#tomarrymort microfic

“Tom!” exclaimed Slughorn, waddling his way over to him. Tom watched him sway and wobble with hidden contempt, though his smile remained perfectly pleasant. “Where have you been hiding all dinner, my boy?” Slughorn had been good to Tom, despite how obnoxious he could be. These monthly banquets he held had been invaluable – through the connections he’d made in the Slug Club, Tom had set up correspondence with the leading minds of their time, from Unspeakables to Potions Masters.  On a broader scale, the knowledge he was already gaining would surely be invaluable when he was ready to bring Lord Voldemort into the public eye, his insurmountable range of knowledge certain to give him an edge in his coup. On a more short-term scale, Tom needed a job for after graduation. Desperately. And though he hadn’t yet had success with securing one, surely one of the distinguished men who fawned over his academic prowess would be willing to look past his unexceptional bloodline. He just needed to keep pushing, keep networking – for such a well-educated crowd of renowned public figures, far too few of Slughorn’s connections seemed interested in taking a chance on a mudblood.  “I was meaning to introduce you to Mr. Evans here,” continued Slughorn, clumsily grabbing onto the arm’s of Tom’s robes and drunkenly pulling Tom along. “You two will get along great, I’m sure!” “Evans?” asked Tom, pursing his lips. Not a pureblood name. “How do you know him, if I may ask?” Slughorn chortled indulgently, sounding very pleased with himself. “His existence is a well-kept secret, my boy – if news of his talents got out, I’m sure the poor man would be mobbed! I only know, of course, because we’re quite close friends.” Tom nodded appropriately, his eyes wide. Slughorn’s ambiguity did not inspire confidence. As if aware of Tom’s doubt, Slughorn lowered his voice to a whisper. “You can’t tell a soul, but Mr. Evans is a True Seer. And he told me he sees you changing the world.” Tom straightened up with a smile. Now that was a worthwhile diversion. Slughorn left him by a casually-dressed man with a mess of wild, black hair. His eyes, a vivid shock of emerald green, slowly scanned Tom up and down, clear and calculating without the characteristic haziness of Seers. A slow smile spread across the man’s face, and Tom felt himself cringe back instinctively. There was something unnatural about the man in front of him, something inhuman, something that had his skin crawling. “Hello, Voldemort.” But how could Tom resist this opportunity?

Tom comes when he’s called.

@tomarrymortmicrofics ⋮ ⌗100825┆rose's microfics

He blushed, remembering how, even at the tender age of 12, he had had a huge crush on the teenage Dark Lord. He could pull those feelings forward and wash Voldemort with them. It wouldn’t be enough to redeem him, but maybe he could be just a tiny bit less murderous.

Harry knew that Tom liked to collect little trinkets. It was sweet, an endearing quirk of the otherwise serious boy. As they walked through the halls of Hogwarts, Tom’s eyes would catch on little things, baubles that Harry rarely noticed himself. Lost bracelets in the corners of hallways, sitting and collecting dust for what could have been hours or years in Hogwarts’ many endless corridors. Old books filled with another student’s idle notes, only rarely of any value. Stray flowers that had somehow made their way inside, blown in by the wind, petal flakes scattered across the well-travelled floors. Even small stones by the Black Lake, smoothed by the water, were worthy of observation and curation, inspected at all angles before being neatly tucked away into Tom’s pockets, to be secreted away to wherever he kept his little ornaments. On occasion, Harry would present Tom with trinkets he had found, his own way of participating in his odd ritual. He worried that Tom wouldn’t always like his gifts, but Tom had never rejected him – he took Harry’s tributes with the same careful hand he took to his own finds, scrutinizing them before carefully hiding them away, safe and secure somewhere Harry would never see them again. Harry’s gifts may not have had the same elegance of some of Tom’s finds – a defunct old Quaffle found on under the Quidditch stands, a colorful quill left behind on a library table, and on one occasion, a shard of a broken stained-glass window – but he thought they all had a certain charm that Tom would appreciate. No harm in at least giving them to Tom, anyway. Harry did wonder where all of Tom’s finds went. But perhaps he’d never know, and he was content with that. *** Tom was a collector. He loved beautiful things, even if his idea of beauty wasn’t always conventional. And Hogwarts had such an abundance of discarded treasures, just waiting for Tom to find them and honor them, to give them the care and attention they deserved.  But of all the wondrous things he’d found at Hogwarts, Harry was by far the most valuable. He would collect Harry someday – it would be far too risky to let him wander the world freely, where he could meet the wrong people and make the wrong decisions and fall down the wrong paths.  Until then, he collected as much as he could from Harry. The parchment he’d scribbled on while spacing out during classes, the candy wrappers he’d tossed into the trash, the quill he’d chewed on in class, the hair left behind on his brush. The sweaty undershirts he discarded so carelessly after Quidditch practice. The cup of pumpkin juice that his lips had been pressed against at lunchtime. The towel he used after his showers. Harry knew that Tom liked to collect little trinkets, after all. He wouldn’t mind. And as his collection grew greater, Tom waited patiently for the day he could finally add Harry himself to his hoard.

Hermione dropped the concealer with a gasp of real shock. “Harry James Potter! What happened to your neck?” “I don’t want to talk about it,” croaked Harry in reply, mentally cursing the sound of his hoarse voice. He shouldn’t have screamed so much last night, but he hadn’t been able to help the noises that had escaped him. Hesitantly, Hermione sank to sit beside him, scooping her makeup back up. “Tom really maimed you last night, didn’t he? I can help you cover this up, but really, this is too far. Don’t let him get carried away like this, Harry, not when you’re the one who has to bear the consequences.” Harry nodded miserably. “He was just so eager. I couldn’t say no, not when he was having so much fun.” Sympathetic, Hermione rubbed his shoulder. “Well, I can’t say I like seeing you in such a sorry state, but I’m happy for you. I know the two of you have been dancing around your feelings for each other for far too long – you deserve to finally be on the same page about how much you love each other. Just see if he can be less aggressive with his hickeys in the future, perhaps?” “Hickeys?” asked Harry, blinking up at Hermione. “Yes, hickeys,” responded Hermione slowly. “The bite marks on your neck?” “Oh, those aren’t hickeys,” responded Harry, sounding genuinely appalled. “He was drinking my blood for a ritual he’s trying out. I’m not into him like that, Hermione, honestly. We’re just friends. Completely platonic. And I wasn’t turned on at all by him sucking on my neck, either. Didn’t even blush. You’re being crazy, really.” Hermione sighed audibly as Harry babbled on, bracing herself for another long, tortuous month of enduring Harry and Tom’s mutual denial. Boys will be boys.

He watches Harry Potter every moment that he can.  Compulsively. Obsessively. Religiously.  He knows it’s passed the point of an unusual fixation into a full addiction. After all, he has an army to lead and a war to fight, and there wouldn’t be enough hours in the day for all the work on his plate even without the time-sucking appeal of watching Harry Potter. It’s just too easy for him — the boy’s shields are near-nonexistent, as if he’d never been taught Occlumency before, and Voldemort can slip painlessly into his mind with only a passing thought.  Voldemort knows that Harry would never be willing to speak to him civilly – he’s hurt the boy far too much for Harry to ever move on from the harms he’s suffered. It’s part of what Voldemort loves about Harry, at the end of the day. He is vindictive, like Voldemort. He clings onto resentment with white-knuckled ferocity, and when threatened, he snaps back with teeth. No, they can never meet as equals without being immediately interrupted by blood and curses and violence. But Voldemort would give anything to touch him, to be granted more than just a view through Harry’s eyes or the secondhand sound of his voice. To brush up against him in passing, with all the thoughtless nonchalance of a random passerby. To feel the warmth of his skin against his own, no matter how briefly. Once he can feel Harry, just once, surely his fascination will fade. He just needs to meet him in person. Just one time.

Harry turned away from Voldemort, the hand covering his mouth inadequate in masking his sobs. His whole body shook, wracked with convulsions, as if unable to prevent his grief from seizing physical control over him. “How could you?” Voldemort had fucked up. He’d fucked up bad. He’d only been trying to be a thoughtful, caring husband – how would he know that Harry was attached to the rosebushes he’d destroyed when making room for a Quidditch field? “I’ll replant new roses,” tried Voldemort, cringing back at the responding cry of anguish from Harry. “Or not! I’ll get you pressings of the old roses! I’ll buy a whole new plot of land, just for you, and you can plant all the flowers you could dream of. Wouldn’t that be nice, dear?” “It won’t be the same!” wailed Harry, still covering his face with his hands. “Those roses are dead now because of you!” Voldemort gritted his teeth, wracking his brain for any possible solution. Could he get away with an Obliviation? Or a sneaky bit of Legilimency memory emplantment? No, it would be too risky – if Harry caught on, he’d subject Voldemort to the dreaded silent treatment, which he had once maintained for a full month. The stakes were unacceptably high. Desperate, Voldemort got onto his knees, bowing his head as if back at the church near Wool’s, feeling a strange kinship with the Biblical saints who prayed for mercy from their God. “From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry,” said Voldemort, voice completely earnest. “I didn’t mean to cause you any harm. Please, help me make this up to you.” Harry was silent in front of him.  And after a pause, as Voldemort tentatively raised his head, he came face-to-face with the poorly-hidden merriment dancing in Harry’s eyes and the gleeful smile tucked behind one sly hand. “You absolutely incorrigible boy.” Harry dissolved into peals of shrieking laughter, radiant in his joy.   And though Voldemort may not have found his little prank remotely amusing, the sound was music to his ears, and he couldn’t stop the disgustingly fond smile that spread across his face. All was well.