She/her ݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ I ᰔ writing and I'm trying to get better. A sweet lil' spot for sweet lil' folks, fics, photodumps, fandom stuff, & (sometimes*) baked goods.
Okay so some chick posted a tiktok talking about a weird dream she had, a surgeon cut her open and was admiring her organs. I've never felt more seen lol, BUT she's working on a comic strip for it and I felt inspired.
Hence, Tomarry. Okay so walk with me,
I have a very half-assed prompt (?), idea? Wtv and decided to share.
Harry wakes up on a operating table confused and disoriented, he's met with Tom Riddle standing over him; carassing his skin and admiring his body. Tom cuts open Harry's stomach through a surgical incison and starts complimenting and admiring Harry's organs, calling them perfect, and beautiful. Harry doesn't feel any pain, but he's deeply uncomfortable, Tom obsesses over Harry's organs and cuts a larger incision before pulling it open and trying to climb into Harry. Harry feels a mix of pleasure, disgust, and horror as he feels Tom carassing his entrails before Tom can fully climb into Harry, they both wake up.
I've been inspired, also part of this idea is HEAVILY inspired by 'Open Wide' a novel written by Jessica Gross. (TY Frankie's shelf for the amazing recs, I love love LOVE his channel.)
I'mma crawl back into my dark hole and write this stupid ass idea out, this idea would also go so hard for a Hannigram fic (ugh i love them).
(BTW I'm envisioning Tom and Harry going to hogwarts together #timetravel, this is very much meant to be Harry goes back in time and has to deal with a young, weird Tom Riddle.)
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Tomarry is the magical, gay equivalent of Carlos and Gabby from Desperate Housewives
I just finished season 1 of Desperate Housewives and I'm starting season 2 (ep 5) and let me tell you everytime Gabby and Carlos start arguing I'm reminded of Tomarry.
Can you imagine Minister Tom, living in his lavious manor with a disgruntled and unsatisfied Harry. Harry used to be the Head Auror but he let himself be charmed by Tom; the sarcastic banter, the lavious dates and trips and the easy company of Britain's most eligible bachelor? Harry was taken instantly, only the second they got married Harry regretted it forever (lol).
They love each other but Harry is stubborn and petty, he starts an affair with the lovely Auror Cedric Diggory to escape his unhappiness (and to spite Tom by sleeping with his polar opposite). Tom is possessive, manipulative and violent; he would totally fuck with Harry's birth control if it meant keeping him. He loves owning Harry (just like Carlos loves having Gabby) but he does love him in his own sick way.
IDK, this has been eating me alive since I started the serious, I can imagine Harry heading over to Ron and Hermione's to bitch about his shitty husband, Tom beating the shit outta Cedric (the muggle way is lesser but effective) and the two of them refusing to divorce because at the end of the day they would be bored with anyone else.
My favorite toxic couples lol, just had to purge this brain worm to get back to my fic.
it’s almost the end of 2024. can we drop this absolutely inane fanonical idea that harry james potter is “oblivious” or “unobservant” or “average”?
fuck your fanon harry. fuck that soggy tissue who doesn’t inspire confidence in others. fuck that lummox who cannot string a sentence together. fuck that hothead who’d lash out in anger and throw punches at every provocation. fuck that namby-pamby who can’t read clues or between the lines or come up with a plan of action. fuck that sheep who can’t function without hermione’s direction. fuck that neanderthal who’s a messy eater, messy writer, messy speaker, and has poor manners.
who the bloody hell is that? that’s not harry james potter. why are you twisting and malforming him into a bloody clown?
why are you undermining the main character of his own series? boy has an abysmal self-esteem, stays quiet and lowkey, bottles up his truest feelings and thoughts (that we as readers are privy to, but not the other characters!), and has a calm and composed mien so you think you too can dismiss his character easily and strip him down to a skeleton of his canon self and instead carve out huge character growth, redemption arcs, and love letters for everyone else?
you wish to evoke sympathy for draco by making lucius out to be an abusive father and crafting a pitiful childhood for draco when they have an affectionate parent-child relationship canonically, but downplay harry’s abuse? you realise that tom riddle, sirius black, james potter, and hermione granger are acknowledged to be the brightest of their generation, yet forget harry potter and tom riddle are two sides of the same coin, even sharing a similar appearance, and reduce harry to a silly caricature? you make harry magically powerful but wrest his smarts away to highlight someone else’s big brain?
you make him out to be a short dork with a shorter fuse and no idea what’s going on around him when harry and tom are both described as woe-ridden orphans—with all that entails from constant hunger to cold sleepless nights to hypervigilance to the forced, quick maturity—but treat tom true to canon as tall, cunning, and clever, then do an about-face to conveniently slap the malnourished, oblivious, and slacker labels on harry to make him as lesser than?
when he picked up the impervious spell simply from having seen hermione perform it once, when his closest friends have difficulty gleaning his thoughts, when his anger is cold and sharp like dumbledore (ootp was a study in ptsd, next!), when he’s just as tall as his father, was just as ill-treated as a house elf, and rightfully brilliant as the son of lily and james potter—the two powerful and talented individuals who once had voldemort trying to recruit them to join his cause?
the sheer disrespect on his name. the sheer mockery of his character. the absolutely mind-boggling erasure of his most defining traits.
who do you think sussed out most of the big clues, and stowed away all the little, random bits of information in his memory bank, to ultimately piece the puzzle together at the final showdown every end of the school year? who realised as a mere firstie that quirrel was the man hagrid blabbed to about fluffy and the dragon egg? who noted that ginny was withdrawn and unlike herself? who had an inkling fleur had taken a fancy to bill? who picked up on what was brewing between ron and hermione before their own selves? who noticed that hermione cast a confundus on cormac mclaggen during the match? who caught on instantly to the wording used for the diadem’s existence and confidently tracked it down? who cottoned on to luna’s longtime disappearance from her cold, untouched bed and the layer of dust? who did voldemort consider his equal? who actually has an uncanny sense of intuition? who calls the shots when the trio gets into a pickle? who?
excuse harry for that one time he did not look deeply into the mental workings of a grieving girl because he’s not equipped to deal with them, and has in the first place never been taught to process his own emotions properly because he didn’t grow up in a healthy environment, prohibited from expressing his feelings, let alone vulnerability, and voicing his thoughts!
let’s bury this annoyingly stupid narrative for good. go read the books and refresh your perspective. stop doing him dirty. you’ve already butchered sirius black’s character into a pathetic sisspot. and now you want to assassinate harry’s too.
Tom Riddle: Harry is a master mind of deception. He knows too much. He’s a threat to my carefully laid plans. I need to uncover his secret and get him under my control.
Harry Potter Peverell: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I have no idea what I am doing!
Bonus points if Harry is like fighting demons trying to work out the whole Master of Death thing and Grindewald is up his ass about it. He’s catnip for dark lords after all.
Tomarry WIP: Even in an altered timeline, Harry has to share his dreams with Tom.
UPDATE: I finished the fist scene of this yay! Next up is a switch to Tom's pov, I'm so excited to write him being creepy. I'll edit the rest of scene one later today and post the full scene here if anyone is interested.
This is a draft of a Tomarry oneshot I'm working on but I figured it'd be fun to upload it (get over my nerves about posting Fanfics lol). Since it's a wip I'm not putting this on AO3 till it's completed and edited so I'm posting it here.
Harry wakes up strapped down to a table a strange room after falling asleep, Tom Riddle is lurking in the corner, eager to exploit this new development. Both of them reach a startling conclusion.
OR where Tom and Harry share a freaky dream and enjoy it way too much. (Harry is ashamed, Tom definitely isn't)
PROMPT:
Harry wakes up on a operating table confused and disoriented, he's met with Tom Riddle standing over him; caressing his skin and admiring his body. Tom cuts open Harry's stomach through a surgical incision and starts complimenting and admiring Harry's organs, calling them perfect, and beautiful. Harry doesn't feel any pain, but he's deeply uncomfortable, Tom obsesses over Harry's organs and cuts a larger incision before pulling it open and trying to climb into Harry. Harry feels a mix of pleasure, disgust, and horror as he feels Tom caressing his entrails before Tom can fully climb into Harry, they both wake up.
Something was wrong.
He knew it before even opening his eyes, he couldn't move.
No, he thought, that wasn't really accurate. Harry could, technically move in inconsequential ways; he could wiggle his fingers and toes but any elaborate motion was useless. He was functionally immobile, lovely.
He tried to lift his arm but, the movement was halted, he felt a rough, something, strain against his wrists keeping them bound in place. Ignoring the concerning implications of being tied up, Harry noticed how heavy his arms felt; his aborted attempt to lift his arm made his bones ache. He knew, he wouldn't be able to break through the material.
…Strange.
The second thing Harry noticed was the lighting, even with his eyes closed he could practically see how blinding the light was. A bit of light seeped through the thin skin of his eyelids. White—the light was pure, sterile, bright white light. The light pulsated behind his eyes, he could feel how it forced his lids to twitch, Harry resisted the urge to open his eyes.
During his brief time in Slytherin, Harry had never seen white light. Most of the light in the commons was natural sunlight distorted by the black lake or flickering fire light coming from oil lamps. The atmosphere was perpetually dim and shady since Slytherins loved lurking in cold, dark, damp dungeons. (Merlin, Harry missed the casual warmth of Gryffindor.)
'Bright' has never and would never be a synonym for the Slytherin dungeons; the pretentious gits of Slytherin were too good for sunlight after all. For Merlin's sake, he was in a dungeon, at the bottom of a pitch black lake, at night!
That much white light was unnatural and beyond suspicious.
Harry—stupidly—decided to try and open his eyes. He was swiftly punished for his stupidity when a slit of blinding white light assaulted him. He hissed as the light blinded him, quickly shutting his eyes, and waiting for his pupils to adjust.
Fuck, he thought, internally slapping himself for being an idiot.
The gentle throbbing of his head bloomed into a pounding, pulsating, headache hammering into his skull.
Everything hurt.
With his eyes out of commission, Harry focused on his other senses. The platform under him was solid, it was cold and felt metallic; there wasn't any kind of cushioning so his joints felt stiff, his body ached. It was tilted higher at his head, but the material was the same.
His nose burned, the room smelled awful. Normally, the dorms didn't smell like anything; sure, he would usually smell Abraxas's overly-expensive colone or the usual lingering scent of mildew that clung to the whole dungeon, but this was different.
It reeked of disinfectant, but there was something else mixed in there; the scent of alcohol, and iodine were familiar—it reminded him of being in Madame Pomfrey's office, the sterile smell of a hospital ward—but, they were mixed with another putrid scent; it was like an unholy mix of vinegar and burnt matches. (Harry would later realize that it was the smell of formaldehyde.)
Pieces of his recent memories slowly trickled in, coming back to the common room after dinner, he hadn't eaten much—the feeling of maple-red eyes tracking him killed his appetite. He washed up and stumbled into bed, settling in for another nice, restless, nightmare-filled night. Harry should, technically, still be in bed.
Unless one of his darling dorm-mates decided to prank him for some cult-hazing or whatever bullshit Slytherins did to assert dominance over each other.
Or maybe he was just having a lucid nightmare—which made more sense, Slytherin 'pranks' were more subtle, their lot much preferred the subtle, nuances of blackmail and extortion to playing jovial pranks on one another. (Cue aristocratic tittering.)
Slowly, Harry got a bit of control back. Nightmare or not I wanna get outta of here, he thought, the chemical odor was becoming unbearable; Harry slowed his breathing, his chest was tight, his scar burned beneath his skin, the pain was searing and all-encompassing.
Harry tried to move a bit more—he jerked his shoulder, testing his restraints, the movement was sharp, and the drag of skin was grating. His skin stuck to the cool surface, he could feel the sting as he pulled his arms away from the table.
He tried to push himself off of the table he was lying on, his body responded—kind of—but, it was still uncoordinated and weak. Harry stayed calm, if he focused, let his body readjust, than he could get up. No matter how vivid this felt, this was a nightmare; a psychological response to the total dumpster fire that was his life. So, logically, if he stayed calm, cool and collected, than he could leave, it was his dream afterall.
Theoretically, if he escaped the room, he would (eventually) wake up and the dream would be over, easy as pie! So, Harry waited…then he tried again,
Nothing.
He tried again…then again,
and again… and again,
again…and again.
Harry was still stuck, his wrists and ankles were still bound and he.couldn't.move.
It was a horrible realization, but Harry was stubborn. So, he kept trying, ignoring the growing pit in his stomach, it was fine. It really wasn't fine though, Harry felt the lethargy creeping into his bones. He was powerless and restraint.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—the words repeated like a prayer, a cloud of panic settled in his mind, preventing him from thinking properly. He was stuck, restrained, and effectively blind, what was he supposed to do?! The dizzying smell of chemicals was driving him mad, he needed to get out of this creepy-ass room—
"I would advise against moving around like that," the voice was cool and low, it was silky-smooth and smarmy. "You'll only hurt yourself, dear." there was the faintest hint of amusement bubbling through the voice's dispassionate cadence.
Harry froze.
He knew that voice.
Harry groaned to himself, of course, of-fucking-course, even in his nightmares he couldn't escape Riddle. Harry cursed the stupid restraints holding him in place, he wanted nothing more than to ring Riddle's stupid, string-bean neck.
Still, Harry listened to the voice, bemoaning his personal misfortune. Oh how the fates hated him.
Harry forced his eyes open, pushing through the pain—god, the pain was unbearable, his eyes burned beyond belief—he forced his eyes to adjust, his vision was blurry and tears pricked the corners of his eyes but, finally he opened his eyes.
And standing before him was a man wearing white scrubs and a creepy, oily smirk; Tom Marvolo Riddle.
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i love a good heartless tom riddle as much as the next guy but give me a tom who takes after his mother. who does obsession better than anyone. who is consumed by it; who has a thirst that can only be slaked by unhinging his jaw and swallowing love whole.
give me a tom who does nothing by halves. who is apathetic toward the world but wants to wear his lover like skin.
(or wear his lover’s skin.)
(or skin someone with his lover.)
tom, who is undone by desire. who wants everything so much, all of the time, because he knows the taste of nothing (the dry rot of wools; the absence of a father’s hand; the clinging stench of poverty)
a tom who is nothing like dumbledore theorized. who wasn’t made incapable of love by amortentia, because amortentia never had any power over love at all.
a tom who’s hamartia is part icarus:
(seven times he split the fibers of his soul- do you think immortality felt like the sun on his wings?)
part amortentia:
which cannot create love
(nor take love away)
but is an expert on obsession.
and what is tom but a hungry little boy, running from the things that scare him (a flight from death, he called it)
turning his back on the things that made him. (Gaunt in more ways than one)
obsessed with everything he never had (tom riddle’s face- the elder, the senior- looks back at them both with disgust)
YES absolutely yes! I love an evil, apathetic Tom as much as the next girl but Tom really does do obsession better than anyone else. (He's his mother's son.)
Tom would transfigure himself into a tapeworm so he can literally live inside his lover and be one with them to show his devotion instead of saying "I love you". He's sick and obsessive and it's amazing.
Here's the second, short option for this fic, it was the original draft but I think I like the 1st option more
Prompt: Harry wakes up on a operating table confused and disoriented, he's met with Tom Riddle standing over him; carassing his skin and admiring his body. Tom cuts open Harry's stomach through a surgical incison and starts complimenting and admiring Harry's organs, calling them perfect, and beautiful. Harry doesn't feel any pain, but he's deeply uncomfortable, Tom obsesses over Harry's organs and cuts a larger incision before pulling it open and trying to climb into Harry. Harry feels a mix of pleasure, disgust, and horror as he feels Tom carassing his entrails before Tom can fully climb into Harry, they both wake up.
The room was too quiet. That was odd, during his brief time in Slytherin, Harry had never known a quiet night— between Mulciber and Lestrange's constant snores, Harry was unsure how anyone slept in this miserable dorm. Safe to say, the silence was beyond unusual, it was concerning.
For a moment, Harry tried to open his eyes, it was a futile effort though, every time his eyes fluttered open they quickly screwed shut, the light was to intense to justify burning his retina.
Wait. Bright?!
Bright and the Slytherin common room had no place in the same sentence(it was unnatural!), he was in the dungeon for Christ's sake. His eyes shoot open, the room was beyond bright it was like someone was casting Lumos directly into his face. Harry fought the urge to shut his eyes again, either his roommates were being complete assholes (which wouldn't be suprising) or, more disconcertingly, Harry wasn't in his dorm.
Once that thought processed, he was shocked awake by the idea that he wasn't in his dorm. Now that his brain was somewhat awake, the rest of his senses caught up—a variety of observations crashed into him all at once.
One, Harry was definitely NOT in his bed, he could sense the cool surface he was laying on, it was metal. He, finally, felt the chill creeping across his legs, the feeling of skin sticking to metal was unsettling. Two, Harry could see that he was in some kind of medical room, maybe he was in Madam Pomfrey's clinic? No, he wasn't in a cot, those had the merit of offering the illusion of comfortable. He tried to push himself off the impersonal table but felt something keeping him in place.
It took Harry too long to realize that he was physically stuck in place, he had been restrained. Merlin's beard why was he shackled?!
Finally, Harry's eyes had recuperated from the initial flash-bang of light so, he could actually see the cuffs shackling him in place. Lovely. Now that Harry's vision was returned, it was obvious where he was, he was in an operating room.
Bloody hell, Harry was in an operating room.
Harry's eyes darted around the room, drinking up any visual indications of where he was. It so, so clear that this was an operating room, the cart of surgical equipment, the strange metallic lights hanging overhead, the sterile white walls, it was so obvious, how could he have been so stupid! (Mione' would actually killed him if she ever found out.)
Harry was beyond gobsmacked, he was laying on an operating table, shackled by wrist cuffs in nothing but his sleep shirt and his boxer-shorts. By now the initial shock was replaced with a sense of looming dread, Christ, this had to be a dream, another nightmare.
If the goal was to make him feel uncomfortable than his psyche had succeed, a mind-healer would have a field day with his fucked-up brain. The room was completely white, the walls were pristine and the tile floor was polished to the point of looking wet. He felt suffocated by the overly white walls, he stared at the wall with contempt, he felt faint.
'click'
The soft sound caught Harry's attention, his head snapped forward, jerking towards the sound. Another person was facing the door, their frame was lean tall and masculine, but their face was obscured. They kept their back to Harry as they fiddled with the door. Harry struggled to focus on the figure, their white scrubs blending in with the dull decor of the room. Finally they turned around, though Harry quickly wished that they hadn't.
It was clear that his captor (?) was a man. His statue was tall, and he was thin—Harry could tell by how the shapeless, cotton scrubs hung from the man's body, it was too loose and ill-fitting. Most of his facial features were covered by a white (Harry was growing tired of the color white) linen surgical mask, only revealing the upper half of his face. Harry allowed his eyes to trail across the straight bridge of the man's nose to his eyes, which were a deep shade of brown with a tinge of red (that was oddly familiar to Harry), his brows were dark and straight. The man's skin was pale, it was unnatural and heightened by the room's hue the man's skin was comparable to a corpse, it was too white. (Harry's mind briefly flashed to another man, with bleach white skin, crimson red eyes and snake-like features) Harry shivered. Finally, most of his hair was covered by a predictable white cloth cap, but the mask didn't hide a single, cascading curl of dark hair.
Harry had to begrudgingly admit that the man was attractive, at least his captor wasn't a total eyesore. He had the urge to scream at the annoyingly attractive man, he wanted to hex him and demand answers but, the slytherin half of him decided to keep quiet. Harry was wandless, strapped down to an operating table in a random room away from all other people, he was totally helpless. So, he bite his tongue.
Harry and the mystery doctor started at each other, neither moved or uttered a sound. Harry glared at the man, the man remained statuesque, he just…continued to stare at Harry with an odd gleam in his eye. Harry decided that he hated that look, regardless of whatever fucked up emotion it was trying to convey, it deeply unsettled him.
Finally, the mystery man cracked. Without breaking eye-contact, he slowly reached up towards his lower face and looped the mask between his long, elegant fingers, before carefully ripping it off. All while maintaining direct, unyielding eye contact with Harry.
And suddenly every weird, unsettling detail of Harry's unconventional kidnapping (?) made complete and total sense because for some inane reason Tom Riddle was standing in front of him.
Wait-…
Why in the name of Merlin's favorite fluffy bathrobe was Tom Riddle dressed as a surgeon?!
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I've started the draft, I have two different excerpts from it and I can't decide which I like more so, I figured I'd post them both and see which one people like more.
Here's the first draft, option 1:
Prompt: Harry wakes up on a operating table confused and disoriented, he's met with Tom Riddle standing over him; caressing his skin and admiring his body. Tom cuts open Harry's stomach through a surgical incision and starts complimenting and admiring Harry's organs, calling them perfect, and beautiful. Harry doesn't feel any pain, but he's deeply uncomfortable, Tom obsesses over Harry's organs and cuts a larger incision before pulling it open and trying to climb into Harry. Harry feels a mix of pleasure, disgust, and horror as he feels Tom caressing his entrails before Tom can fully climb into Harry, they both wake up.
Something was wrong, Harry decided. Firstly the dorm was quiet, too quiet, silence was a (surprisingly) rare commodity in the dungeons.
During his brief time in Slytherin, Harry has never known a peaceful night, Mulciber and Lestrange ensured that with their raucous snoring, how anyone slept in the miserable dorm was a complete and total mystery to Harry.
Secondly, it was way to bright, Harry could see the blinding, white light through his eyelids. Harry, briefly, roused himself and attempted to open his eyes. Though it was a pointless waste of effort, the second his eyes fluttered open they swiftly shut. It was like someone was casting Lumos two centimeters away from his face.
'Bright' has never and will never be a synonym for the Slytherin dungeons, even the sun avoided this dreadful room. Harry was in a literal dungeon,at the bottom of a pitch, black lake for Christ's sake! He mourned sunlight the second he sat on that blasted stool.
So, either his dorm mates were being complete arseholes and having a go at him (which would be pretty typical for these muppets) or Harry wasn't in his dorm.
Which wouldn't be too odd either, maybe Salazar's spirit was so offended by his presence that he got booted out of his fancy (pretentious) new house. Wouldn't that be a nice dream, Harry almost sighed at the idea.
Harry decides to wait a bit before trying to open his eyes again, he's momentarily distracted by a odd smell. Now normally, there isn't much smell in his dorm; sure, he can usually smell Abraxas's overly-expensive colone or the usual scent of dampness that lingers around the whole dungeon, but this smell was different.
It reeked of disinfectant, there was also the sharp, familiar scent of bleach mixing with another odd, pungent stench; it was like an unholy mix of vinegar and burnt matches. Was he in the medical wing?
Wherever he was he needed to leave, the chemical odor was unbearable; Harry slowed his breathing, his chest felt tight and he was starting to feel dizzy and his head was beginning to hurt.
It takes a minute to fully adjust to the light searing his sensitive pupils but, Harry's nothing if not adaptable. Upon opening his eyes it becomes apparent that he is definitely not in the medical wing.
He was still in the dungeons (probably, the ceiling and walls were the same) but he was in a new room. It was an…amphitheater?!
Well, it was kind of an amphitheater, the room was shaped like one. Aside from that, the floor was stone tile with a yellowish hue, but it was polished to the point of looking wet. The room had an elevated viewing gallery, the benches were made of mahogany wooden and were sectioned off by an iron barricade. And as Harry looked up, the rest of the ceiling and walls were constructed with stone, like the rest of the dungeon.
"W-wha…whaaadah fugak..?" he slurred out, the words felt heavy and they jumbled together before awkwardly tumbling out.
What the fuck!? Harry felt lethargic, his mind was racing—like a raging typhoon—but his body, it was sluggish and slow. Had he been drugged?!
Harry was lying down, in a strange room that reeked of chemicals and he could barely move his body, probably because he was drugged, or hex? Had he been stupefied?!
Harry tried to push himself off of, whatever he was lying on…his body responded but, it was uncoordinated. Oddly enough, he couldn't get up. Harry tried again, he stayed calm, his body was probably still adjusting. He would try again and leave this weird-arse room, and everything will be sorted.
He tried again…
Then he tried again…
and again…
and again…
…again
…and again
Why was he still not moving, was he too weak?! Harry tried again, and again and by his 10th attempt he realized something.
His body was still sluggish, but he could still move it. He couldn't move his wrists, or his ankles.
Harry, desperately, thrashed around whatever surface he was lying on, he tried to pry his wrists towards my but felt the burn of friction between skin and metal. His blood ran cold, and his breathing grew erratic.
By the end of it, Harry left a heaving, sweaty mess, and he's still strapped to a table.
His energy was sapped, and only now in his tired, panicked state did he notice that he was lying on a wooden table, he was laid flat, his head was slightly propped up (just enough to see further than his own feet) and could move relatively freely (ignoring his shackles).
He was also still in his pajamas, with nothing but his boxer shorts and his poorly-buttoned sleep-shirt to shield him and provide the illusion of comfort.
Harry decided to ignore the shackles, thinking about them would send him into another fit. Instead, he cataloged the various items he could see from his limited vantage point. (It was better than focusing on that smell of chemicals or the fact that he was fully trapped.)
The light was coming from a large light fixture curled up above Harry, it was still blinding him, but that was the least of his current worries besides his eyes had mostly adjusted. Next there was a metal rolling cart a few feet away from Harry, too far too see it's contents but Harry could see a few bottles of chemicals nestled on the lower shelf. Harry could also (vaguely) see the faint outline of large cabinet towards the back of the room.
His headache was worsening, the dull ache was creeping into a pounding pain. Harry could hear his heart bumping erratically against his ribcage, pumping blood and pressing up against his chest. The sound was deafening.
The panic was settling in again, the room was too quiet, too polished and it was creepy as hell. It was beyond suffocating. This time the panic was paired with a sense of dread and resigna-…
—Wait, Harry paused.
Oh, bloody hell, Harry was in an operating room.
He'd slap himself if he could, how had he not noticed?! Harry's eyes darted across the room, lapping up all the visual indications of where he was, the cart of chemicals and whatever-the-fuck-else, the weird metallic light, the strong stench of disinfectant and chemicals, the weird wooden bed-thing (an operating table), how had he been so stupid! (Harry was slightly grateful that Hermonie wasn't there, she would've actually killed him for his stupidity if she ever found out.)
In his moment of realization, some of the panic slipped away and Harry was hit with a sense of misplaced security. Yes, he was beyond gobsmacked; for Merlins sake he was shackled half-nude on an operating table but, one thing was clear.
This had to be a nightmare.
Hogwarts didn't have an operating room, the concept was too muggle, and this was clearly a muggle medical hall. This had to be a nightmare the realization was some-what comforting, Harry was lucid enough to understand he wasn't in any real danger but he would probably have to suffer through whatever his mind had come up with.
If the goal was to make him immensely uncomfortable, then his psyche had succeed, a mind-healer would have an absolute field-day with his fucked-up brain. This realization didn't stop Harry from feeling suffocated, until he woke up he was stuck. Wonderful.
'Click'
The quiet sound caught Harry's attention, his head jerked forward, snapping towards the sound's direction.From his position, Harry had a perfect view of the door, he could see the knob wiggling around until-…
The door opened and a tall figure stepped into the hall. There was a short hall that led towards the center of the room, contrary to the rest of the room that passage was dark. The figure was cloaked in shadows but Harry could make out a few things.
They were tall, lean and the silhouette looked masculine, he could also see that they were wearing scrubs. The man(?) fiddled with the lock until it clicked again, a-mazing Harry was locked in a room with a stranger. Smashing.
The man turned around and paused, for a few seconds he just…stood there by the door. Harry felt like he was being started at, he did not like that one bit.
Then the man started walking towards him, he took small, confident steps; his gait felt predatory. A shiver crawled up Harry's spine as the figure stopped a foot away from his feet.
For this distance it was clear that his dream-captor was a man. His stature was tall and imposing, his posture was pristine but he was thin—too thin, Harry could tell by how the cotton scrubs hung from his body, they were shapeless, far too loose and ill-fitting a man that lean.
Harry eyed the man, dragging his gaze towards the man's face. Most of his features were hidden by a white linen surgical mask, it only teased the upper half of his face. Despite this Harry could still make out the man's almost aristocratic features; he had high cheekbones, a straight, roman nose, and thick, black furrowed brows, they were trimmed and neatly maintained to carry the perfect arch.
Harry's gaze slowly trailed along the man's exposed face, drinking up every detail, his skin was powder-pale, (Harry's mind briefly flashed towards another man with bleached skin and crimson eyes), but his cheeks were tinged with a soft pink hue, it was the only thing keeping him from resembling a corpse. But, Harry felt most drawn to the man's eyes, they were sharp and downturn, they were a deep shade of brown with a tinge of red. Harry briefly noted that the man had long dark lashes, his lower lashes were notably longer than the upper lashes.
The two meet each other's gaze, the room was silent and the air felt electric. Harry shivered, the man's eyes held an odd, appraising gleam that made Harry's stomach squirm, he was daring him to break first.
Harry averted his gaze.
Finally, most of the man's hair was covered by a white cloth cap, the cap hide everything but a single, cascading curl of dark hair.
The man was painfully familiar in appearance and in feelings. Harry's mystery doctor invoked a familiar sense of anxiety and dread but, in his disconnected state Harry hadn't made the connection yet.
His surgeon started at him quietly, he was unmoving, and statuesque, he continued to stare at Harry with that odd gleam in his eye. Harry quickly decided that he hated that look, regardless of whatever fucked up emotion it was trying to convey, it deeply unsettled him.
It reminded him of Riddle way too much…
.
.
.
The look of horror must've been evident of his face, since the surgeon's creepily familiar eyes crinkled with amusement. The man finally cracked, and without breaking eye-contact he slowly hooked his mask between his long, elegant fingers, before carefully pulling it off. All whilst maintaining direct, unyielding eye contact with Harry.
And suddenly every weird, unsettling detail of Harry's unconventional kidnapping made complete and total sense because for some inane reason Tom Riddle was standing in front of him, smiling at Harry, dressed in muggle medical scrubs.
Even in his strange nightmares, he can't escape Riddle's stupidly smarmy grin.
