is this not pussy shaped. i swear to god this isnt what it looked like in the second movie what did harry and dumbledore do to it
IT WAS JUST A HOLE STAB 4 MOVIES LATER IT BECAME A FULLTIME DIARUSSY
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@cindle-writes
is this not pussy shaped. i swear to god this isnt what it looked like in the second movie what did harry and dumbledore do to it
IT WAS JUST A HOLE STAB 4 MOVIES LATER IT BECAME A FULLTIME DIARUSSY
🐍 kofi request
I blame @noxxytocin for this piece.... kidding!! My gratitude to him for going such lengths to lift up my spirits <3
What's with me and Gaunts...??? Gawd....
You'll Love Me At Once
Read chapter 2 here on Ao3
Teen | Harry Potter / Tom Riddle | 9,594 | Complete 2 / 2
“I’m not going to, like, kiss some random sleeping dude,” Harry said, with nervous laughter slipping out between the words. “I don't kiss dudes at all…”
Summary: Auror Harry Potter is tasked with a bizarre quest to rescue a cursed princess.
Tags: Inspired by Sleeping Beauty, Auror Harry Potter, Fairy Tale Logic, Fairy Tale Elements, Happy Ending, True Love's Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Everyone Is Alive (except some randos nobody cares about), Soulmates, Gay Awakening
the unobserved life
Tom Riddle/Harry Potter. Written for @tomarrymortevents purge xl: I regret it.
Tom’s robes are wet. Not entirely soaked through, thankfully, but enough to be tedious. A simple drying charm would be enough to solve the issue, but whomever started this mess has taken his wand away. He has not been offered a change of clothing either—just unceremoniously dumped into this room without explanation.
The room remains egregiously dark with a perpetual chill, not unlike the Hogwarts dungeons during the coldest months. Tom has been given a single uncomfortable chair—no food, water, or place to lay his head. Yet, for as long as it feels he has been trapped here, no hunger, thirst, or need for rest has arisen.
The only sound is the constant ticking of clocks. Thousands of them, all out of sync, stretched across every stone wall surrounding him. More than once, Tom has attempted to count them all, only for his thoughts to stutter and make him lose his place.
Where there should be numbers, there are instead unrecognisable symbols. The hands move forwards and backwards, slowing down and speeding up again seemingly without cause. Tom has yet to discover any logic to their operation, despite how long he has spent studying them.
Studying them is the only way he can occupy his time. Otherwise, his thoughts drift to the discomfort of damp fabric clinging to his skin, then further still—towards darker paths filled with fear and regret.
He wonders if regret is the right word.
Perhaps it is better to watch the clocks.
He’s fairly confident he must be in the Department of Mysteries. Since first learning of a place holding such enticing secrets, Tom has longed to see it for himself. However, this situation was not what he had in mind—to be trapped without explanation.
One moment, he had been seeking shelter from a sudden rainfall, and the next he had found himself here.
Try as he might, he cannot understand why he has been made a prisoner here. There was the unpleasantness with the basilisk—the accidental death of the mudblood. But Tom had handled that situation quite cleverly by shifting the blame on to Hagrid’s shoulders. Now only Dumbledore harbours any suspicion towards him, not that he has any proof.
Besides, if that were the reason Tom had been apprehended, would he not have been taken to the Auror Office? Or even Azkaban?
“I have rights,” Tom says clearly. “You cannot continue to hold me here indefinitely.”
Just like every other time Tom has made similar statements, there is no response.
He slumps down in the chair as the clocks around him tick on and on.
----------------
Harry watches for a moment longer, cataloguing the hopelessness in Tom’s posture, the utter defeat in his eyes. He scribbles another set of observations onto the already-crowded parchment in front of him.
None of this data has yet formed into anything remotely satisfying. So, like a man possessed, Harry continues to introduce new variables.
He flicks his wand at the screen in front of him, and it shifts. The seventeen-year-old Tom Riddle is replaced by one a decade younger, dressed in the drab grey uniform of the orphanage.
The boy’s face is twisted, tears of frustration swimming in his eyes as he attempts to wrench one of the clocks off the wall. He steps back, a look of calculation still present beneath his agitation. Then he rears his head back and slams it into the face of one.
The moment Harry sees the blood blooming from Tom’s temple, he directs his wand at the screen. He chants softly as he slowly moves his wand in a weaving motion. The shattered glass flies back into place. The blood seeping from Tom’s wound is drawn back inside him, the gash sealing shut. Tom presses his small hand against the now-smooth skin, a bewildered expression crossing his features.
“Will you let me out?” Tom asks. “I promise I’ll be good and say my prayers from now on.”
Harry lets out a huff, his chest constricting involuntarily at the desperation leaking through Tom’s plea.
But even this young, Tom has a way of making lies sound sweet.
Harry summarizes the incident in his notes before moving on. The screen in front of him shifts to display another Tom.
This one is sixteen and so sick with fever after creating his first Horcrux that he seems to pay no mind to the clocks at all.
Then there is Tom at twenty-five.
Pacing and murmuring to himself, dressed in a crisp black suit.
An infant Tom, swaddled and crying.
A heavily pregnant Merope Riddle, one hand laying protectively over her stomach.
Thousands of Toms.
Plucked from thousands of timelines. Preserved in specialised rooms.
Harry watches them day after day beneath the endless ticking, hoping that eventually he will witness something profound enough to be the answer he has been searching for.
When he started all of this, he had felt certain there had to be a precise moment in time where Tom Riddle was most malleable. Most capable of being redeemed.
That version of Tom could then be replicated across thousands of controlled scenarios until the exact method of obtaining redemption could be carried out successfully.
But Harry is still stuck in the first stage—collecting Toms, trapping them, observing them.
Meanwhile, in the outside world, the consequences of Harry’s experimentation have begun to make themselves known. The large crack in the centre of the Ministry’s atrium is the most recent and dramatic occurrence, but before that there had been other incidents—days repeating, people suddenly no longer existing, a man from the Middle Ages appearing in his kitchen and nearly running him through with a sword.
Soon enough, Harry knows, the Department of Mysteries will discover the full extent of his unauthorised experiments. He doubts they will understand the necessity of it all.
After all, he no longer understands why he began this task. He would even say that he regrets all of it. That he could dismantle all the rooms, free the Toms within them, and desperately hope that it is enough to heal all the damage he has caused.
But there is no stopping what has already begun.
And there is still a chance, however small, that this could all be worth it. That is what prevents the guilt from swallowing him fully.
The screen shifts once more.
This Tom is ten years old. He’s curled on the floor, hands clasped over his ears in a vain attempt to block out the ticking. His swollen lips are parted, moving faintly, but his voice has given out and his words are inaudible.
Harry has a feeling he must be apologising. Most of them do.
But after all this time, he still cannot tell the difference between true remorse and another desperate attempt at survival.
Briefly, Harry recalls another child—similarly confined and horribly frightened.
He glances back down at his parchment, the cramped letters scrawled across it blurring. Forcefully, he shakes away the thought before it can settle.
Harry Potter is not the subject of this study. He doesn't get to be redeemed.
He scrawls down a note before moving on.
RIGHT end of Tom’s story 💔
milk or sugar?
Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort. written for @tomarrymortevents evil purge. prompt: International Tea Day
“Well he's the fittest regular we have,” Ginny says, “but he's well—” Her lips twist in contemplation.
“He's nutters,” Ron chimes in.
“But harmless most likely,” Ginny says reassuringly.
Ron shrugs. “I wouldn't be surprised to find out that he's killed before.”
Harry’s eyes widen. “What makes you say that, though? Like what does he do?”
Harry took this job knowing that customer service could be unpredictable, but there was nothing in his employee handbook covering serving tea to potential serial killers.
Ron and Ginny exchange looks before breaking out in eerily identical grins.
“That's something you should see for yourself,” Ginny says.
Harry has never been the type to worry too much, so he's not sure why he feels so apprehensive over the next few days. Each time the little bell over the door rings, his head automatically snaps in that direction.
The way Ron and Ginny snicker each time makes Harry consider that this could be some elaborate joke that they play on all the new hires—making him believe that a serial killer might climb in his window if he doesn't brew someone’s earl grey strong enough.
In fact, Harry has nearly convinced himself that the whole thing is a scare tactic by his fourth day on the job. He hears the bell announcing a new arrival to the shop, but he doesn't immediately turn from where he's cleaning out a coffee pot.
“Be with you in a moment,” Harry calls out cheerfully.
Behind him, there's an impatient huff.
Quickly, Harry replaces the clean pot and presses the brew button on the coffee machine. Then he turns on his heel to face the customer, wearing his best ‘I live to serve’ smile.
“Hi,” he says. “Welcome to Honeydukes!”
The man in front of him only stares.
Immediately, Harry knows this must be the man Ron and Ginny were talking about. Because he is by far the fittest person Harry has seen walk through the front door—with smooth waves of glossy dark hair and a jawline sculpted by the gods. But there's also something obviously off about him.
There's the intense eye contact that sends a chill up Harry’s spine, to begin with. Also, his choice of attire is strange—namely the long black cloak trailing down his back with a silver snake shaped pendant at his throat.
“Er,” Harry says, his smile slipping, “is there something I can get started for you?”
“You,” the man breathes. “It's you.”
His eyes, which only a moment ago Harry would have sworn were brown, are now a bright shade of crimson. Some sort of colour changing contacts, maybe?
The man is speaking as if they are old friends—or maybe old nemesises— but Harry is certain he has never seen him before in his life. After all, he doesn't think he would have easily forgotten any previous encounters with someone this unique.
Harry taps the name tag pinned to his apron. “I'm Harry,” he says. “I only started working here a few days ago. I don't think we’ve met.”
The man laughs but it's not the sort of charming chuckle that would be expected of someone with a face like that. It's high, cold, and villainous.
Harry understands why Ron thinks this man has probably killed someone before.
“I suppose it comes as no surprise you do not recognise me,” the man says. “I am sure you are far too weak of mind to carry your consciousness across realms.”
Harry frowns slightly. He has no idea what his bloke is even talking about really, but he naturally objects at being called weak of mind.
“Harry Potter,” the man hisses, leaning over the counter like a snake preparing to strike. “I am your beginning and your end. Your past, present, and future. I am Lord Voldemort.”
Harry’s breath hitches at the sudden proximity. His hands twitch at his sides. His job has been alright so far, so he hates the idea of being sacked for decking this weirdo across in his absurdly perfect face.
But then Lord Voldemort moves away, a deranged smile still stretched across his face. “Lord Voldemort demands a large Earl Grey tea.”
Harry swallows and nods. “Sure,” he says weakly. “Would you care for milk or sugar?”
Tom's hands quivered within Harry's warm, calloused grasp. His throat ached with the echo of his father's abuse and a torrent of emotion that threatened to overflow. He knew he deserved better. He knew that. This was why he had planned to steal a horse and get as far away from this uneducated town as he possibly could.
Somehow encouraged by Tom's silence, Harry shuffled closer. "We will tell everyone that you are to be my proper apprentice. You can stay here, you won't have to go back to your father. I'll think of an excuse for you to skip the sermon tomorrow—"
"I am going," Tom said, glaring. "You will not stop me."
"What? Why? Is this… is this about what you said earlier?" Harry's hands closed more tightly around Tom's. He lowered his voice as he said, "I'll help you, I swear. Whatever you need."
"No!" Tom snapped, yanking his hands free. It wasn't about that. Reverend Riddle would be furious to see him. Tom needed to meet his father's eyes when it happened. "I won't do him the favour of allowing him to believe he's won." In spite of everything, Tom had survived. The reverend needed to know that. "Besides, people will ask questions if I don't attend."
"I don't like it." Harry's closed fists came to rest on his knees. "That man is no true servant of God. The town should see him for what he is."
"I don't care if you like it." Tom stood with a minor wince as his bruised body made its protests known. "I'm going."
Fine lines creased Harry's face as he frowned. He pulled to his feet as well. "So long as you let me go with you," he said. "I won't let you out of my sight around him."
"I already told you—"
"Please, Tom." Harry gripped Tom's elbows and drew Tom toward him. His expression turned pleading. "Whatever you think, I meant every word that I said before. You're special to me."
Tom's heartbeat quickened. He couldn't bear the weight of those bright green eyes. They saw too much. He redirected his sight to the far window, where the last vestiges of sunlight cast a deep red-orange glow over the windowsill.
The hands on Tom's elbows travelled upwards, sliding to his shoulders. Harry gathered him close, tucking Tom under his chin. "Whatever you need," he repeated. "I'm listening, I promise." His lips met the crown of Tom's head. "But I won't let you go without a fight."
Truthfully, Tom was tired of fighting. He had spent his entire life enduring his father's hostility, contending with his immoral impulses, and wrestling with what God expected of him. The world was already a difficult place. He didn't want to have to fight Harry, too.
Tom closed his eyes and allowed himself to inhale the salt and sandalwood scent of Harry. "No one asked you to fight."
"I know, but I will. You ought to know, that day I met you, I thought to myself, 'God has sent me a temptation'." Harry chuckled lowly. "Gorgeous and with such a clever wit. There's no one like you in this town. I never even dreamed anyone like you would find their way here. Someone different, like me. The more we talked, the more I got to know you…" His soft breath fanned over the top of Tom's head. "You're a gift, Tom Riddle, and I'll fight to keep you."
🔗 Indecent Harvest
Tom’s parents 💔💔💔
Modern/Casual Tomarry :]
Albania sea resort 😂🌊☀️
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Thunderstruck
Chapter 2: The Bridge
Explicit | Harry Potter / Tom Riddle | 9,243 | 2/24
“If you leave me here, I’m going to haunt the Muggles instead,” Tom threatens, since pleading doesn’t seem to work. “I’ll talk them into jumping off, headfirst. Do you want that on your conscience? It will be your fault that the stream starts running bright red,” he hisses through his teeth, pointing at the babbling brook somewhere below. Potter turns slowly. He bites his cheek and shifts his side against the railing, pulling the Stone back to safety. “You might be young, but there’s already something terribly wrong in your head,” he says.
Tags: Teenage Tom Riddle, POV Tom Riddle, Unreliable Narrator, EWE, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Proximity, Denial, Murder, Violence, Grief, Alcoholism, Addiction, Horcruxes, Cults, Anger Issues, Identity Issues, Trust Issues
Why isn't Harry Potter's magical prowess more talked about and also a thing in every fic? This and his unrelenting sarcasm are two of his most obvious traits, and everyone continues to write him and talk about him as an ordinary, oblivious, socially awkward dweeb, that just had Things™ happen to him and now he's famous and he hates it, I guess 🤷🏻♀️
rant ahead, don't like don't read
i just saw someone call a scene where Harry gets choked by Tom and immediately likes it as "canon characterisation". Girl be fucking for real right now. Stop denigrating canon Harry like that. canon Harry bitch slapped 16 year old Tom and killed his basilisk WITHOUT A WAND!!!
The sub masochist Harry stuff is NOT canon characterisation, if you like it, it's fine but for the love of god stop calling it canon. It is so piss taking, you are presumably a grown adult, just own the fact that you like non-canon Harry characterisation instead of pretending Harry James Potter would canonically do any of that.
and it genuinely puts me off fics described that way bc it means when people say "canon characterisation" they mean "doormat submissive Harry" like how tf am I supposed to find canon esque characterisation then? none of you know what canon means smh
I’ve genuinely seen more than one person say this before, and I’m really starting to think that part of the fandom feels the need to project Harry’s canonical traits onto Tom, and Tom’s onto Harry, just to pretend Tom having some kind of inherent dominance, and Harry some inherent submissiveness, is actually canon 🤔