Just come here."

It's an order, and it makes your spine tingle in a way that's definitely not comfortable—but you get up from the floor, and move closer to him anyway, closing the distance between you with only a few steps until you're close enough to him that you can practically feel the heat that seems to come off him in waves.

It's weird—he's suddenly too much all at once—you're so much more aware of him being in front of you than you think you've ever been before and it does not help that he's just looking at you—as if studying you—blinking only once as he raises those same two fingers to your neck, resting them against the pulse point at your throat.

Your entire body tenses. His touch is far more gentle than you ever imagined it being, something disarming that makes your pulse beat faster against his fingers as a result—and because this is Tom, with all his smug and certainty—he gives you a look that tells you he can feel it before he slides his fingers up to rest on your forehead.

You scowl at the motion, but he clicks his tongue, the sound as condescending as it is amused.

"I told you, you're an overthinker." He murmurs, eyes dipping to your lips. "Too much noise."

You want to refute that—mostly because you're not overthinking, you can't be—he's just so unequivocally overwhelming—

"I'm not—"

You start, but he moves his fingers from your forehead and places them against your lips—

"Quiet." He scolds, and that makes something low in your stomach clench. "Your body knows what to do. You're just letting your thoughts get in the way."

You long to protest again, just for the sake of defiance—but then his fingers are against your collarbone, and that motion in your stomach becomes a bit more of a squirm—

"Your body is trying to tell you something," he whispers, watching each little hitch in your breath. "But you're too busy talking over it to hear what it's saying."

You realize—with a sort of horror that's laced with something a little more uncomfortable—that he's right. Your body is trying to say something. It's communicating through the unsteady force of your breaths, through the clench of your fists against your skirt—

Of course, he notices. He's noticing far too much.

"Relax," he murmurs, and now he's trailing those same two fingers in an unhurried path down your shoulder. You suddenly regret every decision that led to you wearing a T-shirt. "I'm not going to bite you."

Something about the way he says it makes you wish he wasn't quite so convincing—the familiar banter you long for gone with the sharp exhale that comes out of your mouth as his fingers encircle your wrist—

"Your pulse is racing," he says casually, far too casually for how much effort it's taking you not to scream. "Does that seem broken to you?"

Gods—you want to respond—you really, really do— but your thoughts flatline when you realize his touch has shifted. He's no longer just holding your wrist; he's guiding your hands to rest against his chest, and—

"There you go," he whispers, and the tone of it tells you he knows exactly what it is he's doing to you. "See? Your body's doing exactly what it's meant to do. You—" his fingers trail up your arms, and his voice gets lower. "—are not broken."

You swallow hard, acutely aware of your hands on his chest and the way your palms are clammy against the fabric of his shirt. He's shifting you now, deliberately crowding you, and it's only when you feel the edge of the couch press against the back of your calves that you realize—perhaps a second too late—exactly what it is he's doing.

You stumble back onto the leather, and he follows—crushing his lips to yours.

You gasp, startled, because despite everything you truly hadn't seen this coming. The kiss is messy, clumsy, and his hand finds the nape of your neck, tugging at your hair with just enough force to make it sting. And inevitably, when you gasp again, he takes it as an invitation to work his tongue into your mouth, other hand slipping under your shirt—trailing up your stomach.

You're trembling now, and he makes a low sound at the realization. Your brain is racing to catch up, and the irony of this isn't lost on you—he'd just claimed you weren't broken, but he might as well be destroying you himself.

He parts from your lips only to trail his own across your jaw—

"You're shaking," he murmurs with a smirk against your throat—as if he's taking immense pleasure in the fact—you hate how smug it makes him sound. "Do you want me to stop?"

You want to tell him he's being a bastard, but then his lips press to that spot on your neck—the one that makes your breath hitch and your pulse stutter—and you find yourself whimpering at the sensation.

"No," you breathe, and you'd be embarrassed by the pleading tone in your voice if you weren't so lost in the moment. "Don't stop."

He makes another low, satisfied noise at that.

"Good," he whispers. "No thinking. Just feel."

You swallow—throat dry. It's unfair how easily he's dismantling you with nothing but his mouth and hands. Unfair how he's leaving you breathless and unraveling while somehow making you feel seen in a way you can't explain, even with your eyes shut.

"Tom," you find yourself whimpering, and you aren't even sure what you're asking for—you just know you want more as his lips trail lower—as his fingers work to tug down your skirt. "Gods."

"Shh. Feel me," he murmurs, almost possessively, his lips brushing lower, grazing over your stomach, then your pelvis. "Let your body do the talking."

You've got your hands tangled in his hair before you even know what you're doing, and you hate the fact that you're pretty sure you'd melt into a puddle if he weren't holding you together.

"I feel you," you whimper as he kisses lower. "You're all I feel."

He makes another low sound at that, and you just know it's the response of ‘yeah, that’s right’—but then he's between your legs, panties shifted out of the way, and the first sweep of his tongue against your clit makes all coherent thought shift to static.

"Oh! God," you gasp, the word barely escaping before dissolving into a whimper when he does something with his tongue that makes your vision blur. "Tom—oh, fuck."

He just makes that smug, satisfied noise against you again before his tongue swirls over your clit and you find yourself almost cursing whatever deity made him so good at this, because it's not fair how quickly he reduced you to a whimpering, shaking mess beneath him and—

"Don't stop," you find yourself babbling, digging your nails into his scalp and knowing you look like a goddamn wreck as he makes a meal out of you—tongue lapping up your slick and swirling your clit before sealing his lips around it and forcing your back off the leather beneath it. "Please, don't stop, please—"

It's all you can manage to say. Your thighs are shaking now, and you're sure he's got you dripping all over his face with how soaked you are. He knows you're falling apart and he just keeps going— your brain ceasing function in favour of just focusing on how fucking close you are—how close you are to something you've never felt before in your life—and you're not even sure what you're begging for anymore but it's incoherent and loud—

"I need—" you whimper, your hands tightening in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan against you. You don't know what you're asking for, but you know he has it. "I need—I need—“

"Let go," he murmurs against you, the roughness in it vibrating up into your belly. "I dare you."

There's still a little bit of you functioning on autopilot, just enough to tell you that when he murmurs those words—vibrations rattling up your cunt and into your chest—you're completely done for.

It’s merely a few seconds later that your high reaches its peak and he just keeps lapping as you shake apart beneath him with an intensity you've never felt before in your life—orgasm shredding you apart at the seams. Your thighs clamp around his face, your eyes squeezed shut, ears ringing so loud you barely register his low, muttered praises: "good girl," "so good," "there you go."

You’re fairly positive your legs will never be able to support you again when you finally come back down, feeling entirely like jelly as he pulls back, tongue flicking over his lips to clean off whatever's left of you.

And without thinking, you grab him and pull him up, crashing your lips against his in a messy, desperate kiss. He tastes like you, like him, like something you can't quite describe—and it makes everything feel intense and unbearably real all at once.

He gives you a moment, as if letting you recover, just languidly kissing you back—and you have to be honest with yourself and admit that this kind of makes you want to scream.

"A disconnect," he smirks against your mouth, the tone still smug. You manage a weak smack to his shoulder, though it does nothing to wipe the satisfaction off his face. "Still sure you're broken?"

You hate that he's right. Hate that he's managed to pull a reaction from you that you didn't think was possible. But as you sit there, shaky and spent, you know you can't deny the truth: no, you're not broken.

"Not broken." You whisper back. "You will be though, if you don't stop smirking at me like that."

[digitkame]

Potion man’s hair has its own personality, albeit unhinged:(；ﾞﾟ'ωﾟ')

[wolvesandshine]

Barty: What’s your love language

Evan: Murder

Barty: *kills someone* Do I get a kiss for a job well done?

Evan: *heart eyes*

[ditchesanddunes]

I need an unhinged Barty

Give me a Barty who will hunt down hurt and kill for the people he loves

Give me a Barty who gets unhealthily obsessed with people

A Barty who, after Regulus died, cracked and used even more unforgivables, killed for fun, and tortured for sport

A Barty who heard Dorcas was killed and made it his personal mission to avenge her by any cruel means necessary

But when Evan died, a Barty who doesn’t even have rails to fly off of anymore. He kills anyone in his way, including death eaters, and he enjoys it. He is hardly on the death eaters side anymore but stays with them because of the pain they cause

And when he heard Pandora died, the sweet gentle soul of Pandora, he crumbled.

[insuranced]

The Black Sisters

Yes I misspelled Toujours pur 😭 Tumblr doesn't let me reply so I can only respond to asks

[ebysse]

“and his face was suddenly demented, inhuman, as though he was in as much pain as the yelping, howling dog stuck in the burning house behind them,”

rereading the books for the snape scenes

[yourgalgremlin]

Pandora: What do u do today?? Anything u want!

Bonus scene:

Barty: Hell ya! That’s my lil Lunatic. Do u want the Glock or the nail bat?

Luna: Ooo the Glock!

Barty: Ok lemme take the child safety lock off real quick—go pick out ur ski mask!

[that-bitch-kat3]

lily and remus if they witnessed the eclipse

[coldemergency]

Voldemort: Behold! My magnificent unrivalled magical prowess-

Harry: Are you barefoot?

Voldemort: Excuse me?

Harry: You’ve got the dogs out, for FREE?? In this economy?

Voldemort:

Voldemort: Please stop talking

[iamnmbr3]

"Yes, Riddle was perfectly ready to believe he was - to use his word - 'special,' " said Dumbledore.

-- Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

I know that he's trying to imply here that Riddle already had budding megalomaniacal tendencies. But come ON. His powers were highly developed. He could move things with his mind. It's not unreasonable for him to conclude that he is special and can do things others cannot; that's just the literal truth. Also, I'd like to point out that Riddle actually first says "I knew I was different." But I guess Dumbledore wants to skip over that bit.

And over the implications. Riddle is, as far as he knows, the only person who can do what he does. He knows nothing about the magical world or what he is. For all he knows he really is haunted or possessed by a demon or something. Part of him must have wondered if he really was mad and imagining it all. His initial, violently fearful and aggressive reaction to Dumbledore when he thinks he's a doctor certainly is very telling and has a lot of implications about the treatment he's experienced during his first 11 years of life.

[slytherinslut0]

can you please write something about tom being tied up!!!! please please!!!! i know you would write this so well🥹

hejsjahshs uhm okay this could go many different ways but if you read my fic ‘this is your punishment’ i feel like reader from that fic would be looking to get revenge and what better way to disarm tom than to take away the one thing that man needs more than anything? control.

“what is this—what are you—“ tom’s voice dies off as you tighten the magical bonds around his wrists, tugging him back snug into the chair he’s so adorably trying to slip out of. it’s laughable really, the way you turned the tables back onto him and just how much he fucking hates it. “this isn’t funny. you don’t want to start this with me—“

with a flick of your finger, his tie is between his teeth and his pitiful threats are muffled—as useless as his squirming. with a smirk, you take a step back from where he’s seated, drinking him down in all his glory under the dim lighting inside his dorm. you’ve never seen him like this. vulnerable. the way his muscles flex against his shirt as he squirms, brows pinched and jaw tense—

it’s intoxicating.

”c’mon, tommy…you didn’t really think i wouldn’t get you back, did you?” your fingers find the buttons of your shirt, slowly undoing them one by one. his squirming stops as soon as you move to the second button, chest heaving as he watches you—your pulse soars, spurred on by the way his eyes burn your skin. “look, you’re talented—so bloody good with spells, i’ll give you that. but i think you forgot that i’m good too.”

at that, his eyes narrow and his head tilts just slightly—you slip the last button free on your blouse and let the fabric fall free from your shoulders, black-laced breasts bared to those raging midnight eyes.

“we’re more alike than you thought, tommy. you underestimated me, and that carelessness is the reason you’re sitting there, and i’m standing here.” you step closer again, leaning forward until you’re bent before him, breasts spilling out of the thin lace barely containing them— “a pity, isn’t it?”

he groans into the tie, and you see it—the way he’s warring with himself, not sure where to let his eyes settle—bouncing back and fourth between your tits and your smirk laden lips, hiding behind the irritation as if letting you know he loves this would mean losing.

tom riddle has never been a good loser.

“yes, such a pity.” you nod to yourself, pursing your lips. he is beautiful—beautiful in a way that is far past disastrous but when he’s stuck like this, tied up before you, he’s tamed in a way you know isn’t possible otherwise. all that danger, held back by a silly little spell. “though, i have to say…what’s even more pitiful, is the way you’ve been denying yourself.”

you slip a finger under his jaw, urging his chin up until his eyes have no where to look except into yours. you can’t believe how bold you’re being.

“you could have fucked me, you know. merlin knows i wanted it.” you whisper, free hand slipping down to his knee. “but you chose a spell. because you’re superior, right? a man above impulse?”

he grunts against the fabric in his mouth when your fingers tease timidly up his thigh—you glance down just as he shifts his legs, spreading them wider, pants tight in the crotch as his body betrays him.

you shush him, tutting. drunk off the power trip. “i know. you’re so disciplined, tommy. the rest of us could only wish to be as strong as you.”

salazar save you—you’re playing with matches, biting your lip, unable to look away. you can’t tell forsure but the outline of him looks monstrous under this shitty lighting—and you remember now, just how much you hate this game.

but regardless, you’ll play along—after all, he’s the one that made the rules, who are you to break them?

“look at you,” you whisper, fingers slipping higher, dangerously close. you graze his bulge and his hips twitch, his head almost falling back until you slip your fingers around his jaw, holding his eyes to yours. “you’re so hard.. and i’ve barely touched you…when’s the last time you got off, huh? when’s the last time you’ve fucked?”

AKSJAISHSJ OK I CANT WRITE BLURBS IM SORRY THIS GOT AWAY FROM ME BUT—

[myfeetrcolddd]

Down bad...and a little unhinged

It only got worse after Theodore realized just how much he liked her violence. So much more worse that he thought that if he died by her hand it would all be worth it because not only was it by her hand but that she was touching him.

He was sure he was insane. His friends agreed on that fact, especially when he started to provoke the girl even more. His notes had also become more than promiscuous. Reddening the girls cheeks every morning. He was yet to receive a reply from the long haired girl, but her visual reactions were enough fuel.

The Slytherin boy was sitting at the breakfast table, right across from the pretty girl as usual, his chin resting in his hand as he stared at the girl.

Despite what she said, she was affected by him, all of him. It was infuriating, really. The words and promises on those papers he sent her every morning, every day, without fail, sparked something in her. Something she wished to bury deep down forever.

Sure, he was handsome, charming, rich, but he was arrogant and rude, and so immensely hot infuriating. He made her want to punch him. So far it was only slaps and harsh pushes, but she was close to punching him. So very very close.

It also took too much effort to avoid his gaze like this. It was insane, and a wonder as to how he continues to get good grades in all his classes when it seemed that his attention never left the girl when she was around.

The owls swooped into the great hall right on time, brings a grin to Theodores face as he watched his owl perch on her shoulder and neatly give her the note.

Despite her best efforts, the girl had become attached to the bird, so she reached up and scratched beneath the owls chin. It cooed contently and Theodores jaw twitches, he'd never wanted to be a damn bird in his life.

He'd ask what was wrong with him, but he knew there was no point because she was what was wrong with him. And he wouldn't be right until she was his. Not that she wasn't his already.

"Are you listening?" A blonde Slytherin girl snapped her fingers in front of Theodores face and his lips twisted into an annoyed frown. Blondie, as Theo had been calling her since he could not remember her name, would not leave him alone.

She claims that they had slept together once, and that it was the best thing she had ever experienced and that after months of denial she had finally realized that they were meant to be. Theodore thought the girl must be more delusional than him, and that's saying something.

Apparently the girl had been living under a rock since they're supposed "Best Night of Her Life" because everyone in Hogwarts knew Theo was more than obsessed with Y/N, and nearly everyone backed off, not bothering to shoot their shot with her or Theodore.

But there were still a few idiots, like Blondie beside him. "Teddy!" She whines and Theo cringes at the sound. He hated that nickname. It was ridiculous and childish.

Still, he ignored her, watching as his girl put off reading the note he'd written for her. The Blondie surprised him, by touching him. She had grabbed his chin, yanking his head towards her and forcing him to take his eyes off of his girl.

Did she have a death wish?

Theo didn't hold back his glare as he looked down his nose at her. He grabbed her wrist roughly and pulled her hand away from him. Her needy look paled and turned into something fearful, "Do not touch me." He utters the words low and threateningly.

"B-b-but-" She stutters, "But-"

"B-b-b- spit it out!" He snarls and she winces, perhaps he was being too harsh. But if he were anything less then she'd think she had a chance and Blondie needed to know that there was no one for him than the girl who had his owl perched on her shoulder.

"She!" She points across the room, "She touches you!" At this a smile touches Theos lips. Damn right she touched him, sure it was only her slapping, pinching his side, pulling at a strand of hair, and pushing him into fountains and other things, but she touched him nonetheless. And she'd touch him much more if Theo got his way.

"And only her." He says simply, then releases her wrist like she burned him, "Now leave me alone. And get rid of the ridiculous notion that we're soulmates, because my soulmate is sitting right over there." He points across the room, extending his arm fully, with the full intention of others seeing. He knew many people were listening in on the conversation.

Good, he thought. Let this be a message, let everyone know that she is his as he is hers.

That's it for this fic. Dunno how to continue. Might make another one, this is the second one and a follow up from this fic.

Also, sorry if it's a little confusing. I really hate using 'Y/N'

[saintsenara]

Did you know the olympic village is like the world’s biggest and most athletic orgy? Here’s a ship for you to bless with your opinion:

Krum/Fleur/Cedric/Harry

thank you very much for the ask, anon!

in honour of the paris games [and therefore the two weeks every four years in which i develop an insatiable interest in kayaking and rhythmic gymnastics] coming to an end, let me say...

i back it.

that harry would pay cash to gargle cedric's bathwater is canon, but often overlooked - i find - is that harry is also canonically interested in being called a good boy by krum.

in goblet of fire, krum takes harry aside to interrogate him about whether the rumours he's seeing hermione are true. harry's response features the following:

1. Harry, who from Krum’s secretive manner had expected something much more serious than this, stared up at Krum in amazement. 2. "Nothing," he said. But Krum glowered at him, and Harry, somehow struck anew by how tall Krum was, elaborated. "We’re friends. She’s not my girlfriend and she never has been. It’s just that Skeeter woman making things up." 3. He couldn’t quite believe he was having this conversation with Viktor Krum, the famous International Quidditch player. It was as though the eighteen-year-old Krum thought he, Harry, was an equal — a real rival.

fleur would also - since she has eyes - clearly like to get into the funky way with a certain mr diggory. krum plays his cards slightly closer to his chest, but even he lets slip that:

"I liked Diggory,” said Krum abruptly to Harry. "He vos alvays polite to me."

i bet he was!

harry isn't quite as taken by fleur as most men of his acquaintance [really beating the allegations there, king...], but that's fine. there are plenty of configurations for this orgy which could keep two people between them at any one time...

[the-original-gays]

Voldemort: You'll never defeat me!

Harry: Yes we will, with the power of love!

Ron: And friendship!

Hermionie, already prepared to transfigure him into a bug and put him in a jar with Rita: Incredible violence.

Neville: And teamwork!