#chaoticshitstickwritez

The air is cold, a violent bite nipping through layers upon layers of clothing. It was truly miserable. The only thing more miserable than this dastardly weather, was a boy. A boy chosen cursed to live again.

He sat in the Quidditch pitch’s stands, hands clenched tightly in his lap. If it weren’t for his thick wool gloves, his fingernails would be digging into his palms- and hard at that.

It took no genius to realize the boy was angry-pissed even. His jaw clenched and unclenched, like he was on the verge of screaming.

Just mere moments ago, dots connected in his head. Chains of events linked together- woven about in his brain like a spider’s silk in a web.

A boy in Draco’s posse always seemed so familiar to him, but he could never place it. Leading to this… almost obsessive curiosity.

He’d never spoken to this guy; never friendly, nor angrily. He was just always… there. Lurking in the sidelines. Almost attached to Draco via the hip.

But… there was something about him.

The way he walked, the intensity behind his glare, the way his lip instinctually snarled up every time his dark eyes landed on Harry. He’d seen it all before, felt it all before. But he could never connect from where.

Until about 30 minutes ago that is.

Harry was in the library with Hermione and Ron, lazily lent on a bookcase while Mione searched for one specific textbook she oh so desperately had to have. Ron was simply there because the other two were, as always.

Draco and his posse on the other side of the library, seemingly working on… something. It was impossible to guess what it could be, Malfoy was full of tricks.

“Riddle. Be engaged. We need help,” Draco spat out, his icy blue eyes snapping at the taller man.

Harry’s eyes shoot open, his head snapping in the groups direction. Everything clicked. A sudden epiphany. He felt his skin go cold, hands instinctively clenching to fists.

He knew that surname.

Everything suddenly made so much sense. Why the professors sneered at the boy when he walked near them, why they watched him like a hawk any time he dare move even a toe. Why Dumbledore refused to look him in the eye.

(Y/N) was his son.

Hermione’s eyes peel to Harry, brows furrowed at the sudden tension, “Harry…?”

The boy doesn’t respond. Not that he doesn’t want to, he simply can’t. His mind was racing, eyes boring into the son of the man who killed hundred. Who killed his parents.

That obsessive curiosity? Obsessive anger, all in a matter of seconds.

The aforementioned boy’s brows knit together, head pulling up to lock eyes with Harry, as if he could feel the stare. He flinches back slightly at the intensity of Potter’s gaze.

Harry’s jaw clenches, and within seconds he peels off the bookcase, rushing out of the library without so much as a word.

Ron and Hermione are wildly confused- Ron shooting up to shout after Harry, before getting promptly shushed by Madam Pince.

Riddle’s eyes never once left Harry’s moving figure after their silent exchange, not until the boy was pulling the library doors closed behind him. His eyes held acknowledgement, and a glint of guilt.

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(Y/N)’s eyes are glued to the door Harry had rushed out of, and almost instinctively he moved to push off the table to stand.

“Merlin’s beard… Riddle,” Draco hisses out, his brows pulled taught.

(Y/N)’s hand clenches around the edge of the table, eyes lingering on the door. With a huff, the man relaxes back into his chair, his dull eyes flicking onto his ‘posse’. Posse in rather prevalent air quotes.

In truth, the young Riddle despised these boys. They were all… idiots. Crabbe and Goyle were incapable of thinking for themselves, Draco was so stuck up his own ass, Blaise was only focused on remaining nonchalant and mysterious, and Pansy was so boy crazy she might as-well be one herself. Even worse so, he was Draco’s cousin. Nothing he could do to escape that.

The boy grimaces, folding his arms over his chest. The only reason he hung around them was simply because of his reputation. One he didn’t ask for.

These… imbeciles were the only ones who dared look at him for more than a sixteenth of a second upon his name being read out during sorting. Perhaps it was cockiness, confidence, or downright stupidity. He didn’t care.

They were the only ‘friends’ he had, whether he liked them or not.

Draco continues yammering on about some plan he had, not that (Y/N) cared much. His eyes kept flicking to the door. Potter’s gaze replaying in his mind.

It was unlike anyone had ever looked at him before. Not with fear, with anger. True, unbridled rage.

Of course he knew what his father did to Potter. Who doesn’t?

(Y/N) had to talk to him.

He mumbles out something about using the bathroom, before rushing out of the library. Potter was long gone of course, but being someone’s mortal enemy means you know everything about them. For bullying reasons of course.

Two possible places he could be, Gryffindor commons, or the Quidditch pitch.

It’s after classes on a winter day, Gryffindor commons would be too crowded to brood. Quidditch pitch it is.

The boy high tails it to the pitch, barreling past anybody who dared be in the corridor at the same time as him. Sure, he may have plowed over a few first years, but they’ll get over it. (Y/N) has bigger issues.

His dress shoes clack on the stone with the weight of his steps, eyes unwavering ahead of him.

He doesn’t exactly know why he needs to talk to Potter, but he does. Maybe it was to justify himself, he wasn’t the one who killed the boys parents. He was just an… unfortunately parented person himself. (Y/N) couldn’t control his lineage.

In truth, (Y/N) is equally as disgusted by it as Potter. He doesn’t want to be marked as the son of Voldemort and only that. He’s a person. Not some monster forged in a lab.

He may be the son of two of the most vile, disgusting people in the magic world, but that didn’t mean he was anything like them. (Y/N) strived to be different. He had spent the entire train ride to Hogwarts his first year plotting on how to not get sorted into Slytherin. That plot obviously failed.

But it wasn’t him. (Y/N) knew deep down he was in the wrong house, that the Sorting Hat only placed him in Slytherin from his lineage.

(Y/N) shakes his head slightly, now isn’t the time to be reminiscing about his oh so horrible upbringing. He had bigger issues.

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Back to present time, Harry was seething. His body shaking both from the cold and simply the anger radiating off of him. How had he not noticed it before? The boy was a spitting image of the young Tom Riddle he had met in the Chamber.

The Chamber.

Harry’s eyes shoot open slightly, his lips slightly parted. Why wasn’t (Y/N) the one to open the Chamber? The professors all assumed he was the culprit, causing him to be almost locked up the entire year.

The soft crunch of snow under boots hits Harry’s ears, the boy whipping around with so much force his glasses almost flew off his face. Harry’s eyes narrow immediately, his jaw clenched tight.

(Y/N) Riddle.

He stood just at the foot of the stands, eyes fixated on Potter. Though, his gaze was lighter than normal. Not the pointed glare he always wore when at Draco’s side. It seemed… normal. Human.

Harry couldn’t help how instinctively his body moved, hand gracing over the hilt of his wand. (Y/N) notices this, causing him to pull his hands out of his pockets, holding them up in innocence.

Harry grimaces. Why in the bloody hell is he here. Less of a question- more of a demand to know. Riddle was the last person on earth Harry wanted to see at this moment.

(Y/N) seems to notice this, as he takes a slightly wary step back, hands still raised. His brows were pulled taught. He looked a bit… awkward. Almost as if he didn’t quite know what he was doing here.

No words were exchanged. Just very, very emotional glances.

Harry could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but he wasn’t sad. Not in the slightest bit. Angry tears. Years of unbridled rage and confusion that finally had a source easily accessible to lash out on. Even if that source was… undeserving of it.

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In truth, (Y/N) had nothing to do with the death of Harry’s parents. Nor did he wish he did. In-fact, the boy was only a baby.

He felt strangely guilty, an emotion rare for his bloodline.

Harry’s pointed glare was unwavering. If looks could kill, (Y/N) would’ve been six feet under about 10 minutes ago. Likely where Potter wishes the boy was.

(Y/N)’s jaw clenches, and he can feel his toes curling in his boots.

“I’m sorry.”

The words spill out before (Y/N) could think about it. His voice sharp but shaky- his nerves evident on his tone.

A gasp leaves Potter’s lips. The boy’s entire demeanor shifts. His eyes widen, shoulders relaxed, he sits up a bit straighter. Most importantly, his hand slowly begins to fall from his wand.

(Y/N)’s jaw shakes slightly- both from the cold and nerves. But, that doesn’t stop him from talking.

“I know- I know that sorry is just a word. That it can’t fix anything. But- but I wish it could.”

the boy rambles on, his eyes distantly staring in-front of him. He had no fucking idea what he was doing. What he was saying. It was all improvised.

He keeps rambling. Mainly filler words that don’t mean anything, stuttering over himself and cursing, and some awkward silence. Nothing of what (Y/N) says is of any importance- compared to this one, singular phrase.

“I hate him just as much as you do.”

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Everything in Harry’s world stills as those words ring out into his skull. He hadn’t even considered the fact that Voldemort’s own son would hate him.

Harry can feel himself mindlessly start to move. He rises from his feet, slowly making his way down the pitch.

(Y/N) was still rambling. Still spaced out. All of his words were muffled. Harry couldn’t hear anything but his own heartbeat and staggered breathing.

Harry’s boot hits the snow with a crunch, finally pulling (Y/N) from his dazed stupor. The boys head snaps to the side, eyes- now shot wide- locked on to Harry. The same Harry that’s supposed to be a few metres away sat on the pitch, not standing just to his side.

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(Y/N) can feel his heart drop upon realizing just how close Harry had gotten. Almost instinctively, Riddle throws his hands up in the air, backing up slowly.

Harry’s expression was unreadable. His eyes were dark, the only color on his face was the flush from the cold air. But, he didn’t seem hostile. There’s no sign of anger or violence. It’s best to be safe.

As (Y/N) takes a step back, Harry takes a step forward.

The tension still hangs thick in the air, though- it’s a bit different. It’s not as angry.

Harry’s eyes are sharp as he stares at (Y/N)’s face. His face was tense, lip occasionally twitching from nerves. His eyes wide in anticipation.

A slow, deep exhale leaves Harry’s body, a curl of steam leaving his nose.

For once since learning his lineage, Harry was looking at (Y/N) like himself. Not a monster.

Harry’s eyes soften. (Y/N) can feel his breath catch in his throat involuntarily.

Harry’s lips part with the slightest of pops, he exhales sharply again.

“I.. shouldn’t have assumed. That- that you were like.. him.”

Harry huffs out, his eyes momentarily flicking away from (Y/N)’s.

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A barking laugh rips its way through (Y/N)’s body, a sound so loud Harry physically flinches back a few centimeters.

Though, after the initial shock, Harry could feel something inside him shift.

All the previously pent up anger for this boy- a boy he’d never even thought to simply speak to- switched off by the melodic, delicate sound of laughter.

His eyes are slightly wide, lips just barely parted. Face flushed- not only by the nipping air.

Harry blinks harshly, shaking his head. As he looks up, (Y/N) is smiling down at him.

There it is again.

That -PANG- through his heart.

“I can’t blame you for assuming. Shitty parents lead to shitty kids, look at Malfoy.”

(Y/N)’s clear voice cuts through the fog filling Harry’s brain. Potter has to stifle a laugh, biting the inside of his cheek.

The laughter is soon turned to confusion. Riddle and Malfoy are friends… right?

The confusion is evident on Harry’s face, so much so that (Y/N) sighs in acknowledgment. He folds his arms over his chest, letting his head cock to the side a bit.

“He’s my cousin. In truth he’s extremely annoying and I’d genuinely rather make love to a dragon than willingly hang out with him.”

(Y/N) shrugs, speaking almost nonchalantly.

Harry bites the inside of his cheek so hard it starts bleeding. He winces, thinks about what (Y/N) said again, then immediately doubles over in laughter, crouching into the snow.

A proud smile washes over the taller boys face, but this is quickly replaced with minor concern. Small drops of blood falling from Harry’s mouth into the snow below.

(Y/N) falls to his knees infront of Harry, pushing the boys shoulder back, forcing Harry to sit up straight. A small stream of blood inched down Harry’s lip, making its way down his chin.

Without any thought, (Y/N) raises his thumb to swipe the blood off the boys chin, the tip of his finger just barely grazing Potter’s bottom lip.

Harry gasps softly, the noise almost inaudible. (Y/N) felt it against his thumb. Riddle’s eyes shoot up to Harry’s, and they’re immediately locked.

Time seems to slow down yet again. Almost nothing is moving, nothing is important. Nothing but them.

(Y/N) swallows hard, pulling his thumb away from Harry’s face slowly. Harry instinctively leans in, almost chasing Riddle’s hand.

They’re closer than they’ve ever been. They can feel their breath on one another.

It’s so, so wrong but it felt so, so right.

Harry’s eyes flick down to (Y/N)’s lips for exactly a millisecond.

That was all he needed.

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(Y/N) leans in almost all the way, Harry meeting him 3/4ths of the way. Their lips almost immediately lock, the remnants of blood coating (Y/N)’s.

The kiss doesn’t last long. Just long enough for (Y/N) to lean in a bit deeper. Harry almost immediately shoots back.

(Y/N)’s eyes are wide, almost scared. As are Harry’s. For two very different reasons.

Without so much as a word, Harry shoots up, turning on his heels and full sprinting out of the pitch.

(Y/N)’s heart drops, his hands falling limp into the snow below him. He can feel a tear begin to prick at his eye.

“Fuck.”

He cracks out, his voice shaky.

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just watched a guy fall to his knees in the quidditch pitch.

SORRY THAT IVE BEEN GONE SO LONG!! ill try to get more active in my writing again 🫶🫶