#harrymort microfic

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 335 words

“Sit still, Darling,” Voldemort chided softly before once more checking if he got the play of light and shadow right. Harry sighed, throwing himself back over the armchair he was supposed to sit regally in, his arm hiding his eyes from view.

“This is booooring, Voldemort! Boring! The absolute worst!” he exclaimed theatrically. Voldemort refrained from rolling his eyes – doing so would be unbecoming – but it was a close thing. They’d had this kind of argument five times in the last hour alone. At least.

“Hatchling,” came Nagini’s low hiss from where she was draped over the backrest of Harry’s chair, “Did you forget your promise? Nagini will show you the best sun spot if you do as Voldemort says.” “No, I didn’t forget,” came Harry’s mumbled reply. How he managed to mumble while speaking parsel was beyond Voldemort, but he also hadn’t found the will to uncover this particular mystery, yet, and was therefore perfectly happy to ignore it.

“Not mutch longer, my love,” Voldemort soothed his little horcrux, “I’m almost done. Now sit properly.” Thankfully, he did, although with mutch ado and many grumbled protests – all of them ignored by Voldemort, who simply waited until Harry sat as he had before so he could add the last finishing touches.

“There,” he set the brush aside, “All done.” A satisfied smile curved his mouth as Voldemort looked proudly at his painting of Harry, adorned with Voldemort’s remaining horcruxes. The diadem on his head. The ring on his finger. The locket around his neck. The cup in his hand. And of course Nagini, draped over the chair.

Sadly, they hadn’t managed to retrieve his diary from Dumbledore’s office, yet, but one day soon they would. Voldemort doubted Dumbledore would destroy it further, so long the man still thought he could learn something from it.

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 281 words

Harry wanted to groan. He didn’t, though, since the sound would draw unwanted attention, but nobody could stop him from rolling his eyes. Voldemort, sitting to Harry’s left, side-eyed him, probably knowing exactly what went through his head. It wasn’t like it was Harry’s fault, anyway! It was their fault for babbling and babbling without an end in sight.

Voldemort, Merlin bless him, took pity on Harry. Or perhaps he was just was bored. Whatever it was, he raised a hand, silencing the Death Eater with a mere gesture. “You have five sentences to finish your report, Alecto. Each more will add to the number my Harry here will hold you under the cruciatus.”

At this, Harry did groan, successfully ignoring his Lord’s chiding gaze. He hated it when Voldemort did that. Use him to punish his Death Eaters, that was. Then again, Harry loved showing them how much more he was – to their Lord and in general. Harry bowed his head in submission, “As you wish, my Lord.” Then he regarded Alecto with cold eyes. “I’m bored out of my mind. So, for your sake, Alecto, I suggest you stop after the fifth sentence.”

Unbeknownst to Harry, a gleaming, manic smile accentuated his words, sending a shudder of dread down the Death Eaters’ spines. They adored and feared their Lord in equal measure, but Harry, their Lord’s prized attack grim? Him they loathed. The fact they couldn’t always tell who of the two actually held the leash only made them hate and fear Harry more.

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 643 words

Voldemort stood at the balustrade looking over the ballroom full of people, letting his gaze wander over the guests attending this banquet. More precisely, this wake. HIS wake.

He wondered if he should be angry, or annoyed, perhaps, at the fact that not a single soul in attendance recognized him. His appearance must’ve already been more warped than he’d realized by the time he had initiated this – now the oldest, longest serving – batch of Death Eaters.

Of course, Voldemort wore the appearance of an – older – Tom Marvolo Riddle now. (Since the ritual for that, he’d tried and failed repeatedly to stay calm every time he looked into a mirror and saw the face of his bastard of a father, but it was also Voldemort’s face and although he reminded himself of that just as often, it didn’t change the fact he maybe hated himself even more than he ever hated his father) But that was no excuse for them!

Once again Voldemort realized what a bunch of useless twats the whole lot of them where and he suddenly missed his Knight something fiercely. Abraxas Malfoy and Theophilus Nott would have recognized him, if not by face, then by magic. Corvus Lestrange would have looked right past any glamour and Dahlia Rosier would have singled him out as a novelty within a minute of entering the room, always on top of the best gossip as she’d been – once upon a time.

Yes, Voldemort missed them more than he ever thought possible. His honourable Knights of Walpurgis. Their descendants, however? Useless. Absolutely useless. Untalented, undignified and oblivious on top. Voldemort felt someone sidling up to him, but he paid them no mind, occupied insulting his Death Eaters in silence.

At least, not until he heard them ask, “What does it feel like? Being invisible to those who’ve sworn fealty to you, I mean.” Voldemort looked over at the only person who’d recognized him, the only one who possibly could ever understand him, and sighed. He wasn’t even surprised, not really.

“Potter,” he acknowledged quietly, “What are you doing here? You cannot tell me Dumbledore approves of you attending the Dark Lord’s funeral banquet.” Potter snorted, more derisive than amused, “No, he definitely wouldn’t. But he also doesn’t control me. He probably thinks he does, though, so let’s keep this a secret, yes?” Potter winked at him and Voldemort decided then and there that he wouldn’t start to question just how the fuck Potter had managed to evade his Death Eaters. Or how he’d slipped through the wards. Neither were Voldemort’s problems any more.

Voldemort looked at the boy – no, man, now, Potter was a man of twenty-one years now – and raised an eyebrow. “You realize I’ve retired and that’s why this farce,” Voldemort gestured vaguely at the guests below them, “is currently commencing?” He sniffed, “Besides, I’m not a snitch.” “I’m aware,” Potter chuckled, before going sombre again, “I’m just paying my respects to a great former enemy of mine.” Voldemort nearly balked at Potter’s tone and words, but managed to contain himself.

The man looked forlorn across the room, leaning on the balustrade for a moment, before he turned back to Voldemort, grinning. “I’ve been thinking of travelling. Heard you were an excellent source on where to go.” “You want me to be your travel guide? Are you out of your mind, Potter?” Voldemort couldn’t help but be bewildered at his young ex-nemesis attitude.

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 518 words

“Potter!” came an angry shout from across the battlefield. Distractions during battle were usually deadly, but something in that voice made Harry look. Not far from him stood Voldemort in all his snake-like glory (and if Harry found him beautiful and ethereal and dreamed of him – well that was his business and his alone) and for all the anger in his voice, he didn’t actually look angry at Harry.

Before Harry had the wit to retort anything (whatever he would retort to a simply shout of his name, anyway), Voldemort continued, “Your duelling form is atrocious! Who in Salazar’s name taught you such a pose?!”

Harry couldn’t help but stare and straightened himself. “What?” he exclaimed, giving a voice to his confusion and exasperation. Leave it to Voldemort to find another thing to criticise his nemesis for.

Within the blink of an eye, Voldemort stood before him, touching him and rearranging Harry into what Harry assumed was the ‘correct’ version of whatever ‘pose’ he’d just taken on instinctually previously. The lack of pain despite the touch of skin on skin, the care with which Voldemort corrected his stance – it shocked Harry for long enough to let himself be softly manhandled without protest.

Once Voldemort seemed finished, Harry couldn’t help but murmur, “Did you seriously just correct my dueling stance in the midst of battle? Why?” Voldemort looked down on him and only then did Harry realize how close they stood. So close, in fact, he could see tiny, shiny scales littering parts of Voldemort’s face.

‘Beautiful,’ he thought, before remembering that Voldemort could read his mind. Harry blushed and averted his eyes and therefore missed the intrigued look Voldemort regarded him with.

He didn’t miss how Voldemort leaned down, though, or the breath that suddenly ghosted across his ear in a hiss, “You’ll find, my Chosen One, that Lord Voldemort takes care of what is His. Even if that is His chosen enemy. Until then, Harry.”

To Harry’s relief, nobody seemed to have witnessed this or their following encounters, but they still questioned it when he wanted to learn proper duelling techniques after a couple battles that had all ended with Voldemort teaching him something. They had questioned him, as if he didn’t need the training, didn’t need to get better, as if they didn’t want him to survive his fight against Voldemort…!

The next time Harry and Voldemort met, the man looked proud when Harry displayed what he had taught him during their battles. As for Harry? Well, he had some new details to fuel his dreams with in the meantime and he would never, ever, tell anyone how his heart soared at the proud looks and praise he’s gotten from Voldemort. Who was supposed to be his enemy. Who was the only one who actually taught Harry anything of substance.

Who send him a letter with the offer of an apprenticeship with Voldemort himself. Apart from the offer, Voldemort had only written one single line: “I always wanted to be a teacher. Let me teach you, my Chosen One.”

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 999 words

Voldemort lowered his head to inspect the little human the castle had sent to him. He’d honestly forgotten about the deal he’d made years ago. The deal that the castle of Hogwarts had to send him a sacrifice, have his sigil on their banner and all in all stay afraid that he might come down from the mountain if they annoyed him again.

He had thought the sacrifice part had been done and over with when two of their people – a male and a female, mates probably, now that he thought about it – had thrown themselves into his fire the last time he went to the castle. The fact he was looking at a young male of theirs made it apparent that they thought differently about this matter.

Voldemort wondered for a moment what in time’s name he should do with a human, of all things. He was a dragon. The only things he cared about were gold and gems and he had his share of both for the next three decades or so.

A human would make a mess of his horde, would need food and when it eventually died, it would start to smell. He could always eat it, of course, but he knew from experience that they had lots of bones that tended to get stuck between his sharp teeth. No, it was better if the human ran back to where it came from. Why hadn’t it run already?

Voldemort nudged the human, but as stated, he was a dragon and his nudge sent the poor thing on its behind. “Ouch! Bloody beassst!” it shouted. Surprised, Voldemort crouched down, his chin nearly touching the earth. “You ssspeak,” Voldemort spoke aloud for the first time in decades.

“Of courssse I ssspeak, you ssstupid dragon!” the human called out, its mannerisms strangely familiar to Voldemort. It reminded him of himself, if he was honest. A dragon’s manners on a human were a strange sight indeed. It amused and intrigued him, so he would let the insult slide – for now.

He huffed a puff of smoke, a laugh or as much of one as a dragon could make, then he breathed fire in the direction he thought he remembered wood. As expected, his memory was excellent; the wood caught fire. He was a dragon, so he didn’t need any artificial light, but the human’s sight would not be as good as his.

His human gave a shout, but calmed when no flames engulfed it. And then it stared at Voldemort in wondrous amazement. Voldemort puffed out his chest. There was no dragon more mighty; his scales were the shiniest, his tail the longest and his wings the strongest. “You’re beautiful,” his human whispered, but Voldemort’s hearing was as superior as the rest of him, so he heard.

Lowering his head once more, he turned to the side so he could also take a good look at his human. Only once his eye was on the level of his human’s head did Voldemort see! They were tiny compared to his own, yes, but he was a dragon and his human was just that, but its eyes! His human’s eyes shone as bright as the most beautiful emerald Voldemort had ever seen.

Oh, they would be a nice trinket for his hoard! And his human spoke! Perhaps he could make accommodations for it. It did come as a sacrifice and Voldemort was a gracious dragon – on occasion. But no, trinket sounded wrong, even to himself. Then an idea came to him.

“I’ve decided, human,” Voldemort announced, “From now on, you will be mine. You will not take from my hoard, but you can make your own. I will keep you and I will teach you what it meansss to be a dragon.” Voldemort nodded to himself, “Yesss, you will be my hatchling. I will keep you sssafe and feed you and in return you will keep me company. Do you accept?”

Voldemort phrased it as a question and he meant it. The fire in those beautiful eyes would stop burning if he forced his human, he was sure of it. For some reason, his human looked at him with wide, shiny, yet misty eyes and some clear liquid ran down it’s cheeks. “You mean it? You want me? You won’t eat me?” “I have no ussse for wordsss I don’t mean, my hatchling,” Voldemort informed it, not understanding what the issue was. His offer was very generous, if he must say so.

Voldemort did not expect his human to throw itself at his leg, wrapping its arms around it and simply holding on to it. It couldn’t reach around it, of course, not with how mighty Voldemort was. He was just about to ask what the matter was, when his human spoke in a wobbly voice against Voldemort’s leg, “Thank you! I accept your offer!”

Pleased, Voldemort puffed some more smoke and licked over his human. It would need to smell like him, otherwise it might be easy pray for his enemies. Voldemort would teach it and change that, of course, but until then he had to make sure his hatchling was safe. “Hey,” his hatchling laughed, “that ticklesss!” It wiped over its face, but that was okay. Voldemort’s scent would cling to it, he knew.

He swiped his hatchling closer, ignoring the yelp it made, and settled in. “Tell me about yourssself, hatchling,” he requested, wanting to know everything there was about his new hatchling. He’d never had a hatchling before, after all. It leaned against his leg and pointed at him, “Well, firssst of all, my name isss not hatchling!” it exclaimed, “My name isss Harry! What’sss yours?”

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 844 words

Harry scouted the market in search of a merchant selling healing salve. Voldemort may insist that he was a mighty dragon who didn’t need any help in grooming himself (correct) and therefore didn’t need any ‘stuff’ like salve to keep the leathery skin of his wings smooth (incorrect), but Harry had happily taken to help maintain his dragon’s appearance.

(Voldemort had actually said ‘stuff’ in such a haughty and disgusted tone, Harry had rolled around on the floor laughing, unable to breath properly and crying tears while doing so – Voldemort had been immensely salty after that)

They both knew how much Voldemort appreciated his efforts, though. He could deny it all he wanted, but the fact he’d flown out and gotten them an absurdly large mirror so he could admire his mightiness was a dead giveaway of his feelings on the matter. Harry could proudly say that Voldemort’s scales had never been shinier and his skin never smoother.

It soothed something inside Harry to take care of his dragon and he liked to listen to him tell stories about times long gone while he did so. That Voldemort had remembered to bring back all the other things Harry had requested solidified the impression that the dragon liked him as well and not just because he spoke.

However, there were things a dragon could not get its claws on. Namely, salve. And so, Harry found himself within Hogwarts’ city walls, brokering a deal with a local merchant to receive recurring deliveries in exchange for the gold Voldemort had him take from his hoard.

Harry had done the same thing already for deliveries of food, wood and other necessities. This was the last on his list and he rejoiced when the merchant finally agreed. It was no easy feat to have them bring their goods to the edge of the mountain, but as always, having a large sack of gold at hand made many a thing easier.

Harry just waited for the day someone tried to rob him. They would regret it dearly, for you see… Since the day Harry was send (forced) down the mouth into Voldemort’s hoard he has never travelled alone again. He waited for the merchant to get a barrel of salve from the back (magical bags from his dragon’s hoard where a blessing beyond belief!), when a – sadly – very familiar ‘hm-hm’ reached his ears.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Harry turned and looked at one Dolores Umbridge, steward of the inner ring and reason he was sent to Voldemort in the first place. “What are you doing here, eh, boy?” Umbridge yelled, because she never could simply ask, her nose in the air and her pink dress as eye searing as always, “What if the dragon is displeased because you ran away? You’ll be the dead of us all!”

Voldemort nosed his way out from underneath Harry’s hood, hissing sleepily, “Who isss thisss unpleasssant woman?” Harry ignored her enraged hollering in favor of answering, “Thisss isss Doloresss Umbridge, ssstewart of the inner ring of Hogwartsss and the reassson I wasss sssent to you. She’sss alssso a pain in the assss.” To Umbrigde, he said, “You didn’t even know the dragon’s name, so don’t pretend to know what he would want!”

Harry cursed his luck. Of course he would meet that ghastly woman the one time he came to town. No sooner had Harry’s hood fallen away, revealing the small form Voldemort was capable of taking on, did Umbridge’s voice climb higher, her screeches becoming more panicked. “Gah! A lizard! What did you bring a lizard here for, boy?! Wanted to harm some upstanding citizen, huh? Oh, just you wait, you’ll get what’s coming for you! Running away from your duty! Guards! Guards!”

Harry could tell the exact moment Voldemort had enough. One second the – truthfully lizard sized – body of Voldemort rested on his shoulders, the next he heard a faint swish and then screams echoing through the street. Voldemort’s huge head hovered next to Harry’s and, before he could say anything, a white hot breath of pure fire engulfed the woman in front of them. And because Voldemort was a drama queen and he not so secretly thrived on chaos, he stood back on his hind legs and let out an ear-splitting roar before making himself small again.

Harry shook his head, “Good job, Voldemort, really. Now everyone will be afraid and they won’t sssell usss ssshit.” Voldemort nudged his nose against Harry’s cheek. “Ah, but they will alssso know not to messs with you or yell at usss with a voice ssso ssshrill.” He added as an afterthought, “And ssshe insssulted me. I am no lizard.”

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 100 words

Voldemort breathed deeply. The ritual incense burned quietly, steadily filling the chamber with a misty haze.

These were the only times he could see him again – this was the only way he knew how to return to a time long since gone. And like every time before, he appeared before Voldemort.

A grin on his face, eyes sparkling with life and laughter and peace. So unlike they ever had while he was still alive. His Harry.

A single tear ran down Voldemort’s face as he tried to reach out. But he only distorted the mirage.

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 176 words

For year upon year Voldemort watched. He knew Dumbledore thought he’d fled to Albania or some other country on the continent, but he was wrong. Voldemort hadn’t left his homeland, instead he had lingered and watched as the old man placed his downfall on a muggle doorstep in the early morning hours of November.

He had watched as his nemesis was forced to weed the garden at much too young an age. Had watched as he was chased by his cousin, as he apparated onto the school’s rooftop in a bout of accidental magic. He had watched as his family scorned him and the wizarding world’s savior grew more and more jaded.

And as he watched the child grow up so much like Voldemort himself, he had wondered. Wondered, if Harry Potter would emerge a pearl from the shithole the old goat had placed him as if it were an oyster or if he would drown.