#2.2k words

[patchworkcuddlebug]

Humanity

[CW: Passive suicidal ideation.]

Being a person feels... heavy. Like I'm always full of something. It didn't have to be gross, but it usually was. Sometimes it was something with an easy word to it, like disdain or cowardice, but usually it was more vague. Some sort of congealed, disgusting mass that's been slowly accumulating for as long as I've been alive, weighing my guts down until I'm too stressed to eat and too tired to sleep.

I don't want to die. Death sounds too painful, and I'm scared of commitment. But, as I looked out into the bay, waiting for the traffic on the toll bridge to advance, I can't help but daydream. If I drove into the river, just by some freak accident out of my control, I... wouldn't do much to fight it. I would just let whatever happens happen as I sit still. Let this heaviness in my chest weigh me down and drown me.

My whole life was like that, really. Just moment after moment of letting things out of my control happen to me. My parents never really let me do much, either because we didn't have money, or they decided it wasn't right. I had to move out young after they died, and that didn't give me much of a choice in where to work and where to rent. I didn't even have a chance to think about what my major would've been.

Being a waitress meant doing what you're told when you're told, which table to go to and what to bring them, and what to clean. The work itself was fine, it's just... everything around it. The same awful people just as trapped here as I am, the same inconsiderate boss that barely pays me enough to buy vegetables, the same disgusting smell of fish and chips, all building up and coagulating little by little.

The only way I could get through an average work day was by shutting my brain off and just letting my body move on its own. The years I've worked there have just been the same fog of meaningless obedience. It's a sort of torture, suppressing your ego all just to become your work, for the sake of people you hate. Just feeling full and heavy and gross.

That's how I survived most of my life. Ever since I started school, I learned quick that you keep your head down and go with the flow. Don't be too loud, too big, too anything. Just look pretty and do what you're told without thinking too hard about what you're doing. Try not to feel too much.

Of course dying isn't that big of a deal. I don't feel like I was ever truly alive, ever something that could really be called a person.

Oh, I'm home.

God it's so cold out. It's like the wind is trying to bite me through my coat. I really wish our heating worked, but I've given up trying to fight for it a long time ago.

I can hear the music from here. I swear to fucking god if she's throwing another party I'm going to scream. She can't keep doing this, she really can't.

I fumble with my keys because it's too cold in the hallway, and I struggle with the lock because it hasn't been replaced in over a decade. This is the right key, and I keep trying to turn it, but it won't unlock and my fingers are starting to hurt.

Today needs to end. Please. I just need to stop, after everything, I just need things to stop and let me be still for a single fucking-

Finally.

I leave the door open for as little time as I can. I don't even take my coat off before I march into the living room. She's there, on the couch with more friends than I've ever met. They're all smiling, talking with each other, and having fun. They're smoking weed inside.

I need to stop looking at the one sitting on the arm of the couch, she's not important right now.

"Hey, what the fuck?!" I raise my voice to be heard over the music and drunken ramblings. "I told you that you can't keep doing this, I'M the one who gets in shit for this with the landlord!"

She looked around her, gauging her guests' reactions. She forces a timid smile. "Hey, you don't have to make a big deal out of this, alright? Nothing's gonna happen if nobody tells on us, so just relax." She turns away from me, back to the others. To the woman on the arm of the couch. My roommate falls into this sort of drunken fawning, trying to excuse my behaviour, but that woman on the arm of the couch doesn't join in with them exaggeratedly rolling their eyes or shooing me away.

"I'm not the bad guy here! You're the one who keeps...!" I wince, bringing a hand over my eyes as I recoil into the door frame. It's so loud. "Fuck it, I can't do this with you, I'm going to bed." I turn and leave and slam my door and lock it. She turns the music back up. I'm ordering food and going to sleep.

After I stop crying.

. . . . .

"Do you like your life, darling?"

I'm floating. I'm naked. I can't tell where I am. I don't think I'm anywhere.

"...No."

The woman from earlier. I couldn't stop thinking about her all night. The way she looked, how she carried herself, it was just stuck in my brain.

She's so... big. She's towering over me. I'm like a toy, barely up to her shins.

This isn't a dream. She's there. I can feel her in front of me, almost more real than being awake. I've never been more lucid before.

"Such a poor thing..." She looks so sad. For me?

She's kneeling. "Let me take all that hurt away. I've always wanted nothing more than to help someone like you live the life they deserve." I should be scared. I shouldn't trust her. "I already know you'd make such a good doll~"

I look down at my body. It's fluctuating, moving in and out as I look at myself. My torso is flat and wooden like a marionette, but with each breath in it expands with cloth instead of skin. I can feel the seems of my stitches, the plastic of my joints, the clattering of my porcelain, all at once. It feels... welcome.

She's reaching for me. I know I should flinch, I should be scared of her crushing me as she wraps her hands around me like a doll, but I can't even remember what such a distrust would feel like. She's pulling me to eye level.

Why does her touch feel so... nice?

I feel a breach, like I've just come up for air. I can feel my soul hack and sputter, and finally begin to breathe. I've never felt so light, so emptied. Everything disgusting inside of myself was drained away. Have I been drowning all this time?

"Meet me whenever you're ready, darling." I know where she means. I see her manor, grand and sprawling, but tucked away just out of sight. I can see it so perfectly. "I'll be waiting for you there."

Her hands start to loosen, and I start to fall, further and further away from Miss.

I inhale sharply, way too deeply, as I wake up. It feels like I'm gasping for air. My whole body... hurts is the wrong word, there's a heavy rawness pulsating through me. It's not the heaviness normally in my chest. I'm in a puddle of sweat. I can feel my heartbeat behind my eyes.

My phone says it's 4:37 am. I don't care. I need to see her.

. . . . .

It's a blur. I'm on autopilot, too wired to think. This doesn't feel like before, this isn't the fog. This is pure intention.

I find myself in my car, driving to her. I know where to go, I know. I need to get there. I can't afford to waste any time.

I leave my car parked on a dirt road and wander into the forest just as the sun starts to rise. I didn't bother grabbing anything I didn't need to get here, and I left what i did grab in the car anyway. I didn't even take the keys out of the ignition. Whatever happens, I'm not coming back.

It's a few minutes of walking from the road to her manor. I have plenty of time to reconsider. It's not too late to go back. I'm afraid, of course. My self-preservation is trying to restrain me by my neck. But every time I think about giving into that fear, that complacency stopping me from stepping into the unknown, the idea of returning to what was... I keep walking. I couldn't explain why. Too much momentum, too heavy to bother stopping.

I'm here. Oh god, this is really happening. I lean against the house on an outstretched arm as I stare at the front door. It's thick and wooden, like something from a fairy tale. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and raise a fist. She opens the door before I can knock.

This is really happening.

"Oh, I'm so happy you came, darling!" She quickly reaches an arm around me and ushers me through the door. "And so quick, too! I knew I made the right choice."

She sits me down on the couch and disappears just a room away. Before I can even admire the decor, she returns with two glasses, and a jug of iced tea. She sits down beside me, pours herself a glass, and sets the jug out of my reach.

She takes a swig of her drink, leaning back and swirling it in her cup. She stretches her arm across the back of the couch. I could cuddle up to her so easily, and I've never before felt this tempted to do that with someone. "Tell me what you know about dolls."

I feel something I've never felt before. Just a little, just enough.

"U-uh..." I try to gather everything I can. I don't know why I'm so caught off guard by the question, I came here for a reason. But saying it out loud, actually articulating these feelings, is something totally foreign.

"A doll is like a person, but... not." I take a deep breath. I feel like I'm standing in front of a stadium of thousands. "Witches use their magic to turn people into dolls so they can have servants. And... there are rules to being a doll, like how you have to call yourself an object, and do everything you're told."

I look at her for approval. She's waiting for me to continue. "Am I gonna be a doll?"

The witch almost... melts. She has such a kind, compassionate smile. She sets her drink down and turns her body to face me as much as she can. "Do you want to be a doll, darling?"

"I... I mean, I, uh..." I have never felt more like prey. Why is my face so warm? I'd do anything for her.

She reaches out and takes my hands, that I was holding up to my chest defensively. I leave them limp, just letting her grab them. I feel my shoulders start to lower just a little bit. She's so warm.

"Dolls are empty spaces shaped like people." She teaches me. "Dolls are objects that are obedient and docile. There's a special feeling they have called stillness, where your thoughts go away and you just feel happy." She starts to smile, a tender eagerness. "Can you feel it now?"

I feel it. I feel it. I feel it, I feel it. The stillness. She's making me still. It's gone. I don't feel heavy. I'm empty in such a wonderful way. I feel like I could float through the breeze for the rest of my life and be perfectly happy. Like I could do anything, and I would be happy. Is this what life was supposed to feel like? All this time?

"It's a big decision, darling." Her voice is so... magical. It's calming, it's exciting, it's everything to me. "This can only happen if you want it to. Think about your old life, everything you'll leave behind. This is your last chance."

I think about being a human. I think about everything that comes with being a human, the things I'll lose. My autonomy, my identity, things I was never granted in the first place. The privilege of destroying my self just a little every day, all to save myself the trouble of feeling. More than anything, that disgusting heavy feeling, the filth so deeply compacted inside me I thought it was inherent to being.

"Y... y-yes... yes, I want to be a doll!" I'm smiling so wide. Crying hasn't felt this good in a long, long time.

The witch smiles back at me. She pulls me into her, hugging me so tenderly. She's soft, and warm, and so many things.

"You're going to become such a good doll."

Good doll. I can finally feel good.

[ohlittlebluebell]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Criminal Minds (US TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jennifer "JJ" Jareau/Emily Prentiss Characters: Jennifer "JJ" Jareau, Emily Prentiss, Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: Fluff, Soft Feels, POV Jennifer "JJ" Jareau, BAU Unit Chief Emily Prentiss, Momily, Humor, Snow, maudverse, jemily as girl moms, baby's first snow :) Series: Part 2 of what makes life so sweet Summary:

Another step, and their daughter wobbles dangerously, losing her footing on the uneven snow. But before she can fall and crash, Emily is right there to catch her.

“I’ve got you,” she says quietly.

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

“It looks like you’re in trouble there. Can I help?”

Tom has had the unfortunate displeasure of ending up in a few uncomfortable situations throughout his life. Needless to say, he’d rather these situations stay between him, himself, and he.

However, that is not always the case.

He can remember his first year and how he sank into the small marsh area in the corner of the common room with startling clarity. It did not matter that it was nearly a rite of passage to fall prey to the trick carpet hiding the deceptively deep water. His embarrassment burnt like a cauldron fire. And the giggling of his schoolmates still grates in the dark when his eyes have shut, and he tries to drift off to sleep.

Tom can even remember that time Amy Benson was dared to kiss him. How he’d flinched so badly, his head reared up and back with force strong enough to make her nose bleed. How she cried and cried and cried, dripped blood everywhere, and rubbed her arm harshly across her lips. Tom can hear her shouts, “So gross! Whatta monster!” as loud as the morning rain when it pelts against his room’s window panes at the orphanage.

More recently, Tom remembers the harsh face of rejection. So much like his own… but he feels the sting of that soothing with time, and with each turn of the family ring he wears with vicious pride.

And today, when Tom decided to patrol the castle’s upper levels once curfew set, he hoped his small and insignificant blunder would stay just that: his.

And yet.

“Seriously, are you alright down there?”

Tom looks up, a frown tugging at his lips and a glare sharp enough to cut. “Clearly,” he starts, sarcasm scathing, “I’ve never been better, Potter.”

And Harry Potter merely stands there, hands on his knees, smiles his stupid crooked smile and cocks a brow. “Oh? So I can go then?”

Tom hates him. Tom hates him enough to curse him. Maybe even curse him dead. “Yes. I don’t need your help,” and knowing you, you’ll just make everything worse, Tom doesn’t say.

But he’s almost confident that’ll be the case. Potter has an odd habit of ending up in odder places and dealing with the oddest circumstances. Though, even Tom can recognise that he has a natural talent for wiggling his way out of them. Abraxas has a running gag, keeping a ‘comprehensive list’ of situations the new transfer student has wound up in and a matching list of dramatic and ridiculous things he thinks Potter will do next.

Surprisingly, Potter has managed to cross three things off that list.

Most of Slytherin agrees it’s his Gryffindor nature, and the red tie certainly contributes to that argument. But there have been moments. Quiet and scarcely there, barely under the surface, something that flickers when Tom catches Potter at just the right instant, just the right angle… that has Tom wondering.

Even now, when Tom blinks, he swears the stripes on Potter’s undone tie, thrown carelessly over one shoulder and dangling down as he looks over Tom, is a green that rivals his eyes.

“Come on, Riddle. You can’t mean that.” Potter huffs, exasperated, “I mean, look at you.”

Ah, yes. Tom can admit that falling off the astronomy tower and dropping his wand in his panic to grab the ledge was not something he’d anticipated.

That didn’t mean Potter had to rub it in.

“I don’t see a problem,” Tom grits out. Just go away, his eyes scream. As though Potter is smart enough to know legilimancy, laughable. Please. He’s hardly aware enough to pick up common social cues.

Potter lowers further, squatting on his haunches. His hand reaches out and traces the tower’s edge like he can’t help himself, like flirting with danger. “So this was part of your plans this evening? You decided to run your rounds and thought, Goodness! Do you know what would be lovely? A nice little hop off the astronomy tower!”

“Was that irritating voice meant to be an impression of me?”

“Not to you’re liking? That’s a shame; I’ve been practising since I was twelve.”

Tom rolls his eyes so hard he sees spots. “You didn’t know me when you were twelve.”

Potter just keeps smiling.

Tom snaps, “What exactly is it that you want?”

“I already told you. It looks like you’re in trouble, I happen to be an expert on trouble, and I’m offering you help,” Potter says and crawls forward until he can comfortably stretch his arm down to Tom.

And Potter, with his stupid quidditch body and toned arms, could probably lift Tom up easily. It just infuriates him more. “I would rather fall.”

“And die?” Potter asks. There’s something off about his smile when he says it. Something that sends a chill down Tom’s spine.

It’s said with a little too much knowing for Tom’s taste.

His disquiet lingers long enough for Potter to speak up again, “What were you doing up here anyway?”

Given the placement and fullness of the moon and the fact they are nearing the dawn of Capricorn’s sky, Tom thinks it rather obvious what he is attempting to do at the top of the astronomy tower. Admittedly, rituals of this nature may be a league above anything Potter is aware or tolerant of, so maybe obvious is too generous an assumption.

Regardless, it’s not something Tom is going to brag about. “Prefect rounds.”

Potter actually laughs in Tom’s face, “Yeah, right. And I’m just here to gaze at the pretty little stars!”

Tom’s eyes narrow, “And what is it that you are doing here, Potter?”

Potter grins a wide closed mouth thing. “Stalking you, of course, Riddle.” Tom frowns, unamused, as Potter carries on, “It’s one of my favourite pastimes, foiling your small schemes.”

And for a moment, Tom almost rolls his eyes again, annoyed and fed up with Potter’s antics and this ridiculous position he’s found himself in. But there’s something about the tone of Potter’s voice, the way he says it so carelessly, harmlessly, that has the hair on Tom’s neck standing straight up. Like a warning, like danger.

With an outside awareness, Tom carefully reviews memory after memory of his recent string of (he hesitates to use the word, but) failures. How one too many times this past week something has gotten in the way of his budding connections with purebloods, or his ability to meet with his knights, or his evening strolls through Ravenclaw territory to sweet talk the Grey Lady into revealing the hiding place of Ravenclaw’s lost Diadem.

It startles Tom to realise that these strange and unaccounted-for mishaps all have one thing in common: Harry Potter.

Potter, who has recently taken it upon himself to spur on cross-house relations. Encouraging people of all ilk to get along even if it means dragging them into conversations (or casual quidditch matches) kicking and screaming. Thus causing Tom’s carefully planned run-ins with certain influential and affluential children of ministry officials and the scared twenty-eight alike to miraculously not be on their habitual routes that Tom has spent years learning.

Potter, who was responsible for the prank flooding in the room Tom’s knights used to meet. His insistent apologies profused left and right— not for the flooding itself, but because he flooded the wrong room. Tom gave it a pass at the time because they were so close to the Gobstones Club, but what if it was intentional all along?

Potter, who was often seen prowling around the fifth and fourth floors due to his frequent visits to the hospital tower. He had struck an unlikely friendship with the normally timid Grey Lady, and Tom had found them in soft blue evening light, Potter’s form stark through the Grey Lady’s transparent hovering, talking quietly a few handfuls of times. And how has Tom not realised all of this sooner?

It’s not like Potter is trying to be subtle, after all.

Suddenly, Tom feels very wary. “Potter…you wouldn’t have anything to do with my current predicament, would you?”

“I would never come up here an hour before you and cast aguamenti on the stone to let the naturally brisk December evening work its wonders and produce a nearly invisible sheet of ice for you to slip on, Riddle. And I’m offended you’d ask,” Potter deadpans.

Tom feels his eye twitch. “I’m going to kill you.”

“You really need a new hobby, Riddle.” Now Potter is the one rolling his eyes. “Just take my hand, and I’ll help you up.”

Tom scoffs, “You orchestrated my near catastrophic fall, and you expect me to just trust you’ll not drop me?”

Potter raises a brow, looks left, looks right, and back to Tom. “I’m sorry. Did you have any other way out of this? Because from the looks of things, you’re pretty fucked. And I don’t believe I have to remind you that it’s Christmas Hols, so no one is likely to check on the tower till after the break. Which means you could be here for days.”

Tom, for a moment, can’t find the words. He just stares in open mouth horror at Potter. “You… how did you sort Gryffindor?”

“I asked,” Potter smiles like that absolutely ridiculous answer is something very clever. For all Tom knows, it probably is.

Insanely, all Tom can think about is how Abraxas would be able to cross attempted murder off his comprehensive list.

Tom knows he doesn’t have the time nor energy to mull over Potter’s offer of help any longer but does so anyway just to watch Potter shake his head in growing disbelief. Then he sighs and says, “Fine,” with much reluctance.

Potter reaches down, stretching as far as possible, and Tom makes the risky decision to drop hold of the ledge with one of his hands. He wills himself to ignore the painful burn of the reach and the paranoid feeling of numbness from the cold on his remaining grip and meets Potter halfway. Their hands touch, and Tom feels an instant relief.

The relief is short-lived.

“Swear to me,” Potter starts, not pulling Tom up, “Riddle, swear to me right now that you’ll never make another Horcrux again.”

Tom rears back in shock, the jerked motion tugging harshly on Potter’s hold. He sees Potter’s brow furrow at the pain, no doubt, and feels vicious satisfaction through the raging scream echoing loudly in Tom’s very being.

“What?” Tom hisses, and it dawns on him quickly that this had been Potter’s goal all along. Potter wasn’t some annoying idiot attempting to be a thorn in Tom’s side; he was a Slytherin in Gryffindor’s skin, plotting and crafting and scheming his way to tonight, to this moment. To Tom’s ruining.

“I know I’m too late for the others,” Potter grimaces, and his displeasure is an ugly taut thing that Tom wants to see and cause a hundred times over. “But I can stop any more you’ve planned. I can at least do this much.”

Tom feels a bubble of laughter building and is helpless when it bursts hysterically and loudly in the quiet winter night. “Potter, if you know oh so much about my supposed Horcruxes, then you know what they do. You know what they’re for.” Tom deliberately loosens his hold and feels a rush of heady elation at the panic in Potter’s eyes, at the sudden tighter grip he holds Tom with.

“You know that if I fall, I’ll just come back.”

Potter nearly snarls, his lips pulling back to show straight white teeth. Tom’s sure their bite is as crushing as his bark. “Yeah, sure, Riddle. And you’ll just be a wraith or whatever until you somehow get a new body.” Tom tuts, disappointed and wildly pleased that Potter had clearly done his research. “Call me crazy, but I doubt your current little followers have enough wits about them to build you a whole new body from scratch. And I doubt you’ve had the time to actually prepare such a failsafe yourself while stuck at Hogwarts most of the year and at your Orphanage for the rest.”

It’s the most Potter has ever said to him, Tom thinks, and it’s dizzying. But he isn’t done, “I’d say that’s plenty of time, wouldn’t you, to find your other Horcruxes and make sure you can never come back.”

Potter says this like a promise. Like it would be far too easy. Tom’s terrified. But, madly, a blistering heat crawls up his neck and to his cheeks, pushing through all of his coursing fear—or worse yet, instigated by it—and his stomach lurches like a swarm have taken home there; he knows it’s not from his anger.

With a dry mouth and eyes only for the wild, determined thing clutching his hand for dear life, Tom nods. “I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, vow to you, Harry Potter, to never make another Horcrux again.”

And when Potter promptly lifts Tom up and back into the tower, safely and gently, and shortly abandons him to its stark winter quiet, he makes another vow. Just to himself.

You will be mine, Harry Potter.

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

Something different.

Frustration bloomed in the back of Harry’s throat wide enough to choke, unfurling until his mouth felt full and dry—though that could’ve been the third glass of wine. He didn’t understand what ‘different’ was, what had changed. The answer seemed shrouded from his sight, scarcely out of reach.

Or, Harry pondered, slouched comfortably in an armchair, his eyes locked on Voldemort’s candlelit form. Maybe not very far at all. He had an inkling it was hiding just behind the monster sitting before him—the wolf in sheep’s skin.

Delicately drafting missive upon missive, Voldemort fell to silence some time ago. Their steady back and forth lulled and gave breath to the ever-diligent scrawling, barely clear enough to hear over the crack and sizzle of the fire.

If Harry hadn’t grown so accustomed to Voldemort’s sudden breakthroughs and thoughtful quietness, he wondered if he’d be more offended.

His mouth curled like hands strangling, ripping weeds from the root; Harry would be much more than offended if he were anything like he used to be around Voldemort. He doubted there’d have been anything left of this humble study, and they’d be anything but—

Harry sighed… And there it was again—that frustration prying at his lips.

But—what? What were they doing anyway? The words at the tip of his tongue didn’t seem right, but Hermione would tell him not to fight it, that his gut reaction wasn’t typically too far off.

So…companionable? Is that what they were?

Friends? Or, at the very least, friendly?

Harry tasted bitter pollen and fresh dirt on the flat of his tongue, but his lips tugged wider. He couldn’t stop himself because this all seemed so absurd. Completely laughable.

“Why are you grinning like a fool?”

Harry’s attention pulled back to Voldemort, though he could hardly say it ever left.

Voldemort’s form was relaxed, never slouched but comfortable. He sipped his wine, eyes sharp over the rim of his glass, keen on Harry.

“None of your business,” Harry replied. It wasn’t biting or challenging like he meant it to be (like it used to be), but that didn’t matter.

Voldemort took everything as a challenge.

So Harry watched as Voldemort set his glass down on the desk, narrowed his eyes, and considered his options.

Harry knew from experience that Voldemort liked to try casting an imperio on him every once in a while to see if he’d suddenly lost his ‘immunity’ (Ron’s words). Or liked talking circles around him until he unknowingly answered everything Voldemort was wondering and more.

It was rarer when Voldemort attempted to glimpse his thoughts, but Harry knew he enjoyed trying.

It’s uncomfortable and oppressive, Voldemort had once told him. Sounding disconcertingly impressed. I have not seen anything like it during my time.

And Harry had nodded, understanding. He was well aware of the unusualness of his mindscape.

Yet, Voldemort had continued, It is not unfamiliar.

It turned out Voldemort’s curiosity was always more harm than good. Harry went weeks managing raging headaches from his many tests. The goal was ultimately to reveal Harry’s breaking point or, at the very least, find some of his hidden memories and thoughts.

All those headaches were endured to no avail as Voldemort was, and continued to be, dissatisfied.

Voldemort stood abruptly, and Harry startled. “Come,” he said as he walked to the door. He paused and held it open; Harry took that to mean ‘no’ wasn’t an option.

Hoisting himself up and finding his balance when the blood rush became less too-quick-standing-up and more maybe-one-less-glass-next-time-Harry, he quickly made his way out of the study. He waited for Voldemort to shut and ward the door before taking off after him down the long, winding halls of Slytherin Manor.

Voldemort had really gone all out after the truce. When Harry was invited to the newly constructed and stately home, he wondered if all purebloods used the same magical architects. There was a grace and a flawless connection to every room, a theme or some sort of thoughtful pattern, that Harry didn’t quite achieve with Grimmauld Place. There was something to be said about professionals, and those at the top of their field no less. For Voldemort would never allow second best.

Mindful of these small details, it was hard not to compare everything to the Malfoys’ manor, which housed all their meetings during the first two years of the truce. But Harry could hardly be faulted when one took in the tall and expansive windows and the spacious drawing rooms and grand libraries (yes, more than one), so close yet so vastly different to the Malfoys.

Harry had remarked upon this several times, of course. Unfortunately, it took Voldemort using the wards to forcibly remove him for Harry to realise that his comments went very much unappreciated.

Admittedly, the colour scheme was way darker here, though that didn’t surprise Harry. With their pale hair, pale eyes, pale walls, and paler peacocks, Draco, Narcissa and Lucius would stick out like sore thumbs here. Just like Voldemort, with his dark hair, dark eyes, dark robes, and darker humour, had in their home.

Nonetheless, with all the apparent beauty of Slytherin Manor’s interior, Harry quickly realised that nothing in these walls pleased Voldemort more than the gardens around it. And naturally, that was where Voldemort led them.

The season’s chill bit at Harry’s skin, and he watched as Voldemort’s breath spiralled out in clouds of white. It was the only proof Harry could find of Voldemort being affected by the cold. Even with his new face (or old? Harry supposed the similarities between it and Tom Riddle’s were too close not to assume), there was still an apparent…otherworldliness to him.

His motions were too graceful. His gaze was too precise. His voice was too melodious, like charming sleigh bells or an arresting church organ depending on his moods. Harry caught himself enthralled and appalled by Voldemort in equal measure. That may be why it seemed so impossible to Harry that they had gotten close. Because he still couldn’t entirely remove the man from the monster. But Harry was starting to realise he might be okay with that. Accepting Voldemort for who he was: both.

“Is this better?” Voldemort startled Harry out of his intense focus.

He frowned, “Is what better?” What was Voldemort talking about? Had he missed something?

Voldemort led them deeper into the sprawling gardens. Fairies fluttered about the grounds shimmering and shining in their transparent multicolours. They twinkled over the no doubt carefully selected winter flora and fauna; heather and aconite clashed for attention amongst the evergreens and large shrubs with dainty bell-shaped yellow flowers that dripped down arching branches like bundles of grapes. Harry couldn’t name half the growth scattered about, probably not even with Neville’s help.

They stopped in a small clearing home to a single (surprisingly tasteful) fountain. “The fresh air,” Voldemort finally answered. He was so quiet that Harry almost missed it. “Is it helping ease your mind?”

“My mind didn’t need to be eased?” Harry aimed for a statement, but it came out like a question.

Voldemort looked at him like he’d said something particularly idiotic. “Yes, because you often look one minor thought away from breaking everything in a room.” His light, sarcastic tone, sickly sweet, had Harry crossing his arms.

“So that’s why you ran us out of the manor,” Harry scoffed.

“Lord Voldemort does not run, Harry.”

“Lord Voldemort apparently does if he thinks Harry Potter will blow up his pretty little house.”

They each held their ground, eyes locked. But the tittering of the fairies was an embarrassing wake-up call, so Harry broke first. His snort huffed out and clouded the air, surprising Voldemort and himself. He completely gave in to his laughter after that. The sight of Voldemort’s shock was too funny to keep bottled up.

Voldemort shook his head like a silent prayer and waited for Harry’s giggles to die down, “I thought you were…upset. I felt it through the Horcrux, that festering feeling of something unresolved and annoying. You seemed frustrated.”

Harry didn’t really know what to say. He was taken aback that Voldemort could even tell something was bothering him. Though he had been strangely intuitive recently, Harry noted. Especially since that day at Grimmauld Place.

And Granger mentioned you may be depressed.

Harry shook his head to rid himself of…whatever that was. Voldemort continued when he wasn’t paying attention, “-decide to spend your holiday with your friends. I found that odd, considering you are all very close. Trouble in paradise?”

“What,” Harry frowned. How was it that Voldemort never failed to make him feel wrong-footed? Why couldn’t Harry ever catch a break? “No, nothing’s wrong. And that’s a muggle thing, you know? Trouble in Paradise.”

“So you’re celebrating Yule at my manor because you want to?” The very idea seemed unfathomable to Voldemort, judging by his wrinkled brow and scrunched-up nose. Though maybe his face was because Harry mentioned muggles, and that was still a touchy subject.

“Well, yes? No- I’m,” Harry stuttered and looked away. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the Weasleys or Sirius and Remus. Everything really was fine. It’s just, well, Harry didn’t feel comfortable tagging along this year. He’d gone missing for most of it, isolating as he did, and people still looked at him with this weird mixture of concern and pity and treated him like a spun glass ornament.

Voldemort never did that.

“I mean- Wait, you invited me here!” Harry shouted to some hellebore, his exclamation entirely misdirected.

Voldemort had invited Harry here! That’s right! It was under the guise of ministry paperwork, some dumb bill that required Harry’s approval too, because even though Voldemort had clearly been on the straight and narrow for years, people were still under the impression one couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks. Or, in this case, one couldn’t teach a Dark Lord the advantages of political warfare over guerrilla warfare. Stupid.

Harry glanced over at Voldemort, who had conveniently turned his attention toward the night sky.

But hadn’t they finished it hours ago? The documents were read, discussed (debated), and adjusted. They were resubmitted with the help of Hedwig, who was miffed to have to rush a packet of paperwork back to the ministry on Christmas of all days. She’d been bribed with a rather spoiled selection of meats—Nagini was very jealous.

So. Why was Harry still here? Why did he stay when Voldemort had offered him wine and refill after refill? Why did he feel like leaving was the very last thing he wanted to do? Why was he worried, reluctant to floo home, and suspiciously confident that Voldemort hadn’t wanted to bear the holiday alone either?

Why did Harry think Voldemort would be terribly sad if he left?

Harry wanted to break their silence. He pushed aside the growing weight in his chest, taking a deep breath to shake the overwhelm pressing behind his eyelids. He opened his mouth to maybe thank Voldemort for his thoughtfulness (because that’s what it was—Voldemort was always somehow considerate of Harry and his feelings) but accidentally blurted out the one thing that had actually been weighing his mind, “Are we friends?”

Horror. It was all Harry could feel. Shocked dumb, he watched as Voldemort stilled for a moment. His eyes left the shining expanse of stars and found Harry’s. He raised a single brow, “Friends?”

Harry’s face felt hot, and he wasn’t sure he could blame the wine. “Yeah,” in for a penny. “Friends. Are we?” He wanted to smack himself for being so short, words too stilted. But this wasn’t very comfortable, and Voldemort’s evident amusement wasn’t helping.

And Harry wanted the answer. He wanted it so badly that it scared him.

“We are not.”

The words echoed too loud in the night, which was ridiculous because Harry had only just been straining to hear Voldemort better moments ago. He couldn’t breathe. His heart felt like it had caught aflame. Yet there was no comforting warmth from its inferno, only an all-consuming blaze that turned Harry’s heart into ash from its fire.

He wasn’t sure when he’d turned away from Voldemort again. The sight of frosted grass was surprising when Harry registered it, along with the feeling of Voldemort’s hand cupping his chin and pulling his attention back to those garnet eyes Harry knew he was growing too fond of, too fast. They were much darker beneath the moon and stars, gleaming like the dried-up dregs of wine Harry left behind in Voldemort’s study.

“I do not have friends, Harry,” Voldemort’s eyes combed over his face. A brisk wind scattered his heart in the breeze, Harry shivered. “And you are so much more.”

The feeling of Voldemort’s magic, a delicate touch down the length of Harry’s throat, wrapping around and sinking in, chased all the cold away. A warming charm. Harry blinked once, twice, eyes wide. He felt light-headed.

“Let’s return,” Voldemort said. His fingers didn’t quite remove themselves fast enough, hesitant, lingering. Like Harry, perhaps they too wanted to remain just a little longer.

As Voldemort finally pulled away, the tip of his thumb grazed the edge of Harry’s lower lip. Harry felt a righteous anger then, justifying the heat still creeping up his face—he’s teasing me.

But as they continued back inside, chatter somehow more intimate and strictly the same as always, Harry came to the conclusion that Voldemort probably wasn’t. This was just as new and scary for him as it was for Harry, and though they may not be friends (and Harry wasn’t really sure what more would be), Harry knew they were definitely something.

Something different.

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort Characters: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Voldemort Additional Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Truce, Yule, Drinking, Gardens, an absurd love for houses, Falling In Love Series: Part 2 of (the world) its quiet turning Summary:

Time ticked by until Christmas was nearly over. Harry, filled with wine, expected there to be some sort of joy or jolly. Some feeling of happiness. And maybe there was, but he was just too frustrated at the moment to appreciate it.

Good thing someone else was an expert at soothing those frustrations—by giving Harry new ones.

[enigmatic-mystery-777]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Summary:

Riley and Eric, a couple of several months, are trapped in the house while a massive snow storm rages on around them. Given that it was Riley's place, and the quickness with which the storm had hit, Eric had very little to do to pass the time. It isn't long before he runs out of things to do at which point Riley decides it's a great time to see if Eric's willing to try his hand at a new hobby.

[penroseparticle]

Oh fanvids. Stay fantastic.

What am I watching. The better question is why I have never seen this before.

Still not tired of this song.