#catjar91

[catjar91]

It just occurred to me that Tom Riddle would have loved being a priest in some American backwater village where everyone goes to church and believes everything their priest says.

He would've had the most power in town, being the most respected, and they would all tell him their secrets of their own free will during confession. He'd get so much blackmail material on everyone and get his fill of gossip every week.

No one would touch him except for a handshake here and there and perhaps a clasp on his shoulder during some sort of official function, despite people fawning after him left right and center.

They wouldn't even question when he exercises power over every field of their lives, 'cause that's just what a priest does, right?

He even could drive to another town, kill someone there to sate his urges and wouldn't even have to lift a finger for people to fall over themselves to tell the cops that 'No, of course our dear Father Riddle cannot be the culprit, why I just saw him tending to his flowers during that time' and 'Father Riddle? Couldn't hurt a fly, he couldn't, I've seen him helping old Marge with her roof' etc.

He would've loved it, I'm convinced.

[thecultys]

Is death a cause to be disqualified or will the awards be given posthumously?

Asking for a friend :D

"Realistically, I don't think there's any good way to answer this question," Ron said. "Non-liable ways, maybe, but good? As if we need to give them any more reasons to murder each other."

"Yes, which is why we are not disqualifying dead people," Hermione said. "I don't even know why we need to have this conversation—"

"Because these people are bonkers," Ron retorted. "Right, Harry?"

Harry pulled the strings of his hoodie tight so he could obscure as much of his face as possible. "If we tell them that dead people can win, they'll just petition for them to win again next year."

"That—" Hermione blinked. "Well, then we won't let them do that!"

"Riddle's cult worships a made-up god," Ron said with a scoff. "We agree to that, the next thing we know, we'll have Voldemort on the voting ballot."

"But Voldemort isn't a real person," Hermione protested.

Harry didn't know why Hermione kept trying to apply logic to their highly-illogical awards show, but he supposed he had to give her credit for trying.

Ron said, "Dead people aren't real people anymore, either."

"One year expiration on dead people," Harry said before they could take the argument any further. "And that's final. It's not our fault if they don't have any decent succession planning."

Both Ron and Hermione looked at him.

"Right..." Hermione said slowly. She smoothed her hands through her hair to run out the tangles, then glanced around for a pen. "Let me just write that down before we answer this person, then—"

[catjar91]

Day 4 - Brush

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 335 words

“Sit still, Darling,” Voldemort chided softly before once more checking if he got the play of light and shadow right. Harry sighed, throwing himself back over the armchair he was supposed to sit regally in, his arm hiding his eyes from view.

“This is booooring, Voldemort! Boring! The absolute worst!” he exclaimed theatrically. Voldemort refrained from rolling his eyes – doing so would be unbecoming – but it was a close thing. They’d had this kind of argument five times in the last hour alone. At least.

“Hatchling,” came Nagini’s low hiss from where she was draped over the backrest of Harry’s chair, “Did you forget your promise? Nagini will show you the best sun spot if you do as Voldemort says.” “No, I didn’t forget,” came Harry’s mumbled reply. How he managed to mumble while speaking parsel was beyond Voldemort, but he also hadn’t found the will to uncover this particular mystery, yet, and was therefore perfectly happy to ignore it.

“Not mutch longer, my love,” Voldemort soothed his little horcrux, “I’m almost done. Now sit properly.” Thankfully, he did, although with mutch ado and many grumbled protests – all of them ignored by Voldemort, who simply waited until Harry sat as he had before so he could add the last finishing touches.

“There,” he set the brush aside, “All done.” A satisfied smile curved his mouth as Voldemort looked proudly at his painting of Harry, adorned with Voldemort’s remaining horcruxes. The diadem on his head. The ring on his finger. The locket around his neck. The cup in his hand. And of course Nagini, draped over the chair.

Sadly, they hadn’t managed to retrieve his diary from Dumbledore’s office, yet, but one day soon they would. Voldemort doubted Dumbledore would destroy it further, so long the man still thought he could learn something from it.

Yes, one day soon he would be able to paint his soul all together. And if Voldemort looked forward to that day, well, that was his business and his business alone.

[catjar91]

Day 24 - Fountain

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 380 words

Harry risked a glance around the corner, but thankfully the employees were all busy at work and the minister’s secretary had just left. He assumed for a toilet break. Not that it really mattered to him. What did matter, was that there was his chance of entering the minister’s office without being seen beforehand and Harry took it.

He didn’t quite run, of course, since that would only draw attention, but some quick strides later he was at the door. Harry didn’t knock – he never knocked – and entered the office quickly, but quietly. His husband, minister of magic Tom Riddle, didn’t even look up, which, rude, but addressed him after sighing exasperated, “Darling. Please tell me you didn’t sneak in again.”

Tom finished the last stroke of his quill and then looked up at Harry, who already couldn’t help the grin forming on his face. Tom continued, “You know Robards nearly gets a heart attack every time you do and everyone has to suffer his newly ignited and not unfounded paranoia?”

Harry flopped into the chair before the desk, grinning mischievously, “It’s good to keep the old coot on track! Your safety is his job and if I can get in here despite the security then an assassin can as well.” Not that Harry actually feared for his husband. Tom was an excellent dueller. That he was also a retired dark lord only helped to ease Harry’s thoughts on the matter.

“Anyway,” Harry changed the subject, “I’ve got something for you. Found it in an antique shop.” With that he had Tom’s attention and with great flourish pulled the little package his present was in from a pocket in his robes. Nimble fingers quickly opened it and Harry had the pleasure of watching his husband’s eyes widen, his eyebrows rise and a light flush spread across his cheeks.

“Oh, Harry… Thank you, Darling.” Without letting go of the antique fountain pen, Tom rounded his desk and placed a kiss on Harry’s lips. Harry loved to surprise his husband, hard as it was, especially with stuff that was actually useful. He would never tire from the warm, satisfied glint in Tom’s eyes or the special attention Harry knew he would be showered with once night fell and they were in bed.

[catjar91]

Why do so many of my fellow Tomarrymort fans ship Tom/Myrtle? And ship it seriously... like they really see the potential and not just coz they like a fic.

I am not bothered they like a het ship. Like... I have my favourite M/F ships too.

But if one likes something as epic, as grand like Tomarry how can they like Tyrtle? Just curious.

If you gotta like a het Tom pairing as a Tomarry fan, surely more epic options exist?

I like Asenora's fic coz they are a spectacular writer. But I don't really see Myrtle and Tom as very credible pairing

First of all: Ship and let ship.

Personally, I haven't read a single fic where Tom (as a male) is paired with a female character (and if I have it was while being sick with fever and I forgot). I like my Tomarry m/m, thank you very much. I have read a couple fem!Tom/fem!Harry, but these are like you said - specific fics of authors I know I like (and even then I mostly opt out).

BUT!

Have you considered, that perhaps, maybe, people don't want to read about Tom being paired with an 'epic' option for a character? What even does 'epic' mean in this context??? And where did you get the idea that Tomarry is 'grand'? To me, Tom Riddle is the most competent pathetic loser there ever was. To pair him with an 'epic' woman would be an insult to said woman. I mean, come on. I don't subscribe to the hawwy side of fandom, either, but just as Tom is a pathetic loser, Harry is a pathetic winner. One of the reasons they're made for each other. Neither of them are 'grand', except for in their own mind, perhaps.

Besides, as I said, I don't read het Tom fics. For me he's either all over Harry or notoriously single and his sexuality doesn't matter.

But I do get the appeal of underdog Tom Riddle, playing the teachers' pet, being nice and charming to everyone, and Myrtle Warren, outcast in her own house (like Tom!), bullied by those she can't stand up to yet (like Tom in his first 1-4 years! It's only in his 5th year that he makes a name for himself in Slytherin house!). Myrtle is a Ravenclaw, she probably spend lots of time in the library, alone. It's not at all far fetched to assume they knew each other, talked, hey, perhaps even complained about the same people to each other!

That being said, if you don't like that ship, then don't read it. If you don't like people seriously liking that ship, then don't follow them.

If you cannot see the appeal, then that's okay - but don't make it anyone else's problem. Because that's what it is - a you problem. People will always like whatever the fuck they want. It's not for you to decide the validity of what they like. So don't go around and presume you have that right.

And btw: Tyrtle is such an hilarious ship name 😂 Reminds me of turtles... I like turtles 😁

(Your ask came across kinda bitchy about this topic and I answered accordingly. If I read that wrong - because let's be honest, it's very easy to misunderstand emotions behind written words - then I'm sorry.)

[catjar91]

Day 7 - Banquet

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 643 words

Voldemort stood at the balustrade looking over the ballroom full of people, letting his gaze wander over the guests attending this banquet. More precisely, this wake. HIS wake.

He wondered if he should be angry, or annoyed, perhaps, at the fact that not a single soul in attendance recognized him. His appearance must’ve already been more warped than he’d realized by the time he had initiated this – now the oldest, longest serving – batch of Death Eaters.

Of course, Voldemort wore the appearance of an – older – Tom Marvolo Riddle now. (Since the ritual for that, he’d tried and failed repeatedly to stay calm every time he looked into a mirror and saw the face of his bastard of a father, but it was also Voldemort’s face and although he reminded himself of that just as often, it didn’t change the fact he maybe hated himself even more than he ever hated his father) But that was no excuse for them!

Once again Voldemort realized what a bunch of useless twats the whole lot of them where and he suddenly missed his Knight something fiercely. Abraxas Malfoy and Theophilus Nott would have recognized him, if not by face, then by magic. Corvus Lestrange would have looked right past any glamour and Dahlia Rosier would have singled him out as a novelty within a minute of entering the room, always on top of the best gossip as she’d been – once upon a time.

Yes, Voldemort missed them more than he ever thought possible. His honourable Knights of Walpurgis. Their descendants, however? Useless. Absolutely useless. Untalented, undignified and oblivious on top. Voldemort felt someone sidling up to him, but he paid them no mind, occupied insulting his Death Eaters in silence.

At least, not until he heard them ask, “What does it feel like? Being invisible to those who’ve sworn fealty to you, I mean.” Voldemort looked over at the only person who’d recognized him, the only one who possibly could ever understand him, and sighed. He wasn’t even surprised, not really.

“Potter,” he acknowledged quietly, “What are you doing here? You cannot tell me Dumbledore approves of you attending the Dark Lord’s funeral banquet.” Potter snorted, more derisive than amused, “No, he definitely wouldn’t. But he also doesn’t control me. He probably thinks he does, though, so let’s keep this a secret, yes?” Potter winked at him and Voldemort decided then and there that he wouldn’t start to question just how the fuck Potter had managed to evade his Death Eaters. Or how he’d slipped through the wards. Neither were Voldemort’s problems any more.

Voldemort looked at the boy – no, man, now, Potter was a man of twenty-one years now – and raised an eyebrow. “You realize I’ve retired and that’s why this farce,” Voldemort gestured vaguely at the guests below them, “is currently commencing?” He sniffed, “Besides, I’m not a snitch.” “I’m aware,” Potter chuckled, before going sombre again, “I’m just paying my respects to a great former enemy of mine.” Voldemort nearly balked at Potter’s tone and words, but managed to contain himself.

The man looked forlorn across the room, leaning on the balustrade for a moment, before he turned back to Voldemort, grinning. “I’ve been thinking of travelling. Heard you were an excellent source on where to go.” “You want me to be your travel guide? Are you out of your mind, Potter?” Voldemort couldn’t help but be bewildered at his young ex-nemesis attitude.

“Maybe. But it’s not like you have anything better to do right now, do you?” Potter continued to grin, but Voldemort could see the weariness, the exhaustion in those green eyes and he understood. Far better than he thought he would. And in the spur of the moment Voldemort decided that yes, why not. Let them travel. He had heard it was more fun with the right company, after all.

[catjar91]

Day 16 - Pose

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 518 words

“Potter!” came an angry shout from across the battlefield. Distractions during battle were usually deadly, but something in that voice made Harry look. Not far from him stood Voldemort in all his snake-like glory (and if Harry found him beautiful and ethereal and dreamed of him – well that was his business and his alone) and for all the anger in his voice, he didn’t actually look angry at Harry.

Before Harry had the wit to retort anything (whatever he would retort to a simply shout of his name, anyway), Voldemort continued, “Your duelling form is atrocious! Who in Salazar’s name taught you such a pose?!”

Harry couldn’t help but stare and straightened himself. “What?” he exclaimed, giving a voice to his confusion and exasperation. Leave it to Voldemort to find another thing to criticise his nemesis for.

Within the blink of an eye, Voldemort stood before him, touching him and rearranging Harry into what Harry assumed was the ‘correct’ version of whatever ‘pose’ he’d just taken on instinctually previously. The lack of pain despite the touch of skin on skin, the care with which Voldemort corrected his stance – it shocked Harry for long enough to let himself be softly manhandled without protest.

Once Voldemort seemed finished, Harry couldn’t help but murmur, “Did you seriously just correct my dueling stance in the midst of battle? Why?” Voldemort looked down on him and only then did Harry realize how close they stood. So close, in fact, he could see tiny, shiny scales littering parts of Voldemort’s face.

‘Beautiful,’ he thought, before remembering that Voldemort could read his mind. Harry blushed and averted his eyes and therefore missed the intrigued look Voldemort regarded him with.

He didn’t miss how Voldemort leaned down, though, or the breath that suddenly ghosted across his ear in a hiss, “You’ll find, my Chosen One, that Lord Voldemort takes care of what is His. Even if that is His chosen enemy. Until then, Harry.”

To Harry’s relief, nobody seemed to have witnessed this or their following encounters, but they still questioned it when he wanted to learn proper duelling techniques after a couple battles that had all ended with Voldemort teaching him something. They had questioned him, as if he didn’t need the training, didn’t need to get better, as if they didn’t want him to survive his fight against Voldemort…!

The next time Harry and Voldemort met, the man looked proud when Harry displayed what he had taught him during their battles. As for Harry? Well, he had some new details to fuel his dreams with in the meantime and he would never, ever, tell anyone how his heart soared at the proud looks and praise he’s gotten from Voldemort. Who was supposed to be his enemy. Who was the only one who actually taught Harry anything of substance.

Who send him a letter with the offer of an apprenticeship with Voldemort himself. Apart from the offer, Voldemort had only written one single line: “I always wanted to be a teacher. Let me teach you, my Chosen One.”

And Harry? Harry considered it. And accepted.

[catjar91]

Day 9 – Trinket

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 999 words

Voldemort lowered his head to inspect the little human the castle had sent to him. He’d honestly forgotten about the deal he’d made years ago. The deal that the castle of Hogwarts had to send him a sacrifice, have his sigil on their banner and all in all stay afraid that he might come down from the mountain if they annoyed him again.

He had thought the sacrifice part had been done and over with when two of their people – a male and a female, mates probably, now that he thought about it – had thrown themselves into his fire the last time he went to the castle. The fact he was looking at a young male of theirs made it apparent that they thought differently about this matter.

Voldemort wondered for a moment what in time’s name he should do with a human, of all things. He was a dragon. The only things he cared about were gold and gems and he had his share of both for the next three decades or so.

A human would make a mess of his horde, would need food and when it eventually died, it would start to smell. He could always eat it, of course, but he knew from experience that they had lots of bones that tended to get stuck between his sharp teeth. No, it was better if the human ran back to where it came from. Why hadn’t it run already?

Voldemort nudged the human, but as stated, he was a dragon and his nudge sent the poor thing on its behind. “Ouch! Bloody beassst!” it shouted. Surprised, Voldemort crouched down, his chin nearly touching the earth. “You ssspeak,” Voldemort spoke aloud for the first time in decades.

“Of courssse I ssspeak, you ssstupid dragon!” the human called out, its mannerisms strangely familiar to Voldemort. It reminded him of himself, if he was honest. A dragon’s manners on a human were a strange sight indeed. It amused and intrigued him, so he would let the insult slide – for now.

He huffed a puff of smoke, a laugh or as much of one as a dragon could make, then he breathed fire in the direction he thought he remembered wood. As expected, his memory was excellent; the wood caught fire. He was a dragon, so he didn’t need any artificial light, but the human’s sight would not be as good as his.

His human gave a shout, but calmed when no flames engulfed it. And then it stared at Voldemort in wondrous amazement. Voldemort puffed out his chest. There was no dragon more mighty; his scales were the shiniest, his tail the longest and his wings the strongest. “You’re beautiful,” his human whispered, but Voldemort’s hearing was as superior as the rest of him, so he heard.

Lowering his head once more, he turned to the side so he could also take a good look at his human. Only once his eye was on the level of his human’s head did Voldemort see! They were tiny compared to his own, yes, but he was a dragon and his human was just that, but its eyes! His human’s eyes shone as bright as the most beautiful emerald Voldemort had ever seen.

Oh, they would be a nice trinket for his hoard! And his human spoke! Perhaps he could make accommodations for it. It did come as a sacrifice and Voldemort was a gracious dragon – on occasion. But no, trinket sounded wrong, even to himself. Then an idea came to him.

“I’ve decided, human,” Voldemort announced, “From now on, you will be mine. You will not take from my hoard, but you can make your own. I will keep you and I will teach you what it meansss to be a dragon.” Voldemort nodded to himself, “Yesss, you will be my hatchling. I will keep you sssafe and feed you and in return you will keep me company. Do you accept?”

Voldemort phrased it as a question and he meant it. The fire in those beautiful eyes would stop burning if he forced his human, he was sure of it. For some reason, his human looked at him with wide, shiny, yet misty eyes and some clear liquid ran down it’s cheeks. “You mean it? You want me? You won’t eat me?” “I have no ussse for wordsss I don’t mean, my hatchling,” Voldemort informed it, not understanding what the issue was. His offer was very generous, if he must say so.

Voldemort did not expect his human to throw itself at his leg, wrapping its arms around it and simply holding on to it. It couldn’t reach around it, of course, not with how mighty Voldemort was. He was just about to ask what the matter was, when his human spoke in a wobbly voice against Voldemort’s leg, “Thank you! I accept your offer!”

Pleased, Voldemort puffed some more smoke and licked over his human. It would need to smell like him, otherwise it might be easy pray for his enemies. Voldemort would teach it and change that, of course, but until then he had to make sure his hatchling was safe. “Hey,” his hatchling laughed, “that ticklesss!” It wiped over its face, but that was okay. Voldemort’s scent would cling to it, he knew.

He swiped his hatchling closer, ignoring the yelp it made, and settled in. “Tell me about yourssself, hatchling,” he requested, wanting to know everything there was about his new hatchling. He’d never had a hatchling before, after all. It leaned against his leg and pointed at him, “Well, firssst of all, my name isss not hatchling!” it exclaimed, “My name isss Harry! What’sss yours?”

Voldemort blinked. Perhaps he would have to visit the castle soon, if they didn’t know his name any longer. How could they be afraid of him if they didn’t know him, after all? But he had time, there was no rush. “My name, hatchling, isss Voldemort. Now tell me about yourssself."