theodorenotteveragain

[theodorenotteveragain]

12.8.2024 , Kofi

[theodorenotteveragain]

Harry, crying: I feel like it's my fault that my parents got killed. People just keep DYING for me and it's my fault!

Voldemort: I killed your parents. Nothing could have prevented me from doing so. I would do it again. It's not your fault.

Harry, crying harder: you're fucking terrible at comforting people

[theodorenotteveragain]

Twenty-Four Seeds

(Harrymort Ancient Rome AU)

So much context for this piece. Historically this is the 1st century BCE and all these fruits (and more) were available to Romans. Everyone had slaves — figures suggest 1/3 of people at the time were slaves. Pliny the Elder wrote about the potency of Campanian wine made from grapes grown on Mt Vesuvius' slopes. Religions were referred to as cults, and Christianity wasn't around quite yet (Judaism was). Hades and Persephone is obviously a Greek myth, but the Romans were heavily inspired by them in everything. 954 words.

"Harry," Voldemort says quietly. His voice carries in the empty dining room. "Come here, Harry. Eat for me."

Harry's lips curl upwards as he suppresses the shiver of delight that runs down his spine. He steps towards the chaise where Voldemort reclines, decedent displays of fruit — apples, figs, grapes, quinces, berries and currants of all kinds, melons, pomegranate, medlars, numerous more Harry cannot count — resting on the low tables beside him.

Harry kneels beside Voldemort's chaise lounge, pressing his face against the cool, skeletal hand that belongs to his Lord. It should feel demeaning, debasing to kneel like this, but it is far from an act of submission. Harry has power and Voldemort knows it; he sends the slaves out with a wave of his hand because of this fact.

Alone, Harry presses his lips softly against the palm of Voldemort's hand. The skin is soft, like he hasn't worked a day in his life, but this is a lie. Voldemort toiled for years to create his empire, fought wars, wielded sword and magic as easy as breathing. In creating the perfect version of himself, he removed those callouses and Harry delights in this power to fashion himself into perfection.

"My Lord," Harry says. "Voldemort. My Tom." Each word is said more reverently than the last. "And I your humble servant."

Voldemort lets out a hiss of laughter. "You are not humble, Hadrian." He uses the praenomen, Harry thinks, to tease him. "Greedy, jealous, powerful, certainly. Never humble."

Harry grins into Voldemorts palm before kissing it again. "You said you would feed me. Do you break your promises so easily, my Lord?"

Voldemort snarls and draws his hand away from Harry's mouth, but after a few seconds, an apple slice is placed at Harry's lips in apology.

"Do you know," Voldemort says conversationally, as Harry's teeth scrape against the pads of his fingers, "there is a cult of men who believe that a snake tempted woman to eat an apple, then woman man and this was the First Evil?"

Harry shakes his head, reaching for the goblet of wine on the table. "I didn't," he says, taking a sip. Campanian wine — far more potent than most, grown on the slopes of the mountain. "Does this make you the snake or woman?"

Voldemort hums, as if considering. In truth, Harry can feel the eyes watching him as he drains the goblet, setting it back down on the low table and liking the dark wine from where it has stained on his lips.

Readjusting his position, Harry looks up at Voldemort through his lashes. "Or are you the First Evil?"

Voldemort hums again, this time amused. "We should not put so much faith in the religion of men," he says, his bony fingers stroking the side of Harry's cheek in a singular movement. "After all, there is no god who holds the same amount of power over me as you."

The words give Harry head-rush. Voldemort, dictator and war general, the man who holds Rome in his palm, is powerless to Harry. He knew already, of course he did. But the confirmation… and he thinks of how a god could submit a human like him.

"I worship you," Harry says, voice low and catching in his throat. "Entirely, utterly."

Voldemort's lips twitch. "I know, my soul," he murmurs, voice soft.

His hands draw away from Harry's face, almost embarrassed of his emotions, reaching once more at the table. After a moment, a fig presses insistently at Harry's lips, drenched in honey. Harry bites.

Honey is slow moving. It is made by bees who spend lives searching in flowers and nature. Yet it drips down Harry's chin, too fast for him to capture. It bursts across his tongue, sweetening the already jam-like taste of the fig. Saccharine.

The honey spread across Harry's lips and tongue makes Voldemort bite back a smile. Harry watches through dark eyelashes as his Lord presses another fruit to his lips — a plum this time, and it drips down his chin again, slipping across his throat — before Voldemort presses his goblet to Harry's mouth, forcing him to drink the wine.

"Messy," Voldemort chides.

He doesn't mean it.

His eyes are dark, his skin cool. He feeds Harry far more gently than one would a pet, pressing each fruit, each delicacy to his lips, rather than throwing scraps on a bone. This is a mutual worship; the lines between god and human would blur if Harry didn't take each fruit with whispered gratitude.

Harry's head hums with alcohol, his belly with food. Digging into the flesh of a pomegranate, he draws twelve seeds.

"Persephone," he says, aching, "ate six seeds to stay with Hades for a half-year. As per myth, if I eat twelve I'll stay by your side forever."

The seeds burst across his tongue. The outside is slightly bitter, a singular hard husk on each that disappears as soon as Harry tastes it, replaced by a sweet richness that he never wants to wash away. He'd never eat another thing if it meant the promise stay on his tongue like this. But the last seed slips away.

For a moment, Harry thinks Voldemort might kiss him. Draw him to his feet, drag Harry's body onto his own and share heat. Instead, his Lord reaches for the pomegranate abandoned by Harry.

Voldemort digs his own bony fingers into the fruit, staining their whiteness with a light blood. Harry imagines those same hands plunging into skin like it did in Gaul. Bodies destroyed, mutilated, beautiful in their bloodiness. This is a god, this is the promise Hades and Persephone never got to fulfil.

Voldemort draws out twelve seeds and eats them. One by one.

More Harrymort Ancient Rome

Laurel Wreath / Twenty-Four Seeds

[theodorenotteveragain]

Harry most times that he sees a Veela: lol why is everyone acting so weird?

Harry when he sees Cedric: Omg he's so handsome and good looking and attractive.

Harry when he sees young Sirius: How is he this fit without even trying?

Harry when he sees Tom Riddle: Damn. Credit where credit it due. An 11 has entered the room.

Harry when he sees Draco: That soft, gleaming, sleek blond hair tho. Those glittering, pale grey eyes tho. I hate him. But like. I can see.

JK Rowling: I have written a heterosexual protagonist.

Me: Have you tho?

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the chosen one wasn't born a girl only because it would be too ez to beat the dark lord

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Art to one of my favorite fics about tomarrymort - «No Heroes» by @redhowler 🤍

Inspired by a snippet of fic:

“Teach me, my Lord,” Harry said. “I want to learn from you. Please.”

A rush of air left Voldemort at the words. His eyes were wide and dark.

“I never thought I’d hear that from you, Potter. I won’t lie and say it does not please me.” He let go of Harry’s chin, his arm falling back to his side. Harry sat back down, feeling oddly cold. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

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He’s going to be sick, Harry decides, standing alone in the center of the hall.

He’s going to vomit up his guts right here, for everyone to see. These maskless faces, these greedy eyes. Every stare a weight he can’t shake. But it’s fine. He’ll make it fine. He’ll give them something to look at, something worthy of their sneers. Make a mess all across these nice marble floors.

Or maybe he’ll kill them all, instead.

Unlock his teeth and let out the scream that’s been building since he walked through the gate. Cut their bellies, their throats, until all their staring eyes go dark. A lake of red to cover up this gleaming white. He knows the spell. He’s done it before, but he didn’t mean it, then.

He could mean it, now.

He should. He will, except—their Lord is watching. He’s watching, and he’s smiling. “Harry Potter,” Voldemort says, satisfaction in the curl of his tongue, the sweep of it across his teeth. “Welcome.”

He knows.

Hysteria swells in the back of Harry's throat, sour on his tongue. “Voldemort,” he says, to gasps all around.

That smile stretches wider, a crescent gleam of too-sharp teeth. “Go on, then, Harry,” Voldemort says, leaning back in his throne, looking down his noseless face. “Tell us why you’ve come.”

Ask, goes the unspoken command.

And it isn’t fair, Harry thinks before he can stop himself. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want—“What will it take?” he demands, before he can think too much more. Before reality can creep further in. “What will it take for you to”—another pause, the words unwilling—“save them?”

“Them?” Voldemort asks, no longer smiling. His pale fingers twitch, a clench and release. His Death Eaters lean in as one, shifting on their feet, like it’s almost a signal they’ve been waiting for.

Harry swallows his fear. “Us.”

Voldemort looks at him for a long while, his regard like a well of still water. Then he beckons, drops the thought right behind his eyes: Come here.

Harry goes, because there’s nothing else to do, because he has to—he has to save them, to keep everyone safe—and secretly, shamefully, worst of all, because he wants to live.

He wants to live, and this is what it will take.

He crosses the hall on dead feet, climbs the waiting dais. Voldemort shifts as he approaches, sits ever so lower in his throne, all but sprawling. His head tilts. His red eyes narrow with pleasure—pleasure that rings like a bell in Harry’s teeth, sits like cinnamon on his tongue. He says, “Closer.”

Harry takes a slow breath, holds it as the floor tips beneath his feet, as blood rushes in his ears. His stomach churns. His heart is a bird, wings beating against his ribs. He does as he’s told, steps into the place Voldemort makes for him between his thighs, until he can see every line on that bone-white face, each fleck of rust in the blood-red of his eyes.

“Now,” Voldemort begins as he hooks an arm around Harry’s waist, too-long fingers splayed over the small of Harry’s back, “shall we try that again?”

“I don’t—”

“No?” Voldemort tuts, mock disappointment behind his eyes, a glimmer of laughter Harry feels but doesn’t hear. “Then I shall help you.” He reels Harry in, until he’s forced to climb up on his throne or fall on it instead. He settles uneasily atop Voldemort’s thighs, clutching his robes for balance, careful to grab fabric instead of form. Voldemort leans in, puts his face right beside Harry’s face, and says, “Say my name, Harry Potter, and ask Lord Voldemort for what you need.”

[theodorenotteveragain]

You know what they say...practice makes perfect!

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Fetters of the Damned Snippet

Yeah, yeah, I'm really inspired today!

Here's a snippet of the next chapter of Fetters of the Damned. I hope you enjoy it!

(---)

He had forgotten just how insufferable the Welcoming Feast could be.

The incessant noise, those idiotic children cackling with laughter, the damned ghosts flitting around the tables, and the teachers droning on and on… Voldemort felt as though he hadn’t endured such torment since his body had undergone the painful transformation after his duel with Potter.

Speaking of the boy, Voldemort found himself intrigued.

Potter was quieter than he had anticipated. He had expected him to be more… expansive? From Severus’s reports and what Voldemort had observed, he had imagined the boy would be loud, boisterous like his peers.

He had not expected Potter to be shy, blushing like a fool while avoiding eye contact.

And to top it all off, he had actually slept in the compartment during the train journey – exposed, vulnerable, right in front of Voldemort, an open invitation for anyone who might wish to take advantage of him.

Voldemort had undeniably made the right decision. It was both infuriating and astonishing how his Horcrux could be so abysmally foolish – sleeping defenceless before a stranger?

Unacceptable.

Even now, the boy was withdrawn, desperately trying to avoid drawing attention. Why?

He was the Chosen One, and not even Voldemort’s schemes to taunt his persona had managed to erase that fact.

But why didn’t he revel in it? Anyone else would bask in that notoriety, yet Potter shrank away.

Perhaps it was this very contradiction that made him all the more intriguing to delve into.

The boy was a puzzle, and the thrill of peeling back each layer – exposing Potter’s insecurities, his weaknesses – was a tantalising challenge that stirred something dark, almost primal, within Voldemort.

He didn’t just crave to possess Potter’s reluctance; no, that wasn’t enough. He wanted to break it. To bend Potter’s will until the boy was reduced to nothing but fear and trembling obedience.

The thought alone made his blood hum with excitement.

----

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“Boy, you wanna come to my motel, honey?

Boy, you wanna hold me down

Tell me that you love me?”

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At a Dark Wizard’s wedding, rather than a ‘first dance’, the happy couple shares a ‘first duel’!

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listen i get ppl are deeply into the whole “voldemort is far more powerful than harry”-thing because yeah, he is, but i also think harry should be allowed to bully him extensively. ‘powerplay this’, ‘powerplay that’ no! harry has no urge to be more powerful than voldemort! harry just wants to bully him!

doesn’t matter if harry ends up on his arm or through some convoluted fanfic logic in his head during the events of the series after he passes. harry’s sole goal is Ridicule The Dark Lord. he reminds voldemort daily that he got beaten by 1) a baby, 2) an 11yo boy with fire hands (apparently), 3) a 12yo boy with a sword and one (1) fang, 4) a 14yo boy who could run really quickly, and 5) a 17yo, malnourished, exhausted boy with a borrowed wand. he tells voldemort repeatedly that vee’s 15yo self bragged to harry’s 12yo self (no sword or fang yet) that he decided on his name change via anagram, like it’s cool. he reminds voldemort often that “lord flight from death” is a bit on the nose for a new name. he always says that whatever voldemort does is “no friend behaviour”. he tells voldemort things like “you know all of your followers except bella and barty would sell you to the devil for one corn chip right” and voldemort, without fail, will think “NO. THAT’S THE THING I’M SENSITIVE ABOUT”. he’s yelling “HA CRINGEE” about everything voldemort does. it’s devastating.

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More accidental baby AU.

(Plot Twist! The baby is actually Death taking a mortal form to foil Voldemort’s plans of immortality *gasp*)

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I'm a SLUT for fanarts with gold

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Uh oh! When Voldemort hit Harry with the killing curse in the forest, it created a life instead of taking one.

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happy birthday voldemort :3

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diary 🐍⚡