hmida 🦥

my tomarry exchange event gift for @notcherub 🎁🎁🎁 Merry Christmas!!! 🥳🎄💚❤️🐍⚡💚❤️🎄🎊

Blood dripped in a steady rhythm, the sound faint in the vast silence of the room. Harry Potter stood beneath the makeshift altar, his glasses askew, one lens cracked from the earlier skirmish. His wedding robes—if one could call the bloodstained, shredded fabric that—clung to his form. His hand trembled, clutching the hilt of Gryffindor's sword, the blade still slick with blood.

Across from him sat Tom Riddle, an eerie stillness to his pale features, despite the gaping wound over his heart. His black suit was immaculate, or it might have been if not for the deep crimson bloom staining the chest. He smirked, as if death was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

"Till death do us part," Tom drawled, his voice soft yet cutting, "what a quaint concept."

Harry's breath hitched, the overwhelming stench of copper and magic almost suffocating. "You—you’re supposed to be dead," he rasped. His green eyes burned, not with the usual defiance, but something far more broken.

Tom leaned forward, his movements slow, deliberate, as though savoring every moment of Harry’s disbelief. A crimson thread—magic, lifeblood, and a soul tether all in one—connected the two of them. It glowed faintly, pulsating in time with their hearts.

"Death is hardly an obstacle when one has made arrangements," Tom purred. He gestured to the thread. "Do you like my gift? A Horcrux bound by marriage. Truly, Harry, you should be flattered."

"Flattered?" Harry's grip tightened on the sword, his knuckles whitening. "You murdered half the Order—half the guests—just to drag me into this!"

Tom tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming with something disturbingly close to affection. "A necessary sacrifice. Love demands commitment, after all. And you—" He reached out, his hand ghosting over Harry’s bloodied cheek. "You were always destined to be mine."

The words made Harry’s stomach churn, but the cursed tether binding them burned at his resistance. He tried to pull away, but his body betrayed him, leaning into Tom’s touch despite every instinct screaming at him to run.

"Why me?" Harry whispered, his voice cracking. "You could have anyone. You’re Voldemort. You don’t need—"

"But I want you," Tom interrupted, his tone sharp, final. "The Boy Who Lived. The thorn in my side. The one who defied me time and time again. Do you know how intoxicating that is, Harry? To possess the one thing that could destroy me."

Harry’s knees buckled, and he fell forward, caught only by Tom’s arms. The tether thrummed with approval, tightening its hold. Tom’s breath was warm against his ear as he whispered, "Say it, Harry. Bind us properly."

Tears welled in Harry’s eyes, but they didn’t fall. "I—"

"Shh," Tom cooed, pulling him closer. "There’s no escape now. No death, no freedom. Only us. Forever."

As the tether flared to life, binding their souls in eternal torment—or perhaps love twisted beyond recognition—Harry could only think of how tragically fitting it was. A wedding vow soaked in blood, bound by magic, and sealed with despair.