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- s a h r a -

[datesthefruit]

severus snape being named after severus of antioch

severus snape abusing religous fasting to support his disordered eating

severus snape going to hogwarts with rosary, which the marauders break

severus snape refusing to do confession. because admitting fault is accepting that it's entirely his fault.

severus snape becoming a deadbeat catholic as he focuses more on worshipping the dark lord

- only to turn back to God as he hears of the potter's assassination

[belovedluci]

Actually like this ayo

[thatgirlcomet]

yes girl keep reading that fanfic while your exam is coming up

[belovedluci]

How dare you expose me like this

[emeriesreverie]

Sorry to bother you but I was wondering if you were ever going to do that bridgerton au for Sirius? I’m really looking forward to it

Hello lovely thanks for asking! For everyone who voted months ago for a Bridgerton AU Sirius… I am so sorry this took me this long. I kept starting and stopping this idea, but this time I finally sat myself down and made myself start it properly. So here it is the start of these drabbles! I really hope you enjoy ♡ Sirius Black x Fem!Reader who leaves the debutant ball early

AN: Regency AU / Bridgerton AU. Talks of embarrassment and rumors.

WC: 1,356 ♡

Music swelled through the ballroom, spilling out through the grand estate as if even the thick wooden doors could not contain it. Laughter followed in its wake, bright and cheerful, exactly what one would expect from the first ball of the season, filled with wide eyed debutants dancing and chittering away.

Fluttering, feathered fans shielded blushing faces as men sauntered up to the newly presented ladies. Some lingering in easy conversation, others already bowing to request the next dance.

It was all very… picturesque.

And yet, you couldn’t help but want to leave.

Surely tales of your debut had already reached the ears of potential suitors.

They always did.

Names traveled faster than people often carried along in whispers and speculation long before any proper introduction could be made.

Which only made the reality all the more unbearable.

Why would you willingly embarrass yourself, standing at the edge of the room, waiting— hoping —that someone might take pity on you enough to ask for a dance?

You may be clumsy, but you were not delusional.

Your heels clicked softly against the polished floor as you wordlessly excused yourself from idle chatter, offering practiced smiles that did not quite reach your eyes.

It was only once you slipped past the towering doors and into the cool evening air that you could really think. The chill breeze brushed against your skin, a welcome contrast to the stifling warmth of the ball, and for the first time that night, you felt as though you could breathe.

With a sigh you look back at the opened doors. You would rather have the ton gossip about your disappearance than endure the far more humiliating truth… that no one had approached you at all, your dance card left untouched and painfully empty.

The maze of the dimly lit garden provided a much needed distraction.

Your fingers brushed against the hedges as you wandered deeper down the winding paths. Lanterns appeared occasionally, their flames flickered behind stained glass panes and casting beautiful flickering paintings across the gravel pathway.

The distant music faded with every turn until it became little more than a faint melody.

The further you walked, the quieter everything became.

Eventually, you emerged into the center of the maze.

A large tree stood proudly in the middle of the clearing, its sprawling branches stretching overhead like a protective canopy. Lanterns hung from its limbs, bathing the space below in a warm glow illuminating two ornate benches that sat beneath the tree.

The lantern's light danced across the leaves overhead, making them appear almost gilded.

It was beautiful.

The scene before you was pactically hidden away from the rest of the ball.

However, it seemed you weren't the only one seeking refuge from the evening's festivities.

A man occupied one of the benches, stretched out with all the elegance of someone who had entirely given up caring. Dressed in a fine black suit, he looked every bit the gentleman attendee save for the loosened cravat at his throat and the way he was sprawled across the bench as though he owned it.

Dark waves of hair had fallen across his face obscuring his features but even so you could tell he seemed utterly exhausted.

Not wanting to disturb him, you carefully stepped backward.

Unfortunately, your heel clicked sharply against the pathway.

The crunch echoed through the small clearing.

Immediately silver eyes fixed on you from between dark strands of hair.

"The ball is in the other direction," he muttered.

The sound of his voice alone might not have stopped you but the look in his silver eyes certainly did.

"I'm well aware," you mumbled, unsure if the words sounded as unsteady as they felt leaving your lips.

With a dramatic groan, he pushed himself upright.

"I'm not interested in a dance, so if you came out here to seek me out—"

"With all due respect," you interrupted, brows rising. "I have absolutely no idea who you are. Nor did I expect anyone else to be hiding out here."

His expression pinched into something between annoyance and disbelief.

"And I should believe you because...?"

"Because it's true?"

"There's not a person in the ton who doesn't know of me or my family."

You couldn't stop your eyes from rolling.

"Kind sir," you began dryly, "if I knew who you were, I would have addressed you as such."

His brows lifted.

"Sirius Black." He said his silver gaze washing over you expectantly waiting for some sign of recognition.

There wasn't much.

The name sounded vaguely familiar, of course, but no more than any other prominent family name tossed around drawing rooms and tea tables.

"So, Mr. Black, then," you replied with a small shrug.

His mouth twitched.

"That's all?" He mumbled a tinge of dissapointment in his tone.

"Should there be more?" You ask, brows raised.

The look on his face was almost comical. Dark brows pinched together and his lips tugged into what you could only describe as a pout. Though he recovered quickly, leaning back against the bench as if trying to regain his composed facade. "Are you usually this unimpressed?"

You crossed your arms over your chest.

"Are you usually this vain? Do you assume every woman who somehow stumbles across you is seeking your attention?"

His brows lifted, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"I'd prefer confident."

You merely tilted your head, silently asking if he truly believed that.

The smirk faltered instantly.

"Right. Perhaps not the best choice of words."

"Perhaps not."

A laugh escaped him then, low and genuine, echoing softly through the clearing.

"It's a habit," he admitted. "It happens more often than you'd think."

"That women wander through mazes looking for you?"

"That women seek me out."

You hummed nodding your head slowly unconvinced.

"Maybe you ought not assume everyone is trying to court you."

He shrugged looking entirely unbothered.

"Courting is so formal. Not everyone wants a courtship. Some just—"

Your eyes widened. Both hands shooting forward immediately as if that alone would be enough to stop his train of thought. "Stop. Stop, stop, stop! I get it."

His grin widened.

"I wasn't going to say anything scandalous."

"That is exactly what someone about to say something scandalous would say."

A bark of laughter escaped him, startling a bird from somewhere in the branches above.

For the first time that evening, despite yourself, you felt the corner of your mouth threaten to lift.

"Well, now you know me," Sirius said, gesturing vaguely toward himself. "Who are you?"

His silver eyes swept over you once more, searching for some indicator of who you might be that he might have missed.

Sirius hadn't recognized you either.

Though, considering the evening, that wasn't all that surprising. Tonights ball existed for one purpose and one purpose only… to parade this season of debutantes before the ton like prized jewels. There were dozens of unfamiliar faces wandering the ballroom tonight.

Your's was just one of them he deduced.

Your gaze drifted downward as you debated your answer.

Would giving him your name be a terrible idea?

Your reputation was already less than pristine. Not ruined, exactly.

Merely... muddied.

The unfortunate events surrounding your presentation to the Queen had spread through society with alarming speed. What had begun as one embarrassing moment had likely transformed into half a dozen wildly exaggerated stories by now.

Giving your name to an obvious rake seemed like an excellent way to make matters worse.

But could your reputation truly suffer any further?

You considered it for a moment then immediately answered your own question.

Yes.

Absolutely.

Sirius watched several emotions cross your face in quick succession.

His brows furrowed.

"Should I be concerned?" he asked, leaning forward.

"My apologies," you said, dipping your head in a proper bow, every bit the polite young lady society expected you to be.

Sirius straightened.

At last an introduction.

Instead, you pivoted sharply on your heel.

And ran.

For a moment, Sirius simply stared.

The skirts of your gown vanished around a hedge, your footsteps fading quickly down the maze's winding path.

Sirius blinked.

"...Did she just run away from me?"

[fremitinsilva]

Snape's physical description makes perfect sense if you look at Celtic/Irish genetics, right?

We always talk about Rowling using Snape's "black, tunnel-like eyes" as a literary device for his Occlumency, which is true. But from a purely genetic standpoint, how does a pale, white British man from the Midlands end up with hair and eyes that dark?

The answer is likely in his mother's side of the family: the Prince bloodline.

1. The "Black Irish" phenotype in Ireland and parts of the Celtic regions, there is a very famous genetic contrast.

While many associate Irish people exclusively with red hair, there is a massive sub-population known historically as the "Black Irish." These are people with extremely pale, fair skin, but coal-black hair, heavy eyebrows, and deep, dark brown eyes that look pitch black unless hit by direct sunlight.

Snape and his mother are the textbook definition of this.

2. Eileen's name is the biggest clue Rowling rarely picks names at random.

"Eileen" is the anglicized version of the pure Gaelic/Irish name Eibhlin. Given that Cokeworth is located in the Midlands (an industrial hub that historically attracted thousands of Irish migrant workers during the industrial eras), it makes perfect sense that the Prince family carried these strong Celtic roots.

3. He is a Prince through and through in the books, it's explicitly stated that Severus looks exactly like his mother-the long face, the heavy brows, the bleak demeanor. Apparently he completely wiped out his Muggle father's traits with the exception of the hooked nose and inherited the full, raw Black Irish genetics from Eileen.

So to me, Snape isn't just a gothic character design; he and his mom are ethnically Celtic/Irish, and his appearance perfectly fits the biology of that heritage.

There, I said so. 😎😋

[belovedluci]

Okay man I see you

[yum-shipper]

[belovedluci]

Pls omg send help wha

[crowgaunt]

my absolute best friend gave me a tom x zinnia art piece for my birthday and I am borderline levitating I fear.

thank you reaper<3

[belovedluci]

Such a sweet best friend hello. I would have died on the spot

Btw happy birthday!! :D (or late birthday. I'm unsure when is your birthday but still happy birthday :) )

[mistress-riddle]

tom riddle did not like to be babied, absolutely not. so what he enjoys it when you brush his hair out of his face? or when you ask him if he’s eaten and offer to make him his favourite meal? or when you scratch his scalp with your long nails while he rests on either your chest or your lap? these are all normal!

tom is a grown man, he absolutely doesn’t need you cooing over him when he catches the flu or when he gets stressed out of his mind due to a list of responsibilities… but just because he doesn’t need it doesn’t mean he’s going to reject it, he could never be so cruel duh. so maybe he does let you smush his cheeks between your hands and peck his lips and he might also let you sit on his lap and groom his eyebrows/shave his stubble but there are very practical reasons behind this, just hear him out—

© 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒-𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔, 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 —all content rights belong to mistress-riddle. do not plagiarize any works and do not repost or translate onto any other sites.

[belovedluci]

Sure tom okay

[deallss]

[belovedluci]

Even if unfinished, Tom riddle still shines

[giselsann]

Ominis: The Gaunts? Those things shouldn't even breed

[belovedluci]

Oh adore this ejebe

[morsima]

Tom riddles passive vs active victimhood

If u saw me post this before, no u didnt

A unecesarry long analysis of Tom psychology based on one quote (i’m also gonna go into headcanonland a bit, so)

English isn’t my native language and i suck at explaining so FOLLOW ME (pls)

I find this single sentence from teenage Tom Riddle always so interesting. Although his relationship with his mother can be analyzed here as well, I want to focus on his father.

The language he uses is interesting in this scene because he does not say that his mother was abandoned or that his father left his mother. He says that HE was abandoned. His mother is entirely passive. He doesn't connect his father's leaving to his mother, it's HIM who the father chose to leave. While leaving a pregnant wife does suggest abandoning the unborn child as well, Tom Senior fled specifically because of his wife. Tom Senior's action was of Merope, yet Tom bypasses her to frame himself as the primary target, and only target of abandonment.

Tom is twisting this event because it serves as a projection of his own experience. But what is he projecting exactly? He gives a hint at the second part of the sentence: the reason was that she was a witch. This detail is importand, as magic is a significant aspect of Tom’s character and he projects his own experiences onto his mother’s fate. What he believes happened to his mother, who is disliked for possessing magic in his imagination, mirrors his own experience growing up in the Orphanage. Tom’s Magic led the other children and authoritative figures to perceive him as odd, insane, mad and therefore scary and frightening. All descriptions are charged with negative connotations that cause others to distance themselves as he is something dangerous and best avoided. Even if Tom didn’t have a name for it before Dumbledore arrived, he recognized that this thing, this something that set him apart from others, was wrong. Rather than elevating his status, it had the opposite effect. He became less desirable than before he started using magic. People started to distance instead of noticing him.

This created a profound personal wound within Tom, and to cope with this injury, he convinced himself that this "wrongness" made him special (also to challenge the group identity common in these facilities by creating his own individual identity, but that's not relevant for this projection). He could do things only found in fantasy books, stories, and legends. He was something mythical. And if you are something mythical, then the opinions of non-mythical people and the names they call you no longer matter. This coping mechanism sustained him until he was 11 when his uniqueness was confirmed. However, despite this validation, years of internalized shame meant he already ingrained in him that his magic made him “wrong” in the eyes of Muggles, leading to inevitable rejection out of his control and rendering him a passive victim.

He claims this is what his father did and believes it explains what happened to his mother after he discovered her magical heritage. He projects his own experiences of social rejection due to his magic onto his father. His Muggle father is no different from the Muggle children who kept their distance from him. Instead of allowing this internalized shame to surface, he constructs a grand narrative that his and his mother's magic was simply too overwhelming for Tom Senior. He convinces himself that Tom Senior recognized his superiority, leading to his departure. In doing so, Tom reclaims his agency because rather than being a passive victim with no control over being socially rejected, like orphan-Tom, he convinces himself he was an active threat, like Voldemort-Tom, that he himself FORCED the other person to leave. HE was in control in a situation although in reality he was in fact powerless (he does that later too to the other children in the orphanage). He was simply too extraordinary for the common Muggle.

There is another dimension to the word “abandonment”. The word itself is a strong and charged term, especially for something he didn’t personally experience in the literal sense from his father, but which resonates deeply with his subjective experience of neglect. It evokes images of something or someone left behind, forgotten, completely given up, and neglected. Consider an abandoned car, for instance, which begins to decay, corrose, rust, and become dirty due to it’s environment. It mirros Tom’s subjective experience in the Orphanage. He is left to rot in the commoness of Muggles who percieve his magic as a defect. In such surroundings his magical essence is decaying and he himself is starting to wither the longer he remains there.

Perhaps he hopes that one day his family comes to rescue him from this place that makes him corrode, rot and decay (or he will find them). It’s not uncommon for orphans to fantasize about their families. Tom likely spent time dreaming that his biological family was as special and unique as he is which ties into his need for external validation of his own uniqness (general concept of a family, then possibly his father's side, then definetly the Gaunts). Little Tom doesn’t have to necesarilly firmly believe he has a living family. He might be aware that his family might not exist due to the lack of evidence, yet he indulges in the fantasy and dreams whenever he sees a family on the street, in the media, or in books, igniting his envy and want of a familial connection. This might occur even when he fails to convince a married couple to adopt him. It's another coping mechanism. It soothes him.

However, the dream of having a family stopped being the source of recognition and validation of his uniqness specifically once he discovered the wizarding world, with Hogwarts taking its place. But that doesn’t mean his longing stopped for a family that could save him from this rotten place. Now, in the wizarding world, he searches for the family he once idealized, assuming his mother was a Muggle and his father was magical. The reality was the opposite, forcing him to confront the fact that his magic doesn't spare him from the common fate of Muggles. And that his father isn’t this powerful wizard (like him), the more u idealize the more painful the disappointment is going to be. And he had this image in his mind for YEARS. He doesn’t have a reason to believe his father can save him, why would a Muggle save him? All Tom experienced from them was the opposite. He must have abandoned him just like every other Muggle ever did.

(Note: someone feeling abandoned / think they got abandoned doesn’t necessarily mean someone else left them physically. A perceived rejection can also be interpreted as being abandoned)

Now that only leaves the gap, why was his father not seen with his mom? He must have left her. What reason do you as a muggle have to leave a witch/wizard? Right, of course, magic! He simply feared the magic.

Another intriguing aspect to observe in this sentence is Tom's shift from his perspective, using "my mother," to adopting his father's viewpoint, referring to "his wife," while talking to Harry. This linguistic maneuver is intended to place Harry in his father's position, forcing him to agree with Tom's view of his father's coldness: not only for abandoning a "mother," but for leaving his own family, his "wife.", his own union. The aim is to elicit empathy and sympathy from Harry, leading him to agree that the father is at fault, not Tom. Tom seeks external validation to affirm that the rejection is not due to Tom’s magic (his “wrongness”) but his father's. A validation he cannot provide for himself internally.

Later, he seizes complete control of the abandonment narrative by killing him and corrupting his appearance with dark magic. By replacing his name with Voldemort and altering his appearance to look distinctly different from his father (and everyone else really), he erases the last evidence of their shared commonness. Now, he can no longer claim to have been abandoned as Tom actively takes measures to reject his father in return.

(Without sounding like a broken record, i just need to address this too because it's fascinating. Notice how Riddle keeps the "I" separated right before he speaks about his father? He creates linguistic distance between himself and his father even in his grammar. It reminds me how royals speak "I, Mr. King, hereby declare". It's formal, elevated and self-important. Next, he is devaluing his father with words like "fool" and "common." Tom communicates he is a powerful while his father is weak and ordinary common, he is showing Harry that he is superior to his father. But then the power shifts suddenly to his father the moment he admits he was abandoned? How does a common man abandon a powerful? It doesn't make sense again. For a short moment, reality threatens his self-concept: "I am special. I am unique. I am powerful." Now he is stressed, its creates a very uncomfortable feeling. He has to correct the slip because he can’t accept the reality yet. And he does by explaining "Well, it was only because I have this very powerful thing called magic! “ All good, he is on the throne and his beliefs about himself are true again!)

Thank you for listening (๑✪ᆺ✪๑)

[belovedluci]

Wowwie amazing analysis. I enjoyed reading this :)

[nonnameh]

That makes a lot of sense, hahahah

[belovedluci]

This is so funny what

Also adore the artsyle

[fukuchh]

hp sketches

[belovedluci]

What is this my eyes have laid upon?

[bizz1998]

[belovedluci]

Oh Merope

[purpurkisskiss]

for want of a nail

Tom has a new friend. She's a witch, she’s fun, interesting, and overall a great person, but as time goes on, Tom begins to suspect his friend isn't who she claims to be. platonic

SPOILER not sure I need to explain this, but in this fanfic y/n has the soul of an old lady and for this very reason she isn’t shipped with anyone :т the thing is platonic. strictly speaking, despite the fact that Tom is one of the main characters here and we see things through his pov, I would emphasize the main theme not as "y/n and Tom's friendship," but rather "y/n grieves for the world before the war then the memories that tormented her are mercifully taken from her". i mean. what it feels like to grieve for the world before the and barely remembering what it used to be or did it even exist

It starts just like this: your father comes into your room one morning to wake you up and tell you that breakfast is ready, and he finds you awake.

You look at him with wide eyes and suddenly start crying.

* * *

The girl stood on the other side of the fence, leaning her back against it. Tom saw her swinging her leg and fiddling with the frills on her dress. She was wearing a fine, neat, and clearly expensive dress, and that was it for him. Tom intended to teach her a lesson for being so neat and carefree. He crept up behind her, quietly enough that she wouldn't turn around, close enough to grab her braid, carelessly thrown over her shoulder, and yanked it so hard that the back of her head hit the fence.

"Ow!" the girl said, turning around to stare at Tom, not with resentment (as he had expected), but with a strange, unreadable expression. "What was that for?"

"Mind where you stand," Tom replied. "And mind your hair. And anyway, get lost."

This corner of the yard, adjacent to the alley, was where Tom spent his time when he could sneak away from the teachers, and the presence of anyone else in that space irritated him terribly. The girl needed to get out. She clearly had no intention of doing so, however; she poked her nose between the bars and looked at him inquisitively. Then she smiled.

"Are you Tom?" she asked.

Here, I should digress a bit and remind you that Tom had never heard his name said like that before; that is, with hope and the joy of recognition. It felt new. It confused him for a moment, but he immediately grabbed her braid again and pulled with all his might:

"Who's asking?!"

"Ouch! Ouch, Tom, that hurts, let go! It hurts, I tell you!"

"You'll get worse than that! Who are you? Who sent you here?! Tell me the truth!”

"Nobody sent me!" the girl screamed desperately, trying to rip her braid from Tom's clutches. "Amy! Amy Benson told me about you! Her new parents live on our street, she told me all about you!"

"What do you mean, 'all'?!”

"You're a wizard, just like me! Just like Dad and I!"

Tom let go of the braid, and the girl staggered back from the fence, nearly falling to the ground. She immediately jumped back out of Tom's reach and added:

"When I heard what she said about you, I knew right away you were a wizard. I found out where this orphanage was and came to take a look."

"...What did she say about me?"

It could still be a trap, of course. It was still too suspicious, like that time Mrs. Cole suddenly became so nice and sweet to him, and that bald little doctor suddenly showed up at the orphanage that afternoon and started asking awkward questions. But no matter how hard Tom tried to figure out the trick, he couldn't, and his ears were already flushing with a telltale blush. This was the first time he'd heard someone call him a wizard, but he already wanted to be one.

"You killed Billy’s rabbit," the girl said. "You blew out the windows in the dining room when you didn't get potatoes, you set fire to Miss Parker's chair, and you talk to snakes. And she told me, well, she told me about the cave. That's called magic. You're a wizard, Tom."

Word for word exactly what the doctor had said, minus the magic part. Only that time, Tom had managed to put on the face of a miserable, bewildered orphan, and now he stood before the girl, red and at loss of words. He'd known her for two minutes and already hated her for it.

"Prove you're a witch too," he demanded, pouring all his rage and hope (it was easy, they were overflowing) into his words. With children her age, this worked almost infallibly.

The girl pursed her lips.

"I don't have a wand," she said in a different voice. "It's too early for me, and without one, it doesn't always work, only if I get angry or really scared..."

"So I should scare you, huh? No need to ask me twice!" Tom said in a murderous tone, though he knew that when you're scared or angry, all "things" (as he called them) happen more easily.

"No, no, I'll try!" the girl said plaintively, suddenly squatting down in front of the fence, poking her fingers through the bars and digging them into the dry earth, covered with sparse tufts of withered grass. She closed her eyes and frowned.

Tom waited. He would never admit he wanted her to succeed.

Something moved in the grass, but it wasn't her fingers, it was a thin stalk of coltsfoot. As if alive, it slipped from under her palm and jerked upward hesitantly, fluttered, and opened its yellow eye. A moment later, Tom was also on all fours next to it, examining the flower critically.

"...There," the girl whispered. "This isn't a trick, it's real magic. I'm a witch."

Tom touched the flower with his index finger in disbelief, then, just in case, plucked it from the ground. It immediately withered sadly.

"Tell me everything," he ordered, looking at the girl. He was already regretting not tying her braid to the fence.

The girl wrinkled her nose, searching for words.

"There are a lot of wizards," she said. "Fewer than those who are not, but still a lot. And they try to stick together. They have their own school in Scotland, where they teach proper magic, their own shops and hospital and all. I thought," she said, hesitating, "I thought someone should tell you."

"Their own school?" Tom asked emphatically. "Do you go there? How do I get there?"

"We can’t go there yet," the girl said hastily. "You and I won't be there for four years, at the earliest. A special letter will arrive... It should actually be delivered by an owl, but if you live among non-wizards, someone from school might come, otherwise they might think it’s a joke”.

"I won't wait four years!"

"You'll have to," the girl said emphatically. "They won't take you there any sooner anyway."

‘Then why did you come here?’ Tom thought bitterly; he felt like a man who'd been given a winning lottery ticket and then had it snatched away. The sun had turned black for him. However, before Tom could say anything caustic (so the girl wouldn't see his eyes turn red), she whispered:

"Amy said you sometimes go outside and walk around city."

That was true. It was forbidden, but Tom knew what time he could sneak out for an hour or two, and his reputation was already so widespread that the nannies were willing to turn a blind eye. If the devil-marked boy got hit by a car, they'd consider it a stroke of luck.

"Well?" " he said, neither confirming nor denying anything.

"I live just down the street," the girl said, and explained where her house was. "If you ever get bored, we can play together."

"Like I would want that," Tom muttered, looking over his shoulder at the dilapidated back porch. He'd be called back soon, and the thought made him want to howl. "What's your name, anyway?"

She gave her name, but just then Miss Parker yelled "Riddle, where the hell are you!" and she had to repeat it.

* * *

"Muggle sweets are better than magical ones," you said. "Amy, tell me?"

"Magical ones are more interesting," Amy squeaked.

"Exactly," Tom confirmed. "Magical ones are always better than non-magical ones, that's always true."

"I've never seen Muggles make puke candies as a joke," you remarked.

"Because they just can't do it?" Tom said.

You and Amy lived on a sunny, green street that hadn't seen the bombings yet. It really wasn't far from the orphanage, just two blocks away, and Tom often made that walk now. You were sitting in the small park in front of Amy's house. It seemed incredible that the awkward hulk of the orphanage was lurking somewhere nearby. With each passing day, Tom found it harder to go back there. He would have much rather slept on a bench in that park, especially since May was firmly approaching and the nights were growing warmer.

Amy Benson forgave him. When you even hinted at visiting her, Tom was terribly opposed at first (partly because he didn't want any Muggle friends, partly because he was afraid of reopening the investigation), and you almost came to blows, but Amy actually did live next door, and one day you simply stood on tiptoe, leaned over the fence, and cheerfully called out, "Hey, Amy! Someone wants to apologize to you."

Tom didn't want to apologize, but you suddenly performed miracles of diplomacy, and after a few meetings, the skinny blonde girl who had never made any friends joined your group. Tom admitted that now that Amy had broken away from Wool's orphanage and was on her own, she hardly irritated him anymore. In the end, he took her into the cave by accident; she simply followed that freak.

Since Amy already knew about magic, you and Tom didn't hide your talents from her. The best place to explore and slowly perfect them was in the garden of your house, where you could grow flowers as fast as you could or levitate dolls as much as you wanted without fear of the Ministry’s eye. But actually (and Tom didn't immediately admit it), playing hide-and-seek or having tea parties on the grass, or pretending to be stranded on a desert island were just as much fun.

He was usually King Arthur, Amy was Guinevere, and you discovered your acting talents, playing Morgan le Fay and Merlin. Along the way, you actively enlightened them about mythology, and then Amy would bring out homemade lemonade, and you would bring out the best books with moving pictures. The willingness with which you shared everything you had warmed Tom's heart. He simply had never seen anyone like you before.

It was a sunny day when the three of you sat on a bench (Amy in the middle, with a book in her lap) reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Tom read quickly, but you stopped his hand whenever he tried to turn the page, as Amy wasn't yet proficient at reading and got tired easily.

"I'll get some more lemonade," she said quietly, sliding off the bench and placing the book on your lap. You and Tom nodded absently; you were approaching the end of "The Fountain of Fairy Fortune." The wind rustled on the deserted street.

"Before they could make their decision, however, frail Asha suddenly fell to the ground," you whispered, then suddenly stared at Amy's house and clutched the book so tightly you almost tore the pages. "Tom, what day is it today?!"

"Tuesday?" he asked questioningly.

You jumped off the bench, the book falling to the ground, and ran headlong toward the house. You cleared the street in one bound, leaped onto the porch, just in time to grab the girl by the scruff of the neck, and then Tom saw a car come around the corner, passing two feet away from you and Amy.

Pale as death, you slowly led Amy back to the bench. Tom said something (he didn't remember what), even took the half-spilled pitcher from Amy, picking up the book and trying to make a joke ("That was a nice one!"), and you suddenly sat down on the ground, buried your head in your knees, and burst into tears. Amy, of course, burst into tears next, and Tom, confused and angry at having to comfort two sobbing girls, didn't properly analyze the situation—as he should have.

* * *

Afterwards, such incidents didn't happen for a long time, and Amy Benson's near-death faded from his memory.

Faded or perhaps repressed? With you entering Tom's life, time seemed to speed up, the world expanded, and now more and more details were integrated into the picture, and such trivialities were easy to forget. Moreover, Tom himself was rushing time, delightedly greeting every sunrise and gloatingly seeing off every sunset, because he knew that every minute brought him closer to Hogwarts.

You taught him this, too. When he first realized that magical school was still a long way off, he felt robbed, but you tried to instill in him a different perspective. "You see," you said, "the time until you get to Hogwarts is shrinking with every second. There's less and less of it. Time doesn't go backwards, only forwards. That's what you should think about." And Tom thought about it. It was hard (especially when November arrived and the rainstorms lashed against his little window), but he was getting used to it.

The world was growing, and more and more people populated it. Amy's father, who now also knew about magic by right of proximity, knew Reverend McGonagall and his little daughter Minnie (they lived somewhere in Scotland but came to London for Christmas), and your father knew Newt and Theseus Scamander, who knew the Goldstein sisters, who knew Jacob, and such a noisy and friendly bunch they were! Tom had never seen such a group of friends before.

He spent Christmas 1935 with you. Your father and Theseus wrote a special enchanted note, and Queenie delivered it to Mrs. Cole, so everything went smoothly. When she took his hand—so beautiful and unique in her light pink fur coat—and led him out of Wool’s, Tom could barely walk, his legs buckling with delight. He even forgot to turn around and stick out his tongue at everyone watching him.

I deserve it, he told himself. I deserve all of this. I deserve Amy's gossip, I deserve that girl to come to me and tell me I was a wizard, I deserve magic, and I deserve all of these people.

"Merry Christmas!" you and Amy yelled, nearly knocking him over.

They sang "God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriff" to the accompaniment of Queenie's portable piano (Tom already knew what hippogriffs were), hung socks by the fireplace (for Tom, Amy, you, and Minnie), ate turkey and pudding, which he didn't even recognize at first because he'd never tasted anything like it. And the Christmas tree! And the colorful pyramid of boxes beneath it! And the multi-voiced, cheerful noise that you had to shout over! And the tiny plush reindeer, enchanted by Newt, cavorting through the fluffy branches, and Jacob's baked goods, and the Patronuses curling from the ceiling (that tradition was still alive back then)! Tom was afraid of only one thing—waking up.

"I have a Christmas prediction for you!" you yell-whispered in Tom's ear.

"What prediction!" he yelled back.

Without a word, you tucked the hat and scarf Tina had just given him onto him and rushed outside.

The sky was jet-black, dotted with almost invisible stars. As always happens when you leave a house where a noisy party is going on, Tom's head spun from the frosty air and the soft, snowy silence. You jumped off the porch and danced around the yard, arms outstretched.

"Next year you'll have a mom and dad," you sang.

If Tom hadn't already begun to consider you something resembling a decent human being, he would have shoved you into the snow and fed you that snow until you choked. Instead, he glared at you with near-hatred:

"Make that joke again and I'll drown you in the Thames."

"Do you like Newt and Tina?" you asked, unfazed.

Tom felt as if December had turned into July in an instant. A hot flush crept across his angry face; of course, he was terribly fond of Newt and Tina, only no one knew it, not even himself. Tina was the first person who'd ever patted him on the head and lived, and Newt seemed like a person from a completely different world (a quality Tom always respected in people). He had to be dragged away from the little zoo-suitcase by force. Another thing is, even in his wildest dreams, Tom never imagined that Newt and Tina would be anything more to him than shining stars on the horizon.

"The road is made by walking," you said. "When they get married, which will be very soon, we'll tell them you can't stay in Wool’s. I bet my every tooth they'll take you away immediately."

"How do you know that?.." Tom began, biting his lip. He would never forgive anyone for what you'd said, but looking at the way you smiled cheerfully at him, hands on hips, he realized he wanted to believe you more than anything, that he already believed you. After all, didn't you have a talent for such things? Didn't you sometimes take an umbrella on a cloudless morning to shelter Tom and Amy when a hurricane blew up out of nowhere in the evening?" "They might even have a child of their own. Why would they want me?" he said, superstitiously conjuring up fate.

"There will be no child," you said quietly and turned away. "But that's a secret."

* * *

Tom never started calling Tina and Newt "Mom" and "Dad," but the feeling he invested in their names was far stronger than any affectionate appellation. When Tom left Wool's orphanage for good in the spring of 1936, he initially stayed by Tina's side, trying to appear as independent as possible—he, who'd forgotten how to cry at eighteen months old! He'd wake up at night and run to his parents' bedroom, gasping with terror: what if they weren't there? Patient Tina would sometimes struggle to get him to sleep for ages, reading him twenty pages aloud, while Tom stared at her from under the covers, scratching her hand with his nails, as if to say, "don't even try to leave..."

It was at the Scamanders' house that Tom began to experience his first nightmares, which he'd never had before. Newt even had to take him to St. Mungo's once.

The dreams recurred, alternated, and sometimes intermingled. Usually, of course, it was an orphanage, not the real one, an empty one. Tom paced its corridors, certain that someone (or something) was looking for him. He had to avoid meeting them at all costs. The dreams always ended the same way. He hid under the bed and watched as the door to his room opened, revealing no one there. Sometimes, however, he dreamed of the sunlit park in front of Amy Benson's house. Amy lay face down on the deserted street, and Tom somehow knew she was alive, just pretending.

But the worst dreams were those about you, or rather, those dreams in which you seemed not to exist. In those dreams, Tom rushed from one person to another, inquiring about you with ever-increasing desperation, but no one knew you; no one lived next door to Amy, no one sat with them on the bench, there were three socks on the mantelpiece instead of four, and so on. In mortal fear, Tom tried to pronounce your name, realizing he didn't know it and, apparently, never knew it.

After such dreams, he would always write you a casual letter. He liked owl mail; it seemed more reliable than Muggle one. Amy’s could only be sent to his home, but he corresponded with you even when Newt took him on an expedition to Norway. Your Hurriette always found him, even in places unmarked on the map.

A letter from Hogwarts found him in America, where they went to visit Tina's parents.

The thought of not seeing Tina and Newt until Christmas slightly spoiled Tom's first ride on the Hogwarts Express. He couldn't tear himself away from the window for a long time, his nose pressed against the glass, he looked out for their figures in the crowd, he waved his hand so hard that he hit Alphard's ear, and when the train finally moved, you saw that his eyes had turned slightly red.

"Come on," you said quietly, shoving a box of Bertie Bott's into his hand. "I'm going to show you a trick."

"What kind of a trick?" Tom asked.

You winked at him conspiratorially.

"We're going to walk through all the first-year carriages, and I'll tell you which house each of them will be in. I'll pay a Galleon for every mistake, so you’d better remember what I’m saying."

And you did indeed make the most confident predictions about everyone, stopping in the corridor and quietly pointing through the glass doors. Tom chewed on candies, listened, and thought about balance of life. He might not see his parents for a long time, but his best friend would be there. It was wonderful, much better than just writing letters. Over the course of his travels, he'd forgotten how easy it was to be with you.

Then you named your house as if it were a done deal, and Tom asked,

"Where will I end up?"

"A mystery," you said ominously, making a silly face. "No idea. It's up to you."

The train burst into the tunnel, and the corridor darkened. Tom thought he saw a sad expression flicker across your face, but only for a moment, and for some reason he, too, felt a sense of dread and sadness.

* * *

In August 1939, Amy died.

That’s how Tom learned of it: he, Newt, and Tina arrived from Southampton on a Muggle train late at night and went straight to bed. He woke up early and rushed to your street (he had a whole box of shells from the Atlantic coast, and he was going to tell you about each one). The mornings were already getting chilly. He ran through the waking streets, thinking about how he would wake you both up, even if he had to smash every window in both houses, and how you two would listen to his stories about merfolk, gaping.

The park was still quiet. The deserted street in front of Amy's house reminded Tom of some old, unpleasant dream, and he was about to angrily banish it from his mind when the door slammed, and you appeared on the porch of the house next door. Tom didn't remember you looking like this, and didn't even recognize you at first.

"Hi," you said quietly.

"Hi," Tom bowed playfully. "Is Amy asleep?"

You leaped to him, hugged him, and cried, silently, like an adult.

Diphtheria had consumed Amy Benson's frail body in just over a week. You weren't allowed to visit her, so you sent notes through her father, and you even threw pebbles at her window until one morning the curtains remained drawn. Now she truly did sleep where nothing could disturb her.

"I didn't want to write you," you said.

You and Tom were sitting on the same bench that used to fit three people. Tom was still holding the box of shells.

"I brought her a shell," he said, off-key. "It matches her eyes."

You buried your head in your knees, your shoulders shaking. Tom, who had never learned to calm crying girls, awkwardly patted your hand, trying to look at the ground to avoid looking at where Amy lay dead in his dreams.

"She shouldn't have," you sobbed. "She shouldn't have, she shouldn't have! I thought everything would be okay now! I thought she was safe now..."

Tom listened silently. The thought that had been brewing within him since the first day he met you was taking shape. Not wanting to let you slip away again, or perhaps angry at himself for such years of inattention, Tom asked,

"Tell me, can you see the future?"

You stopped trembling and fell silent. Tom bit his lip angrily. If you weren't, well, you, he would have thrown you off the bench and kicked you or strangled you with his gaze.

"How far can you see?" he asked, his merciless eyes boring into the back of your head. "A year? More, less?"

"I don't see the future, Tom," you said dully, your face still on your knees. "I'm from there."

Tom listened to you as you told him, absentmindedly sorting through the shells in the box. He had the strange feeling he'd known all this for a long time, maybe even before he'd met you. You showed him the Time-Turner, a small, elegant thing with two axles. The chain sparkled in the morning light, and Tom reached out an impatient hand to touch it, but you quickly pulled back.

"Be careful, for Merlin's sake! No one but me is allowed to touch it."

Your eyes were dry, but your voice was still nasal from the tears you'd shed.

"Have you come to save Amy?" Tom asked.

You looked at him strangely, in a way you never had before. It was a long, lingering look.

"We were friends when we were kids," you said. "I barely remembered her, but I knew her mother well. They didn't survive it, you know, when she got hit by the car. Her father went to prison for killing the driver. I thought... I was sure she'd be okay now, and I'd finally get to see what she'd be like when she grew up. Turns out, I won't. But no, I didn't come for her.

"Who?"

"I came to save you."

And that, too, Tom knew that from the very beginning, from the moment you poked your nose between the bars of the fence and called his name. Of course you came to save him, how could it be otherwise? What more important business could you have here? He didn't notice the smile he'd given you, and when he did, he didn't want to hide it.

"Were we friends?" Tom asked.

"Enemies," you said. "You killed a lot of my friends and almost killed me."

He wanted to make a joke and couldn't, and then he realized that that strange expression on your face was pity.

"...And then, when you killed the Potters," you said, "everyone thought you were dead, but Dumbledore knew you weren't, and you'd come back. The entire Order searched for you everywhere they could, some in the forests, some among your former supporters... I was tasked with searching for you in the past. I combed through archives, looked for witnesses, looked through their memories to figure out where you might have hidden, and the more I searched, the more I got to know you, and the more I got to know..." You pursed your lips and shook your head. "Then I found out the orphanage was two streets away from the house where I grew up, and it was like my eyes were opened... I suddenly realized that you and I had walked down the same streets at the same time, when it rained, we both saw it in the same time, Merlin, I could even have seen you, or you could have seen me! And I made up my mind. I didn't yet understand how I would do it, but I already knew I would”.

I've known you my whole life, Tom wanted to say, but it turned out you'd known him longer, much longer—and better. If you'd been anyone but his best friend, he could easily have killed you for such a lie, but it turned out that was unnecessary.

Time-Turners and time travel came in two forms. The one that transports you entirely within your current body can take you back any number of centuries, but that can't change anything. You wander around like a visitor in a museum; you don't even have to worry about ruining something irreversibly, because every action you take, from a sneeze to a shot, is already weighed and balanced. Change can only be achieved through a journey that takes you back to the past in your own body, and, of course, you can only start with your birth. There's no return from such journeys.

"Are you going to die?" Tom asked, his mouth dry.

"No," you said, not looking at him. "It's more complicated than that. Time is flexible; it simply won't tolerate me within it. I'll probably disappear. Maybe I'll just disappear, or maybe it'll be as if I never existed. No one will remember me and all that, they won't even know my name. Maybe that's for the best. Dad... Dad won't grieve."

You sniffled again, but quickly pulled yourself together:

"Don't worry, Tom, I knew what I was getting myself into. I'm hardly scared anymore, I'm just very sad. I cry almost every night now. They don't prepare you for this... You know, when I opened my eyes and realized I was seven years old, I lay there, half-dead, my arms and legs felt so foreign. And then Dad came into the room, and I burst into tears... I hadn't seen him for so many years, Tom… He got scared, thought I was sick...”

Then you told him about the war that was supposed to start tomorrow, then you pointed to the sky and explained that after the war it was forever different, and in general after the war everything was forever different: the colors weren't the same, the sounds weren't the same, the people weren’t the same.

"You should have told me," Tom said gloomily.

"What would I have told you?! Hey, try not to become a creepy serial killer, okay, see you later?" you exclaimed. "I saw you and knew it would be hard, but I also knew I'd do it, no matter the cost. No one believed in me except Dumbledore..."

"Dumbledore? The one who teaches Transfiguration?"

"Yes, that would be him. He'll be Headmaster later."

Tom snorted.

"Don't snort," you said seriously. "He was the only one who thought it was better to save you than kill you. No one else."

"Many thanks to him," Tom muttered. "The old fool... When I'll go back to school I’ll send snakes in his pockets. Look, how much time do you have?"

"I don't know," you said simply. "Probably not much. There are no reliable records of such journeys, because no one remembers their participants. I hope I'll feel it, though I try to live every day as my last one”.

"You said I can't touch that thing... But what if I touch it through the sleeve? I'll be careful."

You knew Tom's heart burned for beautiful magical things, and you couldn't refuse your friend this; Tom knew you wouldn't refuse, because your generosity was infinite. The willingness with which you shared everything you had with him—books, candy, secrets, life—well, he expected nothing less from his friend. He must have been someone pretty cool in that future life to deserve you.

You handed him the Time-Turner on a chain, and Tom gently swung it, touching it with the tip of his sleeve.

"I'm afraid now," you said, "that it won't work anyway. Amy's dead. What if even this can't change the past?"

"It can," Tom said. "She did live longer than she should have."

"I don't want you to live longer, Tom," you sighed. "I just want you to live. With Tina and Newt. Growing up, going to school, studying, traveling, collecting shells, making friends..."

"I'm already friends with you."

"Merlin, Voldemort called me a friend... I wish Alastor would hear that..."

"Voldemort? Is that me?"

"You, idiot... Look, no matter what happens, promise me you won't be, like, a creepy serial killer?"

Tom smiled faintly.

"I'll try my best."

"Fair enough."

Casting a glare across your sad faces, the Time-Turner swung back and forth on its chain, like a pendulum, small, fragile, and ready to kill you.

"Thank you," Tom said suddenly.

"You're welcome. For what, though?.."

Tom snatched the chain, threw the Time-Turner to the ground, and crushed it with his heel.

Thank you for being my friend all the time, even when you were my enemy, Tom wanted to say, but he didn't. Thank you for coming here. Thank you for the candy and the books and for making peace between me and Amy, and thank you for Tina and Newt, thank you for the magic and for every letter, thank you for not killing me, thank you so much, but from now on I'll figure it out on my own.

The shards of the Time-Turner melted on the ground, as if they were made of ice. Tom blinked, and it seemed to him like a ray of sunlight flickering in the dust, and indeed it was.

"Thank me for what?" you repeated, confused. Tom turned and saw that eerie second look melt from your eyes, along with the Time-Turner, along with the hooks of time that had clung to your existence, along with the memory of the war, after which everything would be different. "What were we even talking about? Tom?..

"Nothing, really," he said, turning away. Now it was his turn to sniffle.

Together, you found the tree in the park that Amy liked best (that was an apple tree) and buried the shell the color of her eyes that Tom had brought there. It was about ten in the morning: the sun was already slowly creeping toward the center of the pre-war sky, and the leaves whispered, and a long, now unpredictable life lay ahead of you, a life you no longer knew, and there was a whole long, long day before the war that had to be lived somehow.

[belovedluci]

Dayum okay man. That was excellent wth ahhhhhhh 😭😭😭

I LOVE TOM BEING A CHILD! ACTING LIKE A CHILD AND ALL

He getting the love he needs huhu. I did not expect for Newt and Tina to adopt him tho but the idea was adorable oh dear

This is just too good bravo

My heart shaking a bit ahem

[purpurkisskiss]

The tower, the princess, the snake

She suffocates me with her coiling rings, She chokes me tenderly, engulfed me whole. And this unliving thing, this darkest thing, This terrifying thing — it is my soul. Zinaida Gippius, ‘She’

Soulmates AU. tw: mentions of death, a bit dark, canon Tom

At the orphanage, Tom never told anyone about these dreams, but even if he did, no one would have been able to explain anything to him. Dreams about a soulmate usually come along with the awakening of a magical gift. Sometimes later, never before.

Y/N was born, as they say, with a silver spoon in her mouth, into a rich family of purebred wizards. She grew up on the coast near Edinburgh in a cozy mansion, securely hidden from prying eyes. Y/N lived like a wildflower, but a flower that was dearly loved and protected.

Tom cherished these dreams. At first they were elusive and not very intelligible. All he could remember was something light and pure, like a cloud, like a sunbeam, something fresh and sweet like ice cream. Tom had never eaten ice cream, but after these dreams something honeyed melted on his tongue all day and he could breathe easily, as if after a thunderstorm.

Y/N was afraid of her dreams. She, too, could not tell what exactly she saw, but at night she was haunted by the vision of long gray benches, a tall, toothy fence and an acute, suffocating feeling of defenselessness, sadness, disorder, loneliness, cold, hunger. Sometimes it became so hollow that she would wake up in the middle of the night almost in a fever and run to her mother.

One day Tom dreamed that his mother was leaning towards him and hugging him tightly.

One day Y/N dreamed that she killed a rabbit.

Time passed, and dreams began to come less often, but more clear and meaningful. They were no longer a vague feeling of happiness that lit up the day, there was a person. A face. A little face? A girl?

A boy?

She lived like a princess in a castle, in some very large house in the middle of green meadows, almost never leaving it, and both parents loved her to death, and yet it did not harm her and she remained light, cheerful and friendly. Sunshine-like. Tom would want her to look in the mirror more often, otherwise her face was almost impossible to see. He wished she were here, with him, in reality.

He lived in some terrible place that was just impossible to imagine. Y/N had never heard of such a thing even in the scariest fairy tales. He called no one his friend. He considered himself above this, above everything that existed, and he pushed away with disdain what little warmth he received. Once he lured a boy and a girl into a cave, and they lost their minds. He never told anyone what he did to them, but Y/N saw everything.

By the end of the first year, Tom already knew what those dreams meant, and by the end of the second he realized that if this girl was studying, she was not at Hogwarts. For a long time he did not want to believe it, and when he finally did, he felt a cold rage slowly boiling inside. Are they hiding away something that was destined for him?

Y/N, like everyone else in her family, studied at home. Her parents had enough money to hire the best tutors, and her mother could not even imagine that her little girl would live in some castle on the island for six months, away from home. Y/N and her mother had no secrets from each other, except one. Her dreams.

Tom cherished every dream like a jewel, repeated it to himself, tried to remember every moment, every feature of her face. Every grain of this lightness was his only, and it was unthinkable to share those dreams. He guarded this secret almost more so than the secret of the Horcruxes.

He killed people, now she knew for sure.

They are now admiring something that is mine, Tom sometimes thought in melancholy. The sunny girl who illuminated his whole life belonged to him as much as his wand, as Marvolo's ring, as his rightful inheritance, and yet she was unforgivably far away.

He would never find her if she was careful enough.

He will definitely find her, and then he will find out who thought of hiding her, and then he will simply bury them.

***

There’s one extra year to prepare for the exams for those who study at home, and therefore Y/N had to take her OWLs on her sixteenth birthday. Always confident in her knowledge, she was now a little anxious: what if something went wrong and she would return home disgraced? For the first time in her life she rode on the Hogwarts Express, but hardly ever looked out the window. She kept repeating her notes on the history of magic.

In the evening it became chilly. Dressed in a terribly expensive robe of impeccably modest style, she got off at Hogsmeade station and placed her suitcase at her feet. As if spellbound, she looked at the silhouette of the castle imprinted on the sunset sky, and, probably, at that moment she regretted a bit that she had not spent all her life here.

The inside of the castle amazed Y/N even more. Together with two girls who also came here to take the exam, she stepped under the arches of the Great Hall and forgot to breathe, looking at the enchanted ceiling. Floating candles all around, as far as the eye could see, and above: constellations, constellations, the shining circle of the moon, constellations again...

“Yes, this ceiling is definitely a sight to see,” someone’s voice sounded over her ear. Y/N winced and turned around.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tom Riddle, Slytherin perfect,” said Tom. ‘You are probably taking an exam tomorrow? Professor Slughorn told me that homeschool students were due to arrive this evening’.

Y/N looked at him as if... well, yes, like a rabbit looking at a boa constrictor. Trembling, speechless. Tom smiled slightly, and there was nothing good in that smile. He recognized Y/N instantly, long before she saw him.

‘How was your trip? It's starting to get cold early now’.

“This is a dream,” Y/N thought in shock. “This is a dream, I’ll wake up now.” But for the first time in many years she saw this boy not in a dream, but in reality.

‘Shall I show you to the guest rooms?’ Tom offered kindly, extending his hand.

[belovedluci]

GG reader

And yes I loved this

The author so good my goodness

[purpurkisskiss]

I am the pretty thing that lives in the castle

And I pray one prayer - I repeat it till my tongue stiffens - Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you - haunt me, then!  Emily Bronte, ‘Wuthering Heights’.

Y/N became a ghost instead of Myrtle. She couldn't care less about Tom. He wishes he could say the same. Wordcount: 3k.

At their first meeting, Tom even shrieked a little (as he later justified, solely because Y/N took him by surprise). He crept towards the sinks that bathed in the bluish light of the moon, and did not at all expect that someone would jump at him from the ceiling with a  “Boo!”

“Boo,” Y/N said reluctantly and passed through him like a light bluish cloud. Tom closed his eyes, but didn’t feel anything.

“Good evening to you too,” he said, looking at her cautiously. Y/N floated up to the ceiling and was now studying the stucco, running her ghostly finger absentmindedly over the frozen gargoyle masks. “What's new?”

“As you may guess, absolutely nothing,” Y/N responded, “but I like that you’re trying to be polite. It's nice.”

“Do you feel ‘nice’?”

“Not really. I'm using words that I learned in life, but they don't quite describe my experience because I've never experienced anything like this before. I'd rather you be polite than rude, and that's my new “nice.”

Tom looked at her, a luminous spot against the black wall, which trembled slightly, like the wings of a strange butterfly. Y/N died wearing a thin shirt, but there was no longer any way she could be cold or get sick.

“If I didn’t know you were a Ravenclaw, I would have guessed by now,” he said.

“I was different when I was alive,” Y/N said judiciously. “More lively”

“You sure were”.

“No, I mean it. I can't explain it enough for you to understand, but this experience is...changing. Everything becomes so transparent, unreal. If I were the same, I would have already cried barrels of tears and flooded the toilet”.

“There is someone who is eager to do that for you,” Tom said gloomily. “Myrtle has been whining all day long, telling everyone what a wonderful friend you were.”

“Me?”  Y/N sounded surprised. “I can’t remember that we were friends. However, I did stand up for her a couple of times…”

Tom kept silent a little longer, angrily tapping his fingers on the broken edge of the sink. When falling, already dead, Y/N hit her head here. They didn't fix the sink, instead, they put a lock on the toilet door, but Tom sneaked in almost every evening.

“Is that why you’re not angry at me for killing you?” he finally asked.

“Well, technically you didn’t kill me. You just released a basilisk, which also didn't do anything against its nature, so it's kind of like an accident. Although I can understand why you didn’t tell anyone about it all,” Y/N said. “No, that’s not the reason why”.

“You are very understanding,” said Tom. “Is it okay if I stay here a little longer? I need to prepare an essay on the history of magic, and tomorrow is the final match between the badgers and Slytherin. All of Hogwarts is shaking”.

“Make yourself at home,” Y/N said indifferently.

She went down to the Chamber of Secrets with him when the time came to seal it. Hovering silently two steps behind him, she looked at the tunnels and rusty gratings that were many, many centuries old, and for the first time something like curiosity was reflected on her transparent face. For some reason this made Tom feel almost happy. Y/N’s curiosity became almost human when, rustling its scales, a huge snake slowly crawled out of the black hole in the wall and surrounded them with a ring, and put its terrible head so as to get a better look at the guests, and hissed in greeting.

“I've read that those who speak Parseltongue can look a basilisk in the eyes and survive,” said Tom, looking down, “but I don’t want to test that.”

Y/N  looked fearlessly with her dead eyes straight into the face of the creature.

“Yes, the cost of a mistake would be very high,” she said. “What is your pet's name?”

“Susie,” Tom said quietly. “It's a girl”.

Y/N smiled weakly.

“Hello, Susie,” she said. Susie let out a squeal that sounded more like a laugh. “Nice to meet you. Unfortunately, this is not for long, because we have come to seal the Chamber of Secrets forever.”

“For a while,” Tom corrected her. “Susie, I'll be back, I promise. I don't know when, but I'll be back”.

He closed his eyes and stretched his hands forward. The basilisk poked its terrible mouth into his chest, and Tom hugged her. 

***

When Tom returned to school the next year, no one noticed anything, and he even began to think that the ritual did not work, but as soon as he crossed the threshold of the toilet on the third floor, a quiet exclamation was heard from under the ceiling:

“Oh! Tom, what happened to you?”

Like a feather or a petal, Y/N slowly descended towards him. Tom looked at her and thought that flying suited her well.

“Is it that noticeable?” he asked suspiciously.

“You have become very small,” Y/N said, flying around him. “Like this,” and made a small circle with her hands. “Where did half of you go?”.

This is how he learned that ghosts see the effects of Horcruxes.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she promised. “Who was it?”

And Tom told her. About everything, about how he found out who the Gaunts were, about how he found his uncle, about the Riddles, about how scary it was to look at his father’s corpse, because he was so very alike him, about how he made a Horcrux right there while the bodies were still warm. It was easy for him, he wanted to talk, to free himself from every detail, take it out of his head, let Y/N look, discuss, judge.

She was in no hurry to judge. She just said:

“This could backfire on you.”

“How?” Tom suddenly felt offended. He just now realized that he would like her to admire what a cool magician he is, and maybe even clap her hands.

“I know more than you,” she said vaguely. “Not everything, perhaps, but more. Yes, I’m still on the threshold, but from where I’m standing, it’s clear that you acted very rashly.”

“What do you mean by ‘still’?"

She didn't answer.

All autumn, winter and summer he went to visit Y/N, even leaving textbooks in a niche by the window. It was quiet and somehow very cozy there, the light from the window was so gentle, and on sunny days the stained glass windows seemed to light up with colored lights. Y/N was silent for the most part, but seeing her figure out of the corner of his eye and hearing her thoughtful humming under her breath was... nice. This was his new “nice”, because something inside of him began to change inexplicably, irreversibly and horribly.

In winter, he asked her to come to the Yule Ball, and she agreed, and she blew out all the candles and ruined the chandelier. Oh, the chaos!.. And in the spring they celebrated Y/N’s first Deathday Party. For this occasion Tom stole a lemon pie from the kitchen, but Y/N politely thanked him and said that she couldn’t eat that. She fluttered back and forth, he chewed on the pie, they argued about the technique of using Fiendfyre, and it was a nice evening.

“I won’t come back here in the fall,” Tom said suddenly, because in fact that’s all he’s been thinking about for the last few days.

“I know,” Y/N said. “You are in seventh year. I can count to seven”.

“But I’ll come back someday,” he said stubbornly. “I just don’t know when”.

“I think I’ve already heard this once”.

“I’ll come back for Susie too, don’t you worry.”

“And what will we do then, riddle me this?”

“Seize the Ministry of Magic,” he blurted out. “Y/N, I'll miss you. Will you miss me?”

“I would like to tell you something nice in response, but I’ll tell the truth. Maybe I won't be here soon.”

He suddenly felt very hot. Then terribly cold.

“What do you mean you won’t be here? Where are you going to go?” Tom asked in an unnaturally high voice. “Aren’t you here forever?”

“Not really,” Y/N answered evasively. “You see, when I died, I was not at all ready for this”.

“Can anyone possibly be ready for this?”

“You must be ready, Tom. Now I know that. I was confused and made... the wrong choice. Stuck on the threshold. Didn't go any further. But I can step forward at any moment, I just need to think it over carefully and make a decision”.

“Can’t you step back?” Tom asked. He did not put hope into these words, but it sounded nevertheless.

“No,” Y/N answered simply. “I died, Tom”.

He rested his hand on his cheek and watched her spin, arms outstretched, right up to the ceiling, the invisible wind blowing her hair. He said:

“I regret that I didn’t know you when you were alive. I think we could become friends.”

“We could,” Y/N agreed. “But for this to happen you shouldn’t have killed me”.

Tom jumped up sharply and, his burning face hid in his hands, quickly walked out of the room. The door slammed so loudly that the noise echoed throughout the entire corridor.

***

Tom did not soon cross this threshold again.

He walked from Dumbledore's office after the first unsuccessful job interview in his life, he wanted to get out of the castle as quickly as possible so as not to endure this humiliation anymore, but his feet themselves led him to the third floor.

“You have become even smaller,” said a familiar voice, which he had only dreamed about in the morning. Loud, distant, but somehow comforting. “You're barely visible”.

Tom was silent. He looked and still did not believe that he was seeing her again. Finally he grinned and stepped forward.

“But you’re still the same,” he said.

“The same, but not quite,” Y/N objected, going down to meet him. “I thought a lot and almost decided to take a step further”.

“But not yet?”

“Not yet. This is a complex process, and it doesn't get any easier now that I have all the time in the world”.

“What exactly are you doing?” Tom asked, leaning against the wall. A forgotten feeling of comfort covered him in a cool wave. He felt like he wanted to stay.

“I’m thinking,” Y/N said. “A lot”.

“Don’t you need to, I don’t know, take revenge on your murderer?” he asked and realized that it sounded like a request. Lord Voldemort had a lot of requests that day.

“No, thanks,” said Y/N. She looked him up and down with a curious look and added: “It seems to me that there’s not much left of him anyway.”

Tom tiredly sank to the floor and tucked his legs under him. He wanted to talk to her again and again, so that she would answer sharply, but always to the point. He wanted her to scream at him, to rush to claw his eyes out, he wanted her to thirst for revenge.

“I sometimes saw you in my dreams,” he said. “Like we’re friends or something.”

“I have nothing to do with this,” Y/N said. “Have you made any living friends over the years?”

“Wait for me,” Lord Voldemort said without listening to her. He wanted it to sound like an order, but it turned out to be the third request.  “Y/N, I figured out how to defeat death.”

“Sure you did”.

“I am not lying. I really fought it all this time and almost won”.

“I wish you would know how stupid you look now.”

“Are you going to listen or not?! I tell you, wait, I will bring you back, I will fix everything, you will be alive again, I will get you out…”

“Promise?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Lord Voldemort's promise?”

She smiled. Unable to look at her, Tom stormed out.

***

The third time he returned to the castle was on May 2, 1998. He walked along the empty corridors of the third floor, and his steps echoed loudly. He was going to congratulate Y/N on her yet another Deathday. In his hands was not a lemon pie, but an Elder Wand.

The door to the girls' toilet was blown off its hinges by the explosion. He crossed the threshold and saw that the stained glass windows were broken, and golden dawn rays were pouring into the room. For a second it seemed to him that the place was empty, that he was late.

“Oh, Merlin!” a familiar laugh rang out. “What's happened to you, Tom? You have become so very small, smaller than a mouse!”

She came down from the ceiling as before, but for the first time he saw her in the pink rays of the sun, and she seemed almost alive. For the first time he saw her almost alive.

“Come with me, Y/N”, he said softly. His hand trembled a little, grasping his wand. “I will bring you back to life. I will give you back everything and  even more. Soon I will have the Resurrection Stone, and you will live again”.

She laughed even louder, twirled as if in a dance, and he felt uneasy.

“Stupid, stupid Tom,” Y/N said. “Still don’t get this, do you? Everyone gets smarter over the years, but you seem to only get dumber”.

And no Avada Kedavra could shut her up.

“But I'm glad you came. Really, I am. I wanted to say goodbye to you, Tom. I'm finally making that step”.

“No,” Lord Voldemort said in a changed voice. “Don’t. Don’t you dare”.

“Or else what?”

“Don't do this”, when was the last time he begged for something, pleaded? Was it with her?! “Stay. Stay, Y/N. I told you, I'll bring you back!”

“You forgot the magic word”. Y/N giggled. She sank to the floor and looked at him cheerfully and seriously at the same time. “I feel sorry for you, Tom”.

He had heard it once before, but coming from her it sounded and felt like “Crucio.”

“I have to go, really. There's no time to chat. I’ll tell you one more thing. Soon you will be offered a choice one last time, so please, please, don’t be stubborn. Can you do this for me?”

Tom looked at her desperately, afraid to blink, and still missed the moment when Y/N melted into the air.

***

The empty platform shines white, as if it were covered with snow. There are no trains here. No people, too. The bench blackens on the platform like a wound. A faint whimper came from under the bench.

A girl is walking along the platform.

She is wearing a thin shirt, but there is no way that she could be cold. The blue tie is fluttering in the invisible wind. She hurries to the bench, bends down, carefully takes out the bundle of robes from there, and opens it, and smiles a little and carefully presses it to her chest.

[belovedluci]

Ow why did the ending hurt me wth

Awh crap shhhhhhhhhh :(

Anyways!

“I regret that I didn’t know you when you were alive. I think we could become friends.”

“We could,” Y/N agreed. “But for this to happen you shouldn’t have killed me”.

Tom jumped up sharply and, his burning face hid in his hands, quickly walked out of the room. The door slammed so loudly that the noise echoed throughout the entire corridor.

OW BTW. I KNOW READER BEING BLUNT BUT STILL OW

---

“Oh, Merlin!” a familiar laugh rang out. “What's happened to you, Tom? You have become so very small, smaller than a mouse!”

Aw tiny Voldemort. Also like the idea that ghosts can see the what? Tom's soul being reduced yeah sure haha

Unless it's a real fact and I just didn't know that..oh well

---

“Come with me, Y/N”, he said softly. His hand trembled a little, grasping his wand. “I will bring you back to life. I will give you back everything and  even more. Soon I will have the Resurrection Stone, and you will live again”.

She laughed even louder, twirled as if in a dance, and he felt uneasy.

“Stupid, stupid Tom,” Y/N said. “Still don’t get this, do you? Everyone gets smarter over the years, but you seem to only get dumber”.

And no Avada Kedavra could shut her up.

I'm sorry this is hilarious lmao

[purpurkisskiss]

hmm…hey, dear! I saw that your requests are open and I would like to know, can I get a fluffy (if that's possible) Voldemort, but as Voldy and not Tom (I mean with his snake form and not human) and wife fem reader (ambiguous appearance) in which he introduces her to his followers(with the right of him calling her his lady or queen or something like that) and despite the regrets and what everyone thinks, he is really devoted to her (even a little yan ) and the reaction of the diners seeing the way the dark lord treats his lovely wife (who is a magnificent witch, by the way) please? keep this wonderful fanart (https://www.tumblr.com/snake-queen7/730095728446291968?source=share) credits to the original author

Death and the Maiden

“why, I am growing quite sentimental... But look, Harry! My true family returns...”

Hiii anon!! Thanks for such a cool idea :3 Look, there is fluff here, Voldemort being nice with reader and all that, BUT!! I accidentally added some pretty dark themes. Like, really dark. Y/N uhhhhhh revives the Dark Lord, no less than that. There are not many details here, but the description of the ritual is sort of the same as in the fourth book. TW: blood, mention of cuts, morally grey reader, Voldemort and Y/N being a disaster couple.

Oddly enough, the most difficult part was finding the grave of Merope Riddle.

She died as Tom Riddle Sr's lawful wife, you now knew this for sure, because you rummaged through a thousand decayed documents in search of the name of the cemetery in the ground of which her poor bones lay. The archives of the hospital, the morgue, three Confunduses and one Imperio led you to Tottenham Park, to the old cemetery, where the poor were buried at that time, where on a tiny piece of land the unfortunate woman finally found peace. The peace that you were now about to disturb.

“Bone of the mother, taken with respect, you will renew your son!” you said in a whisper. And, looking at the ground that had parted under your feet, you thought that it’s good that they didn’t think of cremating Merope.

***

He has many names and so does Y/N.

“Y/N” — he’s the one who calls you that when no one can hear. This name is for him only, like a password, like a key on a chain hidden under a shirt, like a secret door in a solid wall. “Y/N.” "Tom".

“Mistress of the Riddle Manor” is a little cheesy, but you like it. It was you who persuaded him not to huddle at Malfoy’s, but to take the house that rightfully belonged to him, it was you who remade and altered everything here to your taste, it was you who turned an abandoned mansion into a cozy fortress on the border of the forest, it was you who caught a smile on his lips when he saw a tapestry with the Slytherin coat of arms on the wall. “My lady, you have impeccable taste,” he said then, and you bowed playfully.

“She Who Remained Faithful” is not something anyone among the Death Eaters actually calls you, but Voldemort likes to mention this epithet at meetings to emphasize what they should all strive for. When Bellatrix hears this, there are angry tears in her eyes. You are the eternal employee of the month. If there was an honor roll at Riddle Manor, it would have a full-length photo of you on it.

Newspapers are not so kind. In the headlines of the ‘Daily Prophet’ first pages, you are always “She Who Should Not Be Remembered.” The soft “should not be remembered” looks touching in comparison with the stern “must not be named.”

“You should call my wife “Mistress” or “My lady,” Voldemort says softly, looking around the room. “No other way. Although I do not recommend kissing her hand because it could cost your life”.

The Death Eaters gathered around the table nod uncertainly. You smile slightly, touching his palm under the table. His long boney fingers are cold, but only you know that they are also very, very gentle.

“Perhaps,” he adds thoughtfully, looking sideways at you, “such a kiss should be worth your whole life.”

At the wave of a pale hand, they rise from their seats, take turns approaching you and bowing at a respectful distance, and swear allegiance.

“Thank you for your invaluable help...” Snape says rotely. He is the only one who fully understands the incredible level of witchcraft you achieved by performing the ritual. He is the only one who understands how dangerous the mistress of Riddle Manor is, who has not a single murder to her name, but only one revival of the Dark Lord.

“... and I swear eternal fidelity...” Peter whispers. His small eyes sparkle and he tries not to look at you, but he can’t. Not even the fear of getting Crucio'd stops him.

“...my lady,” Bellatrix spits. In her eyes there is resentment, envy, longing... admiration?..

***

Tom Riddle had no friends. Voldemort neither. But, since you convinced him to do the most risky experiment in the world ever, to change the ritual of “Flesh, Bone and Blood”, then you had to go all the way.

You needed to sneak into Hogsmeade under the cover of darkness, which in itself is not an easy task, slip into the castle, find the Chamber of Secrets and allow Tom to possess you so that with your lips he could say the cherished “Open.” You had to jump into the cold darkness, you had to walk through the damp tunnels, you had to close your eyes when, rustling its scales, a huge creature approached you and, sniffing the air with its terrible nostrils, emited a bubbling hiss, in which any Parseltmouth would recognize the delight of a long-awaited meeting. “Why, you recognise me, after all,” Tom said tenderly, without leaving your body, and your arms wrapped around the thick snake neck. “Well, hello, Susie. Long time no see". A quiet, gentle hiss was the answer. "Thank you. Listen, there's something I really need you to do now...”

In one motion, you knocked over the fogged diamond vial over the cauldron. The blood of Susie the basilisk, the only creature in the world that Tom Riddle had ever considered a friend, turned the potion golden.

“Blood of the friend,” you said, breathing in, “given willingly, you will ressurect your ally!”

You understood Susie perfectly. Knowing Tom meant being willing to do anything for him.

***

“Do you want to celebrate our wedding at the Ministry or at Westminster Abbey?” Voldemort asks casually.

These quiet mornings are just for the two of you. When the fog over Little Hangleton had not yet cleared, and a cool freshness reigned in the garden, you, slowly, hand in hand, walked through the garden, and you proudly showed him the new flower beds, and he listened very carefully and admired both the flowers and you .

“We’re already married, Tom,” you reminded him and with a graceful gesture you raised your left hand, as if to show him a thin ring with an emerald. He quickly grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips.

“No,” he answered seriously. “It was a formality. I want a celebration for all of London, all of England. I want everyone to see you and know whose wife you are”.

Means a lot coming from someone who can throw the Cruciatus curse at any insolent person who dares to even look at you.

“Oh, aren’t you ambitious, my lord,” you laugh, running your finger along his pale cheek. “Is there anything else you might want?”.

“Of course there is,” Voldemort says with no hesitation, but for a brief moment you think that he’s trying to joke. “I want you to wear the crown of England.”

You hide your smile, turning away.

“Then we’d better get married in the London Tower.”

***

The potion hummed impatiently in the cauldron as you hurriedly unbuttoned your shirt with numb fingers. The third ingredient was too easy, a simple task. It has always been with you, from the day you and Tom looked into each other's eyes.

‘Flesh of the beloved!’ you gasped, breaking into a scream, when the dagger made the first cut on your left shoulder, ‘Given lovingly!.. You... will revive!..’ a little bit more, just a little! ‘Your loved one!"

Will is what is important. Intention is what is important. You don’t need to throw your entire arm from shoulder to hand into the cauldron, just a small piece of flesh is enough, which is worth more than thousands of Galleons, more than unicorn blood and basilisk venom. The will and intention of Her-Who-Remained-Faithful.

***

“You are the most precious thing I have,” Voldemort says quietly when the meeting is over and the two of you are sitting by the fireplace, hand in hand, your head on his shoulder. “I never expected to find such a treasure. And now it is not only with me, but also inside of me… Oh, how are you so loyal to me, my lady?”.

“I would throw my heart into the cauldron if necessary,” you say honestly.

“Don’t you ever say that,” he hisses angrily. “for it's mine”.

[belovedluci]

Gah adored this omg