An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Hi everyone!
I'm a bit late but merry Christmas! This year again I participated to the @tmrhpgiftexchange. Here is my gif for @stolenviolet ! I had fun writing it, hope you'll like it !
Summary :
“Professor Potter?” Tom asked gently.
The man’s green eyes jumped to him through his glasses, intense and focused. He had his attention and Tom relished in it.
“What is it, Tom?” Professor Potter asked, already sounding resigned to answer whatever question Tom wanted to ask him.
But today, a week before the Christmas break, Tom wasn’t planning on interrogating the Professor about the theory behind some spells. Instead, his long fingers were carefully clutching the metal box he was carrying as he looked into the Professor's beautiful eyes. Slowly, he raised said box and offered it to the Omega, still staring into his eyes.
Voldemort/Harry Potter | 1/3 | 3.3k/9k | M-Rated | No Archive Warnings Apply
Written for @quantumquilltomarrymort and prompted by @stolenviolet ❤️
TAGS:
Post-Second Wizarding War with Voldemort (Harry Potter), Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Reincarnation, Lord Voldemort is a Cat, specifically a charming little red-eyed sphynx with a very imposing name, Harry is a cute divorced DILF, Animal Transformation, Animagus, Humour, Crack, Fluff
SUMMARY:
Bright white light sluices through Voldemort's eyes and he squeezes them shut again with a hiss, only to open them once again in confusion. His already high voice sounds … higher. He’s in a bedroom. Why is he in a bedroom? And why is everything so …
Large?
Lord Voldemort had always been tall, and this had not changed in his final form. His fearsome height had only increased.
He stares around, examining his surroundings, only to then scream. Or rather, yowl.
Staring straight back at him in repelled horror, in a large wardrobe mirror, is a cat.
A skeleton white, skeletal, hairless, wide-eyed, red-pupilled cat.
After his 'death', Voldemort wakes up as a cat. Incredibly, this isn't the worst part of his ordeal. The worst part is the identity of his owner.
all the things yet to come (are the things that have passed) | ch. 1
Not naming names, but someone’s rogue curse during the battle at the Department of Mysteries got both Harry and Voldemort shot through time to 2018—and for the record, Harry certainly wasn’t the one attacking Voldemort.
2018 is strange because with it comes Evan, a green-eyed man who swears he’ll get them home. 1996 is even stranger when they return to it because Evan is there now too, only he’s a baby. Strangest of all, this becomes Harry and Voldemort’s problem, as it seems he is their baby.
This changes some things.
(This changes everything.)
prompted by @stolenviolet through the @quantumquilltomarrymort fest <3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Fic inspired by art by @stolenviolet
—
“Aw, what’s the matter, my Lord?” Harry asked coyly. “You look upset. Did your ‘very important’ meeting not go well?”
Tom inhaled sharply. “Harry…”
“Maybe you should blow off a little steam…” He waggled his foot in Tom’s direction.
“Harry,” Tom repeated. “You are aware I need to get actual work done in this office.”
Harry scoffed, hand dragging along his thigh. “And where’s the fun in that?”
“Please, will you just—”
“Oooh, I think I like it when you beg…” He spread his legs, hand dragging seductively to the apex of his thighs. “Now, be a good boy and get over here.”
Tom watched as Harry’s hand traced the edge of his panties. “...Fine.”
—
Or the one where Harry shows up to Tom’s office in a very darling set of white lingerie.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
My fic for @stolenviolet, my gift recipient for an exchange! 😌💕 Stoked to share at last!
E | Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Time Travel, Explicit Sexual Content, Crack Treated Seriously, 1940s - 1980s, Idiots in Love, Possessive Tom Riddle, Parseltongue Kink, Flirting, Fluff, Unspeakable Harry Potter, Unspeakable Tom Riddle
Wordcount: 4,736
[Speak in Tongues]
Harry bakes a birthday cake for Tom. It has been said, after all, that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. But nothing in Harry's world ever goes quite the way he expects.
Their small talk is poor, and they snipe at one another more than they get along. They disagree on nearly everything important, yet their shallow interests often align. Harry would have thought that would have deterred Riddle, seeing as how he likes his yes-men, but he remarks that he finds Harry's honesty refreshing any time they argue.
Days pass like this—weeks, months—before it occurs to Harry that maybe, just maybe… as mad as the idea is… they're dating.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
It was love at first sight when Auror Potter saved Tom from a rather rude customer in Borgin and Burkes. Now, he can't stop thinking about him.
It drives Tom mad enough to follow Auror Potter on one of his routes one day, where he ends up finding out some very interesting information to help him get what he wants.
Based off art by @stolenviolet For @stolenviolet for the @tmrhpgiftexchange
Vampirism would never be Voldemort’s preferred form of existence, but needs must.
It’s unfortunate that the Ministry seized his body for examination instead of burying him – or even putting his corpse on display, he merits at least that much. But alas, when his back-up plan finally kicks in (well, the horcruxes were his initial back-up plan, but hardly the only one. One can never be too careful when it comes to ensuring one’s continued survival), he’s on an examination table surrounded by Aurors and Unspeakables. Not ideal for making his escape, especially when he’s weak and disoriented.
He manages to latch onto the nearest mage and drink enough of their blood to mount a defence and get to the exit, but being a vampire is different enough that he’s taken down before he makes it more than two steps through the door. How humiliating.
So now, here he is, tucked somewhere in the bowels of the Ministry with guards posted just out of sight, interrogated frequently on such matters as who his Death Eaters are, the extent of his crimes, what he knows (far more than these dunderheads can comprehend), and on and on. He gives them nothing, unless it doesn’t matter anymore and will just frustrate them to know. Then he provides more detail than they would ever want. Their methods of information extraction are laughable, anyway.
They only try to starve him to death once. After he rips through the wards and bars containing him and drains one of his guards dry, they don’t try it again. Now, they bring him some kind of blood in pouches once every few days. It sustains him, but that’s about all that can be said for it. He doesn’t feel hungry, per se, but too long without blood makes a headache pound behind his eyes and worsens his already irascible nature.
He’s certain he could escape this cell if he wanted to, but it’s taking him far longer to adapt to being a vampire than he had expected. His magic functions differently, his senses are heightened and inconsistent, and he’s unsure what his reaction to sunlight will be. (Or even regular indoor lighting – it’s kept quite dim in this corridor.) He’s willing to be patient and make his move when the time is right.
(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)
It’s during one of the Minister’s occasional visits – as though he has any respect for the position and will give up his secrets more easily – that he appreciates his intensified sense of smell for the first time.
(His guards could stand to brush up on their cleaning charms. They don’t appreciate it when he shares this knowledge with them.)
It’s enticing, the fragrance, and strong enough that it almost feels visible, wafting down the corridor from the open door. He feels himself drawn to the scent, only stopping when he hits the bars. It takes a fair bit of self-control to resist pulling them apart and pursuing the delicious smell. “Who walked by just now?”
“That isn’t of any concern to you,” Shacklebolt says flatly.
One of the Aurors snaps, “We’re asking the que–”
“Bring them here,” Voldemort commands. “Or we’ll find out exactly how well these new wards will hold up against me.”
His ability to enthral the Aurors guarding him might be limited by the amulets they wear, but the fact that it still affects them at all seems to terrify them more. One looks to the Minister, hands shaking; he races off once he gets the nod.
Shacklebolt attempts to stare him down, which would be more impressive if he’d been able to do it before Voldemort had his metaphorical wings clipped. Once he realises Voldemort has no intention of engaging in a childish staring contest, the other man chats quietly with the remaining guards.
The Auror returns, looking pale and pinched. “Er, Minister Shacklebolt…”
“Who is it?”
The Auror slides his eyes over to Voldemort before returning to meet the Minister’s gaze and shaking his head.
The look is telling. He makes an educated guess and calls out, “Harry Potter.”
After a brief pause, the tense, angry silence is shattered by the thud of footsteps rapidly approaching before the boy skids to a stop before Voldemort’s cell, panting for breath and looking horrified and enraged by what he finds.
“What the hell is he doing here–”
“Harry, wait–”
“He’s alive?!”
“Let’s go talk about this–”
“Hello again, Harry Potter,” Voldemort cuts in. “So kind of you to finally visit me.”
“How in Merlin’s name did you survive?” Potter shouts, sounding a touch hysterical.
“Come closer and I’ll tell you.” A rather transparent ploy, but the scent of the boy’s blood has his head reeling. And, well, Potter has never needed a sophisticated touch to lure him in.
Shacklebolt snarls at him and quickly raises the silencing barrier that prevents him from being heard beyond the walls of his cell. What a pity.
He says, “I’ll see you soon,” ensuring his mouth moves deliberately enough for the message to get through even if it can’t be heard. Potter’s brows furrow at him, eyes aflame, before he follows the Minister down the corridor, irately demanding to know everything.
No matter. If Shacklebolt thinks Potter won’t find a way back here, he doesn’t know the boy at all.
(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)
It takes four days before Potter skulks out of the shadows around Voldemort’s cell.
Voldemort knows from the moment he enters the corridor, even if he can’t see the boy getting closer. Wild, black hair and a lumpy jumper emerge from under an invisibility cloak directly in front of his cell, just inside the sound barrier. Clever boy.
“Come now, you’re not afraid of me, are you?” he taunts. “I’m no danger to you from in here. You can step closer.”
A vampire’s power of suggestion works just as well as the Imperius does against Potter. He’d expected it, but the boy’s mental resilience remains irritating.
“Did you seriously think that would work?” Potter says incredulously.
“I have so little entertainment, I’m not in a position to be picky,” he mockingly laments. “In any case, congratulations. You’ve exceeded my admittedly low expectations of you.”
“Tosser,” the boy mutters, before demanding, “What are you doing here?”
He raises a judgemental, nonexistent eyebrow. “Well, when the Ministry offered me room and board in perpetuity for the low cost of my freedom and privacy, how could I refuse?”
If looks could kill, Potter might actually have a chance at putting him in the ground permanently. “You know that’s not what I was asking,” he snaps. “How are you here, alive?”
Voldemort observes the boy for a moment. Deep bruises under his eyes, still too skinny – no one at home to notice if he goes missing.
“I propose a trade,” he says, moving ever so slowly closer towards the bars. “I have something you want, and you have something I want. Surely we can come to a mutually satisfying agreement.”
“What could I possibly want from you?” Potter grits.
“Isn’t it obvious? Your curiosity, Harry Potter, would put the proverbial cat to shame. You have questions.” Voldemort reaches out and wraps a hand around one of the bars. “And I have answers, if you’re willing to barter for them.”
Potter considers this, looking torn. Voldemort is confident the boy's need to know will win out. And he's correct.
“What do you want?”
“Something that I am certain will answer at least one of your questions. Come closer and you’ll find out.”
That nets him an unimpressed look. “I’m not stupid, you know,” Potter says.
“No, you aren’t, but you are rather gullible at times,” he replies with a grin.
“You are such a prick,” the boy says, almost wonderingly. “Fine. How are you alive? I saw you die. I checked your pulse, even.”
“You want to know how I am alive,” he says mysteriously. “How do you know that I am?”
Potter gives him a flat look. “Well, the whole walking and talking thing kind of gave it away.”
“Animate and alive are two different things,” he corrects.
“You pedantic–” the boy begins cursing, before pausing and considering the words more closely. Voldemort smiles and ensures his fangs are visible. “You’re a vampire,” Potter concludes quietly.
“Thirty points to Gryffindor,” Voldemort mocks.
Potter is still staring at him, and he can almost see the dots connecting in the other’s mind. “What you want is the answer… You want my blood?!”
“Oh, well done, Harry Potter. We’ll make a scholar of you yet.”
“Absolutely not,” Potter says firmly. “You really must think I’m stupid, if you think I’d let you bite me.”
“Where’s your sense of fairness? I’ve answered some of your questions, but you won’t keep up your end of the bargain?”
“You want to kill me!”
“Not anymore,” he maybe-lies. He’s fairly certain the prophecy lost its relevance once he died at Hogwarts. If so, he’s not particularly fussed about what happens to the boy now.
Potter shouts, indignantly, “Like I’d believe that!”
And, well, he can’t blame Potter for his scepticism. He has spent the better part of eighteen years repeatedly attempting to kill the boy. But that’s neither here nor there.
“You made a trade with me,” he reminds the boy. “It’s hardly my fault that you failed to clarify the terms of the deal beforehand.”
“Fucking…” Potter tugs on his hair, looking frustrated. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to kill me.”
Voldemort gives him an indulgent look. “I swear.”
“I can’t believe this…” the boy mutters. “How…?”
“Give me your hand.” He’s close; he’s so close…
Looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and giving Voldemort a warning look, Potter slowly slides his left hand between the bars. Voldemort pulls the boy’s wrist towards his mouth, ignoring the wary glare boring into the side of his head, and bites down.
Finally.
He feels like he’s been starving for years – a feeling made all the more intolerable by the complete lack of hunger he’s felt since his bodily resurrection. Slaking his thirst for the first time is revelatory – if he’ll experience this transcendent feeling each time he drinks, he finally understands why vampires accept the troublesome aspects of their nature.
He drinks deep, revelling in the euphoria coursing through his veins. On the periphery of his awareness, he can hear the boy making noise, but the wards will prevent the sounds from escaping. He feels Potter’s other hand pushing at his shoulder, his face, and wonders whether he should kill the boy here and now.
But he’s not so lost in bloodlust that he forgets how disappointing the Auror was when he’d drank from her. The taste of her blood was barely different from the blood bags they give him. Perhaps, much like the scent of his blood is rare, the intoxicating taste of Potter’s blood is equally uncommon. He can survive with the blood of others, but…
Existence is so much more enjoyable with little luxuries to break up the monotony.
So he stops before the boy’s blood levels fall dangerously low. Potter will even be able to walk out of here, if a little unsteadily. If this becomes a regular thing (and he hopes it will, until he makes his escape and can steal the boy away to feed on as he pleases), he’ll have to recommend Potter bring blood replenishers.
He floats back down to earth slowly, enjoying the warm, effervescent feeling filling his body and mind. When he opens his eyes again, he sees he’s not the only one affected.
Potter is leaning heavily against the bars, left arm limply hanging from Voldemort’s grasp, and panting like he can’t catch his breath. His face is flushed – though the unflushed sections of skin are decidedly paler than usual – and his body keeps twitching. Perhaps he’d taken too much blood. Or the boy is having an adverse reaction.
Voldemort licks the bite wound to help speed the healing – can’t have his portable meal bleeding out, after all. As his tongue slides across the boy’s wrist, Potter whimpers. Needily.
Hmm.
That recontextualizes the boy’s other physical cues.
“Why Harry, did you enjoy that?” he asks, exhaling an unnecessary breath over the damp flesh of Potter’s wrist. A low, soft moan and a glassy-eyed glare are his only response.
This could be entertaining.
He passes Potter’s hand back through the bars and watches the boy straighten up on wobbly legs.
“May I offer some assistance–”
“No!” Potter gasps, pushing away from the bars, though his hand remains firmly gripped around one to hold himself up.
“Very well. I appear to have taken more than was fair for the questions you asked, and you’re in no state to ask any more at the moment,” Voldemort says smugly. “I’ll be sure to answer a few extra queries for you next time in exchange.”
“Next time,” Potter says, a slight rasp to his voice. From the frown on his face he means it to come out angrily, but the breathiness makes it sound more like a promise.
Voldemort reaches through the bars to take the boy’s invisibility cloak from his pocket and fasten it around his neck, pulling the hood up as he says, “Yes, next time. Until then, Harry Potter.”
Potter lingers outside his cell for a minute, likely gathering himself for the walk back, before Voldemort hears his slightly unsteady steps moving away.
He starts to think of all the avenues this opens to him – and all the fun he can have while he waits for the opportune moment to leave here.
Just giving a heads up that I will be disabling ‘anonymous ask’ until further notice due to some rather…unpleasant individuals.
I have received a flood of hate messages within the last few weeks (which I believe to be just one or two people spamming) and because I want this account to remain relatively free of negativity, I don’t feel comfortable posting them nor will I be responding to them other than this post.
Thank you all for your understanding.
—
[ Also, shout out to the lovely anons who have sent me the sweetest messages. You guys are wonderful and even if I don’t respond to all of them, know that I save them in my inbox to look at whenever I’m feeling discouraged. Y’all are the best 🥹 💕]
blacked out and woke up with 1.9k words of harry & voldemort's wedding ceremony, ft. a first duel
inspired by these gorgeous works of art by @stolenviolet, although some liberties have been taken
First Duel
The first duel, also traditional (if only among those families called to the Dark), is next. Mrs Weasley had loudly protested its inclusion, relenting only when Harry told her he’d demanded it himself. He needs it, if he’s going to do this right, and he’s determined to do it right. Voldemort values him as he values any of his horcruxes. In making sure Harry understood what this meant, Snape was relentless. And what it means is this: Voldemort does not love him. Voldemort does not particularly want him, either.
But Harry is going to make him.
someday i will be content with the number of times i've made harry knock v flat in a fic and finally stop, but today is not that day
I am literally obsessed with your art style. You draw Harry SO WELL. He's just so pretty like omg. And I love how you draw Tom and Voldemort too like UGH 😫 WOW.
Your baby death au is literally the best. And that one fic, heir de la mort, it's literally so amazing and your art inspired it. Seriously like wow.
But like really big apples, y'know? Think fuji picked at peak season. Yeah, three of those bad boys stacked on top of each other and that's how tall I think he is.
