tomarrymort microfics

In another life, Tom might have heard of Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice, and sworn he’d never be so oblivious or so tragically uncharismatic in the face of opportunity.

Harry’s life—Merlin, where did one even begin?

Starting with the very people he called family. It was a plethora. Sirius Black, professional menace and known (wrongfully convicted) fugitive turned overly permissive guardian. Remus Lupin, charming in a worn cardigan way, but very much a werewolf. And then the extended Hogwarts mess. The Weasleys causing their ruckus in every hallway, Granger subjecting him to essay writing contests in every class, all hundred of the feral little Quidditch third years who’d probably die for Harry Bloody Potter.

Not to mention, Harry had an extraordinary talent for finding trouble, as if trouble was a nineteen-centimeter sphere with little golden wings.

Tom could pile all of Harry’s metaphorical baggage into the luggage car of the Hogwarts Express, and Dumbledore would materialize out of thin air just to give him the most suspicious look known to wizardkind. That’s how much baggage we’re talking about.

And if Tom courted him? Married him?

He’d be inheriting everything. Sunday dinners with a thousand Gryffindors and no wine. A future of Remus showing up on full moons with herbal tea and enough guilt to power the moon itself. Sirius breaking into their flat to “crash for a bit.” But Tom was nothing if not resourceful, and after days, which bled to months of mulling it over, he dragged Harry to the courtyard claiming I know a spot.

“I know this is… abrupt, but I’ve thought it through. I’m offering you something stable. I know you come with a lot, and I mean that neutrally, but I’m prepared to take it on.”

Harry blinked. “Excuse me?”

Tom had calculated the costs. Emotional, financial, social—Harry’s life, while with its pros, is also terribly inconvenient, tragic, and still, he wanted in. He said as much before going on, “Don’t you see? You’re everything I avoid on principle. And yet, here we are.”

“Right, here we are.” Harry blinked slowly. “And I suppose I should be flattered that you’ve made an exception to your principles. But if I’m everything you avoid, perhaps you should keep avoiding me.”

Oof.

Yeah.

Eat your heart out, Mr. Darcy.

He supposed he kind of got it now.

There is a fawn in the woods, walking on unwieldy legs. 

It will only survive for a few hours without a mother. It will be, perhaps, only a handful of minutes until it stumbles across a predator. One that is more dangerous than he, that is. They can all smell its fear, the predators.

But, for now, it is alive. He watches it breathe under fur freckled with white, staring at him with dark, beseeching eyes.

The woods are lovely, shadowed corners under bright sun, and the depth of green that can only be aided by rainfall in spring.

It is a familiar story for Tom, so he approaches the animal with careful, slow movements, his hand outstretched. 

Harry whispers something urgently behind him, but he doesn’t hear. The flash of magic accompanying a Patronus does redirect his attention, briefly. He sees a stag of light, and Harry mouths "wolves."

Ah. Other predators.

Potter storms off, pushing past Voldemort with a childish huff and stalking out the front door. Something, perhaps whatever enchantment has ensnared him, compels Voldemort to follow after him.

Out in the garden, Potter stumbles. He falls forward, barely managing to land in an awkward crouch to avoid injury. He sits back on his heels, looks up at the clear blue sky, and lets out an animalistic cry.

When Voldemort looks down upon him, he sees that Potter is weeping.

“You are not Harry Potter,” Voldemort proclaims.

Potter looks up at Voldemort, brows furrowed. He laughs, a desperate little sound. “What are you on about now?”

“Harry Potter would never cower and weep as you do. He faced Lord Voldemort fiercely and courageously, as a worthy adversary ought to do.”

Potter snorts, wiping at his cheeks. “I'm not cowering, Vee. I woke up this morning to my husband attempting to kill me because he somehow has lost the last fifteen years of his memories. I'm fucking sad.”

Voldemort tilts his head, considering. Potter sighs and rises to his feet, brushing off his pajama trousers as he does so. For reasons unknown, Voldemort finds it difficult to look at him, so he stares out into the garden, taking in the variety of flora, the trimmed hedges that form a menagerie, and the large pond filled with glimmering koi fish.

“When I was a child, I dreamed of having a space just like this, all of my own,” Voldemort says quietly.

“What have you done now?” Pansy demands, glaring at Harry fiercely.

Harry blinks in confusion at his secretary, pausing in the process of hanging up his cloak. “I haven’t been at the office long enough to mess anything up too terribly, I'm pretty sure.”

Pansy doesn't return his smile. In fact, her frown deepens. “I'm not talking about work,” she says. At Harry’s look of confusion she sighs. “Just come with me.”

As they walk, Pansy rants. “Bloody owls all morning. Squawking and shitting all over the place. I cannot work in these conditions, Harry. You need to do something about this or I’ll quit. I swear I will.”

There are two owls in Harry’s office when he enters, both pecking at his file cabinets in search of treats. On his desk is a veritable mountain of envelopes. Harry picks one up and immediately rolls his eyes when he sees the wax seal: a snake in the shape on an S. It's from Tom. All of the letters are from Tom. There has to be at least fifty.

Prompt: Answer | @tomarrymortmicrofics

It's a microfic if it has a dialogue, right? Right?

Sound on! Transcript under the cut (it has subtitles tho). I rarely animate, so I hope it's decent

The iron door groaned open. Tom Riddle stepped into the dim cell, his crisp black robes trailing behind him in the raging white storm. The cell immediately returned to darkness as the door closed behind him, leaving only an illuminated circle where the round window’s light fell.

Grindelwald didn't rise to greet him.

“I wondered how long it would take,” he said.

He didn't look up until the young man stepped into the center of the room, the light from the small window crossing his face.

“I had no questions worth asking,” Riddle said. Grindelwald wondered if that was true, or if the boy had been circling Europe all along, waiting for a reason to step through Nurmengard’s gates.

“But you seek answers now?”

“Only one.”

Ah.

“Tell me, Grindelwald, how does a man endure knowing he will never kill the only opponent who could have made his victory complete?”

He watched Riddle carefully, saw the faint twitch of interest, and chuckled as he felt a cool, deliberate pressure prying into his mind.

“Albus never used Legilimency on me,” Grindelwald added. “He didn’t need to.”

The younger man said nothing, but the thought was there as Riddle withdrew, neither do I.

“You think he won because he was soft,” Grindelwald murmured. “You’d be wrong. He won because he saw the shape of the end long before I did. Even when we were boys, in his house of denial.”

A flicker of irritation crossed the young man’s face.

Grindelwald tilted his head. “The Potter boy. He’s the shape of your end, isn’t he?”

Riddle’s gaze sharpened, but he did not answer at once. His fingers brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve with slow precision, as if dismissing the thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“He’s not ready.”

“Neither was I.” Grindelwald’s gaze drifted.

History is cruel, he thought. The way it looped. One dies the right way, another loves the wrong way.

“You’re here,” he said, “to see if I regret it, or if you should.”

Riddle said nothing. He turned to leave, cloak sweeping against the stone. The iron door opened and the same white storm seeped in once again, curling through the dark like it knew the way.

Grindelwald leaned back into shadow.

“Let me know,” he called after him, “if he hesitates.”

The door shut.

Alone again, Grindelwald almost laughed.

In the end, Albus hadn’t hesitated, he remembered.

When the time comes, Potter wouldn’t either.

After growing up with relatives who did not acknowledge Harry’s birthday, never mind giving him actual gifts, Harry always does his best to appreciate any presents he receives, even if they aren't to his personal taste.

This, however, cannot go without being remarked upon.

Harry looks up hesitantly at Voldemort, who is staring at him inquisitively.

“Are you displeased?” Voldemort asks.

There's no mockery in his tone, no mirth dancing in his eyes. He seems genuinely confused, which makes all of this worse.

“Vee,” Harry sighs, scrubbing at his face. “It's a severed head.”

Voldemort tilts his head.

“Most people would rather not receive a severed head as a birthday gift,” Harry informs him gently.

“It is not just any severed head,” Voldemort argues. “It is the severed head of one of your enemies. Dolores Umbridge tormented you and tortured you with a blood quill. I believed proof of her demise would please you.”

Harry is tempted to point out that Voldemort has also tortured him, not to mention all the attempted murders. However, he knows better than to bring up their tumultuous past. It never leads anywhere productive.

“I would have been happy with something simple,” Harry says. “Like tickets to the Magpie match.”

“Check under the bow,” Voldemort tells him, looking smug.

Harry grimaces when he looks back down at Umbridge’s head, taking in her swollen features and ghoulish pallor. A giant pink bow sits atop her head, which Harry lifts to find VIP passes to the next Quidditch World Cup. Harry smiles fondly despite himself.

“Thanks, love,” he says.

Gift

"I don't want this," Harry said, and Tom watched the brief flash of unease in his expression. He felt the spike in Harry's heart rate, thrumming in quickened stuttered beats, a metronome awry under Tom's fingers.

For a moment, he allowed it to stand, but only for a moment.

"Liar, he said then, gathering Harry closer.

He caught the break of it, Harry's expression warring with itself, the twitch of his lips upward before he pressed them together in a last bid to control his expression. He then pressed his body closer still to Tom, hands curling around his back, threading under his shirt.

"Sorry," Harry said, in between the peels of laughter that broke through, huffed out against his neck. The sound drew something soft up in Tom, something he was quite sure at one time that he'd ever be able to feel again.