primarily consumed with tomarry, occasional harrymort. i read widely, am fond of dead dove + dark content, and enjoy being funny from time to time.
ask box is open. please note i have no tolerance for any form of wank and will delete/block without discussion.
on jkr: i do not support or condone any of her views. i do not believe any of her actions deserve to be excused. i will continue to create fan content while inspiration strikes.
— ◉ —
i finish drafting before i start posting <3
snippets and drafts in progress occasionally get posted here.
wips
POSTING
discrete volume of control
Harry Potter died saving everyone. But the world kept turning, and something even worse came. Death drops him off in snowy 1938 London to stop the world from burning once more.
Just one problem. He's got paws instead of thumbs.
In the garden of Wool's Orphanage, Tom Riddle's first friend is a tiny snake. Billy Stubbs kills her with a trowel. Tom takes his revenge - brilliant and vicious, but he's so desperately outnumbered that when his bullies corner him, Harry can't help but intervene. A debt Tom repays by designing a collar that can bind a Grim.
Sometimes the road to redemption is paved with ash.
— a.k.a. a dark time-travel romance following Tom's journey from boy to man, Harry's struggle between justice and mercy, and whether caring can redeem someone - or if it only makes them worse.
[81k on ao3 so far, posting bi-weekly / 190k in draft and climbing]
— ◉ —
DRAFTING
bones that betray you
A supernatural murderer is on the loose. The Green Eye Killer, on account of the trophies they take – a dumb and uncreative name in Harry's opinion. But he'll find them all the same.
He hunts digital monsters by day, a small-time streamer, and real ones at night, the last in a long line of celebrated hunters. They wear human faces when they die, but he knows them for what they are: beasts. Then he meets Tom, a handsome and unspeakably wealthy man with secrets to hide, and despite everything, he falls in love.
A horror. A romance. A story that Harry hadn't realized he needed to win.
[47k drafted, in mild rework]
—
attacking me, attached to me (i’m bound)
Harry Potter falls back in time, wounded and outmatched against a Tom Riddle who should, by all rights, kill him, a rival alpha, on sight. Tom doesn’t. That’s the first problem. The second is Harry’s plan to solve the Tom Riddle problem for good. The third is that it’s working.
a.k.a. Alpha Harry becomes roommates w/ B&B era Alpha Tom and decides to bitch him instead of kill him. They’re both in over their heads.
[15k drafted, snippet here]
—
crack in the shell
Coming off of a series of disastrous foster homes, 16 year old Tom Riddle is a very abused omega. The only family that Hermione can trust for the final few months before Tom comes of age is her good friends, the Potter-Weasleys.
Harry is a good alpha and, even if it's only for a short while, he’s very willing to give Tom his first proper home.
Tom, unfortunately, has a different definition of proper.
[15k drafted]
—
hello, goodbye (who are you again?)
The Dursleys take Harry in for exactly one week. Then he’s unceremoniously dumped onto the British foster care system. 23 years later, he’s an accomplished exotic animal veterinarian with a wealthy, eccentric clientele and inexplicably good luck with even the most desperate of cases.
One Tuesday morning, a completely unremarkable accountant named Tom shows up with a very sick snake. In truth, Lord Voldemort has come to tie up his final loose end. He does not succeed. In fact, he fails so disastrously that within a year, they're married. Happily ever after. Right?
a.k.a. The-Boy-Who-Got-Away thinks his totally normal husband might be cheating.
[11k drafted, snippet here]
—
purge fills to-be-continued
spaces between the filaments: harry is a prospector for valuable minerals in the asteroid belt, and on a routine trip, he finds something. or maybe it finds him. [2k snippet here]
crossing the woods darkly: harry is a traveling merchant who wanders into the wrong part of the woods and meets a not-so-kind stranger: [2k snippet here]
2k words, young approx yr 5 Harry travels to the future and finds himself a) alive, and b) not with the person he expects :)
I scrawled this out in about 2 hours because the idea I had before sleeping was to write a scene from the summer hikaru died au I've been spinning in my head, but I woke up and my brain was like: what if reverse time-travel. So here we are.
===
Harry lands in a bedroom that isn’t his.
He’d gone to sleep in Gryffindor Tower and woken up to the harrowing sensation of falling through a void, seemingly depthless and forever, until the moment he’d hit a plush rug with his own two feet.
The room is sparsely decorated but every item is tasteful. Harry imagines that he might like a home like this someday, if he doesn’t die fighting Voldemort in the bowels of the Ministry as his dreams so often suggest.
His eyes are drawn to the bed: to the movement under the sheets.
There is an unmistakable shape of two bodies, covering one another, and soft, murmuring noises – ‘stop that, Tom, I’m already late’ – that suggest at least kisses, although perhaps rapidly leading to something more.
“Er,” Harry says.
It’s a quiet sound – involuntary and mortified – but it’s enough.
A head pops out. Atop of it is a riot of wild black hair, sticking up every which way in a terribly familiar fashion that almost makes him believe it’s James come back to life, except that the man also sports a pair of glasses, somewhat askew, and a large pale scar, slicing through his brow that mirrors Harry’s own. His lips are wet and reddened, leaving little room for imagination as to the nature of what Harry had just interrupted.
“I’m so sorry,” he blurts, cheeks flaming. "I don't know how I—"
Then a second person emerges from underneath the bedding. A man, Harry realizes a beat late, as Tom might've been a girl's name – and this one is familiar as well, only in entirely the wrong way. His every vein floods with a terrible, wicked dread.
“Voldemort.”
Voldemort blinks at his own name, his brilliantly red eyes narrowing with momentary calculation, and Harry tenses, reaching for a wand that isn't there, before the man (the murderer of his parents, a would be child killer) breaks into the strangest smile Harry has ever seen.
It’s neither cruel nor kind but something in between. Or maybe both.
“Oh, Harry,” Voldemort croons, and Harry barely stops himself from snapping, “which one?”
He’s also horrified to notice that his older self has broken into a full-faced blush that would be funny in any other circumstance.
“Stop it, Tom,” his older self chides, his tone harsh but entirely without heat.
Harry watches them mutter among themselves for several moments, his presence seemingly forgotten. He can't help but notice their comfort with one another: their words casual, if urgent, and their naked bodies – he tries desperately not to linger on that thought – still entangled under the sheets. His throat itches.
“Is that really Voldemort?”
The attention of both men shoots back to him, and Harry finds the sudden unwavering focus of green and red on him unnerving, even by his standards.
“Yes,” his older self says simply. “It’s him. Although we prefer Tom these days.”
“Ah, darling,” Voldemort says, his tone slippery, “I do miss the way you used to say my name. So heated and hateful. Like the word itself spites you. Perhaps Voldemort can make a return, if only in bed.”
His older self drags a frustrated hand through his hair, further tousling the already hopeless mess. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tom, stop embarrassing me. I know you’re only doing it to needle him, you irredeemable lout.”
“Is he not adorable? Fifteen, maybe sixteen at most? There’s so much lost time between us. How am I to resist?”
“By resisting,” Harry replies flatly.
The expression Voldemort wears in reply can only be described as a pout.
It’s disturbing. And works entirely too well. Harry finds himself feeling oddly guilty, and he’s not even the one that caused it. This older, decidedly human-looking Voldemort is even more handsome than Harry remembers, and he still vividly remembers the types of dreams that he’d once had about a certain Tom Riddle that had been trapped within a certain diary.
“If that’s really him,” Harry says slowly, “then why isn’t he all snakey? Why does he look like…” He throws his hands up helplessly, face flushing. “Like that?”
“Well,” his older self starts, with an abashed tone that Harry mislikes very much, “When we first started dating he was still a bit snakey” —Harry tries not to splutter and fails miserably— “but after he reabsorbed his remaining Horcruxes it also returned his body.”
Harry’s eyes blow wide. “So you can kill Voldemort— And you didn’t?”
Voldemort, in his fleshy, killable glory, rolls his eyes. “Make no mistake, I have no intention of dying.”
“But if I killed you, right now, could you die?”
“If—” Voldemort snarks.
“No one is killing anyone,” his older self says firmly. Voldemort’s expression darkens briefly, but he only sighs and slips his arms around his older self's waist, settling his head on his older self’s shoulder. The hold is undeniably possessive. Harry is unfortunately reminded of a snake wrapping itself bodily around its prey – except that the idiot prey in question appears fond about potentially being eaten.
Something tugs sharply under his ribs, almost unrecognizable. It takes him a moment to place it, and when he finally does, it winds him.
He’s jealous.
He’s jealous of his future self, and his hot, evil lover, and the wrongness of it scalds him.
He fixes his eyes on the bedpost, hands balled at his sides. “But his soul is—”
“I know it’s a lot to take in,” his older self says, “but Tom really is capable of remorse.”
Harry shakes his head, body trembling. “How could I possibly believe that?”
He sounds like a child, and he hates it. He hates everything about this awful, unbelievable situation. Why does everything have to happen to him?
Voldemort shifts on the bed in a proper sit, and he leans forward. His face is unreadable, but there’s a strange gleam in his blood-red eyes. “Then perhaps you might believe it more easily from me. I regret the things that I’ve taken from you, because I would rather give you the world.”
“What?” Harry spits. “Don't tell me that you're in love with me. You of all people.”
“I wouldn’t speak of what we share as anything so trite as love. The hateful hand of fate, perhaps." Tom laughs, like it's a joke between friends. Small. Private. Harry hates that he immediately wants to hear it again. "But you should know that there is one thing that I will never regret.”
“Oh yeah?" Harry counters, forcing himself to scoff. "What's that?”
“I do not regret the actions that ultimately led me to you.”
It sounds like a promise as much as a curse.
He knows better than to ever expect an apology from the man, but this small handful of words might just be the next best thing. The depth of Voldemort's sincerity strikes something hidden carefully within him: a hope that all of his suffering might someday, somehow, balance out on the ledger of his life to have made it all worth it.
"My husband is capable of romance too," his older self quips, since he certainly seems to think it had been worth it. "Lucky me."
“Oh,” Harry says, voice choked. His knees wobble, and he feels an abhorrent, too-revealing sting at the corners of his eyes.
His older self slides out from their bed, wandlessly, wordlessly summoning a robe to wrap around himself as he does, and then crosses the room to steady him.
“Hey. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
And Harry, a soft, weak-hearted boy, believes him.
===
His older self (“Er, just call me H”) and his husband (what the bloody fuck) spend several hours bustling around the dedicated potions and alchemy lab in their home. They’re devising a ritual to return him.
Any questions about the past that would make his life easier, or at least marginally less deadly, are easily batted aside in the name of “paradox risk.” So Harry at least offers to help with the ritual.
Or he tries to, at first, but between the rapid-fire babble of ingredients and runes he’s never even heard of before and the fluid dance between the two older men, he finds himself subsiding to a wooden stool, toying idly with a couple Muggle pipettes.
He watches them work with a growing sense of panic.
H and Tom fit together like clockwork. Like a pair of smooth and well-greased gears, working in tandem, both brighter and happier than Harry could have ever imagined for himself, let alone with someone like his one and only fated enemy.
He’s still not sure what to do with this knowledge, but he knows that something about him has changed after all this. He only hopes that it’s not enough to ruin this future for him. His jealousy has only grown since the beginning, and the thought of having this someday – being allowed to have this – scares him just as much as the thought of not.
For all the time it’d taken them to prepare the ritual, the act itself is quick.
Harry steps into a circle drawn with something that seems very like blood, Tom chants a few words, and then magic hums thickly in the room, enough to shake the shelves.
For a brief, heart-wrenching moment, Harry wishes he didn’t have to go. Someone else could save the world without him, and he would stay here with his happier self and the strange, not-quite-Voldemort, not-quite-Tom creature that stands so unflinchingly beside him.
The world begins to swirl, and H is waving him off with an encouraging smile.
The last thing Harry sees is Tom – and the wry, self-amused face that he’s grown so familiar with.
“Good luck,” Tom mouths.
And in a blink, it’s gone.
He finds himself back in his dormitory at Hogwarts, everyone else still asleep around him as if the past day had been a mere dream, and he finally lets his tears fall.
===
After his younger self vanishes without a sound, Harry turns to his husband.
“When I said surprise me— “
“Now, my dearest heart, before you go further let us both recall that our Mind Healer always asks us to confront our past.”
Harry arches a disbelieving brow. “Our Mind Healer? You nearly disemboweled the poor bloke after a quarter of a session. And besides, I don’t think he meant it quite that… literally.”
Tom hums, unrepentant, and they both stare at the smoking circle for a somber moment.
“Do you think he’ll do better than we did?” Tom asks suddenly.
His question appears calm and measured as always, but Harry senses the undercurrent of genuine emotion beneath it through their bond.
“He’ll be alright,” Harry assures. In fact, he’s certain of it.
The answer soothes the frayed feeling between them, and then Tom turns to regard him with a devious smile.
“It’s a pity we had to send him back so soon. I would have liked to explore the possibilities of having two of you in our bed.”
Harry barks a surprised laugh. Nevermind the fact that his younger self had been clearly underage; he can only imagine the embarrassingly mutual enthusiasm if Tom had the time to sweet talk a more impressionable version of himself into bed. It intrigues him.
“Never thought you’d be one to share."
“Oh, Harry,” his husband says, the way he always does, his voice low and brimming with affection. “You are, and always have been, my one exception.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Written for @tomarrymortevents purge XL. Got the idea of Harry tackling Tom to the ground and then realizing he's made a terrible mistake - couldn't get it out of my head lmao <3
summary:
Harry and Tom were friends once, when they were very small.
Things get in the way, they grow apart, and at the worst possible moment, with tensions running high, Harry learns something very important about himself – about Tom.
Or: Harry might be the last person to learn that he likes men.
3k, T, modern highshool au, crack treated seriously
One of the best things about being a writer is thinking of something small you can add to your work that’s just. Devastating. Like you’re sitting there going. Oh. That would be diabolical. People would get really riled up about that. Exquisite. Let’s do it.
controversial but i think the overusage of content/trigger warnings and censors is a problem with modern art, discussions, and media. people need to learn to experience things that are uncomfortable so they can understand how to deal with those feelings.
yeah i think you should be able to discuss murder, suicide, rape, self harm, etc. etc. and even be able to type out the full word. these are unpleasant topics, yet when we shy away from being uncomfortable, we lose the tolerance to stand it in instances where we need to, or would benefit from it for the sake of learning or growing.
i have things that freak me out, and while i don't search them out specifically, occasionally seeing them untagged on my dash (or in a movie/drawing/etc.) DOES help me build the skill of calming myself down and moving on, and so over time these things, and other situations where i'm uncomfortable, affect me less and are easier to recover from.
i go through NSFW tags all the time to find cool artists, and it means, yeah i have to see piss and vore and blood and furries and inflation and whatever unusual things people like, but it's really built my skill for just tolerating weirdness and grossness, on the offchance I DO see something untagged (which is pretty common!) I can be like "oh I dont like that" and scroll past.
but because people are so used to being able to curate away seeing anything strange or gross, when they DO actually see it, it's extremely upsetting, and it's the same people who are sending death threats over fictional drawings.
ultimately, allowing yourself to experience unpleasant emotions in safe environments (i.e scrolling through your tumblr feed in your bed at night) lets you learn how to deal with them better.
Last song: To Pluto's Moon (Son Lux Remix) by My Brightest Diamond
(how i tried to catch you while you ran ahead of me
i lasso'd Mars to see if you were hiding there
but you already ran past Jupiter to Pluto's moon)
Favorite color: 💎 have i themed everything in my life around this color? not quite but i'm getting closer
Watching: most recently Blue Lock (💎)
Reading: not enough eating words lately, open to recs!
Last Google search:
for the purge XL bahaha - i couldn't remember the source of the quote that came to my head for the title. also orienteering is a) an awesome word and b) was offered as a course at my college; but i couldn't manage to make it fit into the fill. alas.
Currently working on: edits to dvoc ch 11. my beta told me it was really horny (mission success) and also unfortunately underdeveloped (😭). tom's pov is... thoroughly delusional lmao
Tea or coffee: yes to both! bobas especially. caffeine makes me jitter into another dimension but that only stops me sometimes
Current phone wallpaper: bingpup from SVSSS
Luo Binghe inspires me every day. A reminder that an ikemen dark-haired demon emperor protagonist turned villain turned love interest turned insane malewife guy also has a cute side as Bingpup, and he never gives up on his blorbo so neither should you, dearest friends <3
doing this was so nostalgic actually. much love to bitter for the tag!
tagging @cindle-writes @houndsofheaven @lialepoisson if more folks wanna yap ❤️
summary: harry is a traveling merchant who finds himself in the wrong woods at the wrong time and meets a not-so-kind stranger. 5k words, mature, tom riddle/harry potter, horror vibes, fae-shit, dubcon
rewritten for purge xl: fairy tale au
part 1 of my fae au. posted a ver of this for a prev purge, and for this purge i wanted to get to the dance and court scene finally, but i didn't make it because i doubled the word count of ch1 and rewrote the ending to it instead. lol it happens <3 more wips for the wips god
---
Harry’s definitely seen this tree before.
“Bollocks,” he mutters under his breath. He’d known he’d needed to make good time since he’d left the last town behind schedule, but according to the barkeep the woods were an easy straight line through to the next, bigger township. And yet, following said straight line has had him going in nothing but circles for what must’ve been the past couple hours. Uncanny.
He glares, thoroughly irked, at the traitorously purpling sky. The sun has sunk below the tree line, its last rays dimming rapidly. Hedwig pauses, and so does the wooden cart she’s pulling behind her. A piece of burlap covers the contents of his cart – a batch of red apples piled high – and protects it from the elements as well as the prying eyes of thieves.
He hasn’t completely given up hope just yet, but it’s definitely running thin. He grits his teeth and tugs her reins ever onward.
Slowly… inevitably… the forest submerges into a chattering dark, filled by the chirps of insects, an occasional hoot of an owl, and the loud, echoing sound of his cart clattering, wheels jumping against rock. The loudness of it draws his skin even tighter around his already anxious bones.
Any soul within half a league would hear him coming well before he saw them.
At this time of night, he knows better than to expect any friends.
With a long-suffering sigh, he draws to a stop near the shadowed line of firs. It’s an impenetrable line of trees, likely home to any number of ravenous beasts.
But there’s also enough cover to conceal his wares in the dark.
It won’t be the first or the last time he’s needed to hunker down along a wooded trail, but with an expensive and timely haul under his care, he’s ripe pickings for any lucky bandits. As long as he doesn’t wander too far, it will be safer than staying on the path.
He pulls Hedwig and his cart through the mulberry thicket until they’re firmly within the woods. Then he unhitches Hedwig and leads her further into the trees and out of sight. After giving her a quick rub down and tying her off, he ventures further into the woods. It’s too dangerous for a campfire, but he can at least search for a stream to replenish his waterskins.
As he walks, careful steps on the uneven ground, his skin starts to prickle with a strange sensation. A scan of his surroundings shows nothing unusual, but he has an unnerving feeling that he’s not alone.
He’s spent more than enough nights traveling solo to be alert – not jumpy – and his intuition has carried him out of plenty of trouble. Into plenty of it, too, if he’s being honest.
Several minutes later, the feeling still won’t shake.
He stops.
“Who’s there?” he calls, hand going to his waist for his small but serviceable knife.
There is no reply other than silence.
Almost too silent.
Even the crickets have hushed.
Gooseflesh rises along his skin and he draws his weapon, jaw tightening with nerves.
“I’m warning you! I know how to fight. It won’t be an easy one.”
His voice carries into the gloom.
Gods willing, he hasn’t managed to run afoul of a bear. A person he can scare and bluff. A pissed off bear will simply kill him for his misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.
A twig cracks.
Harry tenses, shifting his weight low. Ready to fight, or to bolt.
The branches rustle unseen, from where the faint light of the moon can’t quite reach.
What he spots first chills his veins.
First, a luminous red gaze.
Then, from them emerges a dark outline that resolves in an almost dizzying swirl, into a plain-cloaked figure.
“My apologies,” the stranger says smoothly. His voice is low, but his tone is almost sweet. Honeyed. “I did not mean to startle you, good sir.”
A man – or something in the shape of one – steps forward into the moonlight and draws off his hood.
Dark curls cascade out, framing a pair of inhumanly bright eyes.
Immediately, every instinct screams for Harry to turn tail and run or, perhaps more wisely, to fall to his knees and beg for his life.
He does neither. Instead, he regrips his knife, stomach and shoulders knotting with reflexive fear, and stands his ground.
Instinct would get him killed.
Running would be giving permission to chase, and bowing is for those who wouldn’t mind losing their necks when they do.
“It’s no trouble,” Harry says, careful to keep his voice steady even as he trembles minutely at the knees.
“If I may ask,” the man says coolly, because it does not sound like much of a question, “what brings you to this part of the woods? At such a late hour, too.”
“I’m a merchant. A novice, really, as it seems that I’ve lost my way.”
“A merchant,” the man echoes.
“Yes,” Harry says, swallowing once. “I’m simply hoping for some rest before setting off anew at dawn.”
The man crosses the space between them in two easy strides, eyes never leaving Harry’s face. As if the knife in his hands were not there at all. His expression remains unbothered. “You poor thing,” the man says. “It must be difficult spending so many long days on the road all by yourself. Delighted to make your acquaintance.” He dips into a half-bow. “Tom Riddle, at your service.”
“Nice to meet you, Tom,” Harry replies.
Every part of him has drawn tight with fear but he can’t run. He can’t.
“Tell me, my friend,” the not-man says lightly.
Harry doesn’t believe his gentle tone for a single second.
He watches, heart rabbiting in his chest as Tom’s hand reaches out. It moves calmly, without any notion of violence, but he still barely suppresses a flinch as it brushes against his cheek. Trails along his stubbled jaw. He does not dare move.
“Did you know that today is All Hallow’s Eve?”
The question is airy. Tom’s eyes are anything but. They track Harry’s movement the way a patient predator would for his prey.
Harry shakes his head once, the barest motion.
But, suddenly, there’s something new at the edges of his senses.
Faint music. The bright trill of a flute. The wheezing cry of an accordion along with the distant echo of laughter. None of it had been there before. As if the merest mention of the day was the key to a riddle he hadn’t known to solve. An invitation.
“There is a ball tonight,” Tom continues, expression awfully blank. It is intensely at odds with the dulcet note to his voice. Something hungry swirls in his scarlet gaze. “The grandest ball of the year, in fact. I find myself in need of a date, and I should be most delighted if you would agree to accompany me. Tell me: what is your name, darling thing?”
Harry shakes his head again. He knows better than to offer his name. Or to accept.
“That’s really kind of you,” Harry deflects, sheathing his knife.
He pulls in a short, shaky breath even as his lungs scream, as if the air has chilled into shards of ice that scrape his throat raw.
Tom is no mortal creature, and if Harry’s guess is correct then he’s deeply, deeply in trouble. His steel blade would do precious little against the monster before him. He does have options, but he would need to fool Tom into letting him get back to his cart – to the wares and the special pack that he has hidden there.
“I’m afraid I’m exhausted from a hard day’s journey,” Harry says. He wills his face into an apology. “Again, I’m really flattered that you’d ask.”
Tom’s expression finally shifts into something sharper.
“Ah, ah.”
Angry or amused, it’s impossible for Harry to tell. Maybe both. Regardless of the truth, it’s much more real than whatever mask he had been wearing before, the one made for luring.
His hand slides down from Harry’s cheek to his neck. It splays against his throat and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, then tightens. Not enough to strangle, but enough for breath to take some effort and for his pulse to flutter with dread. The strange music only grows louder in his ears.
“If you would like to live, you must know that I am not fond of liars. We both know that you did not set out until after midday.”
Fear zips up Harry’s spine, icy and bright, but it’s quickly overrun by a hot flare of anger.
“Keeping an eye on me, have you?” he snaps, surging against Tom’s hold.
His anger sputters quickly as embarrassment and horror both warm his cheeks. He inwardly curses his sharp tongue and doubly so for the fact that he’s never learned how to keep the willful thing in check. Especially when it would be so easy for Tom’s fingers to dig into his windpipe and tear it out for his insolence.
But Tom’s empty expression thaws into a smile.
“What a stubborn thing you are,” he says, seeming pleased. He brushes his thumb against Harry’s thudding pulse, and he hums – a considering noise. “It is not every day that a— How did you put it? That a ‘novice traveling merchant’ dares to stumble through my lands with a cart stacked full of iron. Such weapons are contraband here. The punishment is death.”
Harry’s eyes widen. My lands.
“I had no idea,” he croaks.
His words are completely earnest, insofar as him trying to cross through the woods. He had no intention of disturbing Tom or his people – not directly. As for the weapons, it was good money for a good cause: to be delivered to a hunting guild in a few days time. If an overly murderous fae occasionally became the target of such a guild, that was just the way of things. Intent matters, and he feverishly hopes that Tom will take him at his honest word.
“I’m just passing through, I swear.”
What shite luck to have him crossing into fae territory so soon after leaving town. The maps he’d reviewed had this entire area marked as neutral – still contested between clans.
“Who sent you?” Tom asks.
Harry glances away, biting his lip. He may be trapped, but he would rather have his throat crushed than drag more people into his mess.
When it becomes clear that he would not answer, the pressure, surprisingly, eases off.
Harry coughs weakly but remains in place as Tom’s hand hasn’t left either. That same awful thumb shifts to the hollow at the base of Harry’s neck, brushing at the sensitive skin there. Harry shivers against his will.
“No matter,” Tom says. “I have my suspicions.”
Harry’s sure he does. Harry would also very much like to be let go, although that seems more unlikely with each passing moment.
Tom examines Harry with an appraising glint to his eye.
“Someone less trusting than I would read such a thing as a provocation. A threat against me and mine. If you are truly unaware of what you have done, then I would wager that you have been made a useful fool.”
“Better to die a fool than an arrogant arse,” Harry counters, temper climbing once again despite his better judgment. “This isn’t how civilized folk do things.”
“Believe it or not, I have been very civil.”
Harry pointedly glances at Tom’s hand. “And this is your best manners? Clearly I’ve been missing out.”
The blink he receives in reply is slow, almost reptilian, and Harry immediately regrets opening his mouth.
“You are either very brave,” Tom says softly, “or very stupid.”
Then he extends one hand in a gesture so human and unhurried that Harry nearly takes it. Nearly. He knows better. The Order had been very thorough on that front.
So he lets the hand hang there.
The silence stretches.
Then Tom lowers his hand.
Something flickers across his face – not offense, thankfully – but it’s still not anything close to mercy.
“What a delight,” Tom says, and Harry grimaces at his complete lack of inflection. “You even know this.”
“I’m the unfriendly sort.”
“No.” Tom’s tone brightens as he appears to come to a new conclusion about his intruder. “Someone taught you. You know what I am, and yet you stand before me unafraid.”
Harry thinks that might be too much credit, and he’s uncertain if he should be even more worried that Tom finds himself impressed. Does the average human crumble before him? Harry can’t blame them if so.
“Please just let me go. I didn’t mean for any of this.”
“Mm, yes. Novice merchant, lost in the woods. You have been nothing if not consistent.”
Tom watches him for a long moment, waiting to see if Harry is willing to offer up more lies, and Harry can’t help but watch back. He hates that Tom is, despite everything, still mortifyingly attractive.
Then something about the atmosphere shifts.
It warms in a way that can only be unnatural, and Harry is startled to realize that he doesn’t care. He can’t seem to care.
He continues to stare into the mesmerizing depths of Tom’s eyes. Into the deep, glimmering red, like twin pools of blood. It should concern him how it soothes his flighty nerves, as if to say: worry not.
Tom would take care of things. Tom would take care of him.
And in the morning, Harry would be on his merry way – nevermind what he lost in the in between.
Even knowing this, his fight gradually ebbs away. His body goes slack. A wash of vertigo nearly sweeps him off his feet, and he sways like a sapling in the wind. Tom reaches out to steady him, and the contact, just a hand on his shoulder, sears him. Consumes his thoughts.
The music – the ball – sounds like it’s a few steps away now. Just behind the nearest trees.
At his surrender, Tom’s face softens. The curve of his mouth turns indulgent. His hand also moves away from Harry’s throat and down. Over to his collar, then lower, fingertips sliding over his sternum, as if tracing the shape of his bones.
“On a normal night, I would kill interlopers such as yourself. Fortunately for you, I find myself in a festive mood. It has me uncharacteristically generous.”
He steps in closer, their bodies now only a breath apart. It’s close enough that Harry can count Tom’s individual lashes. Not that he would do such a pointless thing even if they are attached to an especially nice face.
“So, I will give you another chance. Your name, boy.”
The sound of music and laughter is nearly deafening in Harry’s ears. He still can’t tear himself away from Tom’s eyes, rooted by the intense weight of it, the otherworldly power of it, directed entirely at him. A panicked lie manages to bubble up through the paralysis.
“Hedwig.”
Tom inclines his head, brows raised. “Hedwig. A strange name. Must I remind you—”
“No,” Harry chokes. Lies would only get him killed faster. “She’s my—”
His voice falters, head spinning with the crushing sense of defeat – he’s dead either way, it matters not what he says because Tom will kill him and leave his bones to the forest to feast. Hoping against hope, he forces himself to push through his fear.
“She’s my horse. Tied off thirty paces toward the path. I can’t just leave her.”
Tom stills. Harry shuts his eyes, body tensing once more as he braces for the end.
But it doesn’t come.
Another hand grabs him firmly by the hip and pulls them together. Harry’s eyes fly open, startled, and he finds himself pressed tightly against Tom. Even Tom’s scent, woodsy but clean, seems tailormade to draw him in. To quiet the fearful part of his mind that still clamors to save his own skin.
“I will ensure that she is taken care of by my most trusted,” Tom murmurs. “As long as you give me what I want.”
The words shimmer.
The music is a violent cacophony.
It’s in him, a silvery glow that has no business being there, threading through his thoughts, into his limbs, and settling at his temples with a pressure not unlike what it had felt to be choked. Present and total, he’s helpless against it.
A memory springs up like a desperate shield: Dumbledore’s voice, dry and calm, reciting a lesson in a dim storeroom where no one was meant to be: a sufficiently powerful fae possesses the power to compel. It is not persuasion, but a charm that bends the mind. Resist, or die.
Harry holds onto the memory. The warning. The reason why speaking would be terrible. He can feel it, there, at the front of his mind—
Tom leans in, and the memory slides away before Harry can catch it in time.
Please, he thinks. I can’t.
His name isn’t a secret. It’s just a name. But in this moment, he strains against Tom’s words, against the command that had wrapped around each sound, to keep his name inside himself. He fights with everything he has. He cannot. He will not—
“Your name, child.”
Harry’s mind goes briefly, horribly white.
He feels himself forming the word, the shape of it familiar and all too damning, and there is a valley between the moment that his lips move and the moment that he understands that they have. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes at the sound of his own name falling from his mouth. His doom, Tom’s prize, spilling out into reality.
“Harry,” Tom repeats.
Harry hates the way that he makes it sound like something good. As if he’d eaten the name and enjoyed the taste of it. Tom’s hand trails even lower, pressing into each of Harry’s ribs before sliding down to the hem of his linen shirt. And then slipping underneath it. Palming the trembling flesh along his abdomen.
“Close,” Tom says. “But I would like the whole thing. Be good for me, Harry.”
Harry quivers, each one of Tom’s magic-laced words continuing to overwhelm him.
Hushed by that intoxicating voice. Devoured by that terrifying touch, pulsing golden waves of warmth and pleasure against his oversensitized skin. How Tom drifts even lower, toward the humiliating bulge in his trousers. It is all he can do to resist bucking up to encourage Tom faster, for even a hint of the delicious pressure that would wipe away the rest of his thoughts. He’s had his fair share of tumbles in the hay throughout his travels, but he’s never been more desperate for it than now.
“Please,” Harry whimpers, not above begging. He’s not sure if it’s for Tom to stop or to keep going, but it’s not as if it matters.
Tom would take what he likes.
“I do like the sound of a pretty boy crying so needily,” Tom whispers, leaning forward.
“I can’t—”
“You can,” Tom says, and closes the gap.
Tom kisses him deep and steady, hands wandering over Harry, hungry and possessive. He pushes Harry back until he thuds into rough bark, gasping. And Tom takes the opportunity to take even more, to press in. Harry moans as the kiss grows more urgent, tongues sliding together. His hands fist into Tom’s cloak. Heat rushes into his gut. It’s dizzying, and his every nerve alights with sensation. Tom’s presence, solid and irrepressible, drowns everything else. Even the odd, whimsical music fades into the background.
He’s never had a kiss like this before. Like he’s being eaten alive. Power and heat spin out into the air as a breeze cuts through the clearing, shaking the trees and making the very ground tremble beneath him. Or perhaps that’s only his legs finally giving out as he slumps, dazed. Only Tom holds him firm against the tree to keep him from collapsing to the ground.
Everything whites out into an overwhelming pleasure as the last of his rationality is devoured by a beast.
And when they break apart, Harry can’t remember why he had been so afraid.
“How about now?” Tom asks, a hand smoothing down Harry’s waist. Just on the edge of cruel, but Harry’s mind finds it comforting nonetheless. “Would you like to try giving me your name again?”
“Ah,” Harry says. That’s right. It’s such a small thing, and it would make Tom so happy. “Harry James Potter.”
Like an arrow straight into the hide, something breaks open within him. He’s pierced to the core. Pinned on a board for Tom to flay as he pleases. And most of all, Tom’s smile grows even wider. Toothy with too many teeth. His nails sharpen into claws that prick ruby beads out from Harry’s flesh everywhere they go, like a veil of jewels in the night.
“A perfect name for a perfect boy.”
Tom says it so brightly that Harry preens.
“Will you dance with me tonight, Harry?”
Tom’s face is radiant and full of eternal promise. It’s the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen. His answer – yes, yes, yes – rests on the tip of his tongue, but sticks as an echo of something terribly important reverberates within his bones, nearly forgotten. He grasps onto it, this lone lifeline in this too comfortable dark. Like an immortal flame, never to be extinguished, his will to survive surges forward and lights the way.
“Yes,” Harry says, “but…”
Tom blinks, betraying a sliver of his surprise. “But?”
“Will we just leave my wares behind?”
“So dutiful,” Tom chides, and yet, his expression turns amused. Perhaps by Harry’s continued defiance – the rare toy that hasn’t broken – or perhaps by Harry’s simple, guileless use of ‘we,’ as if they are companions, when only moments before Tom had held Harry’s life within his palm.
When they both know that Tom still does.
Still, for better or for worse, such odds stacked against Harry aren’t enough to make him give up. He hides a fist behind himself and clenches it hard enough to draw blood so that the pain might force the pleasurable silver-misted fog in his mind to clear away.
“Anyone could stumble across it,” Harry points out. “Would be bad if it gets into the wrong hands.”
“You doubt my men,” Tom says, disapproving.
“Why leave things to chance?”
“Why indeed. Perhaps you are not as foolish as you look.”
At that, Tom steps back. His heat leaves with him, and a weakened, childish part of Harry rails against the loss. But it’s just enough space that Harry’s senses return in a trickle.
He holds himself against the tree as before and remains pliant. The honeyed weight lingers in his limbs, and he doesn’t fight it. If Tom believes him still under thrall, he may be able to get away with more and look for an escape before it’s truly too late.
With an aristocratic flourish, Tom gestures in the direction of the path. “Lead the way, darling.”
Harry retraces his steps from earlier in the night, now feeling so very long ago, but his memory serves him well. He spots his cart through the thicket, some thirty paces away.
“Straight ahead,” he says.
Tom’s expression twists with obvious distaste. Harry’s never met one of Tom’s kind himself – few return from such encounters, even with the Order’s training – but he is aware that they’re able to sense iron from a distance. The more powerful the fae, the further.
Harry distinctly gets the sense that thirty paces is very far indeed.
He hurries forward to remove the tarp, as well as flip up the second layer of tarp underneath, tossing the shell of fruits out of the way, tumbling and thudding onto the earth to reveal a heap of iron weaponry – longswords, shortswords, maces and the like.
As Tom examines the cargo, Harry discreetly snags the pack that he had tucked into a hidden compartment beneath the boards near the front of the cart. He risks a quick glance at his handsome captor to confirm that he hadn’t seen the move and suppresses the urge to rifle through his score right away.
Not yet. Tom might notice the pack, but he may not ask to examine the contents.
With a sweep of Tom’s hand, the breeze shifts. Whispers tickle at the edges of Harry’s thoughts, and he knows not to listen for the words that they form lest they drive him mad.
The pile of weapons begins to glow, turning first red and then brighter and brighter, until they melt together into an incandescent slag, the acrid scent of burnt cedar filling the air as Harry’s cart bursts aflame from the heat. The impromptu bonfire briefly lights the night, stretching the shadows all around them, and Harry could swear that the one belonging to Tom lengthens even further still into something grotesque. He can hardly bear to look at it, stomach swooping in horrified protest at even a glimpse of the monstrous form that must lay beneath Tom’s alabaster flesh.
Tom turns to face him. “Now, shall we return?”
It is not as if Harry truly has a choice, but Tom evidently likes to pretend.
“Yes,” Harry says, squaring his shoulders. And he lets Tom lead him deeper into the wood to where the merriment rings out with glee.
They walk further and further within, but orienting in foreign woods has fortunately been one of Harry’s better talents. Still, he has little time to waste. He reaches into the pack and draws out the cloak. He does so without alerting Tom, and his worry bleeds away into resolve. The plan that unfolds in his mind is simple: get the cloak on, get to Hedwig, go. It would be a hard ride in the dark but Hedwig has done worse and so has he.
Tom, a few steps ahead, tilts his face upward as though reading the stars.
He’s doing it often, Harry notices. Looking up, or away, or into the middle distance with a casual air. He’s generously not imposing himself upon Harry for entertainment. Under other circumstances, he would even make pleasant company.
“You’re very quiet,” Tom remarks, still looking at the sky.
“Tired,” Harry says.
“Of course.” Tom pauses, still not looking. “We’ll find you somewhere comfortable to rest, when the dancing is done.”
Harry shakes the cloak loose along its folds. “That’s very kind of you.”
“I have my moments.”
He could swear he hears a smile in it.
He gets the cloak over his shoulders, settles it into place, and waits for Tom to turn and find empty air where his novice merchant used to be.
Tom does not turn.
He walks on, hands clasped behind his back.
Harry stands perfectly still for three seconds in the dark beneath the cloak and watches him go.
Then Harry runs.
He makes it only a handful of paces before Tom speaks.
“Your horse is the other way,” Tom says pleasantly. “No fault of yours, mind – these woods have a will of their own.”
His expression, for the first time all evening, is fully, genuinely amused – not the suppressed, short-lived thing from before, but something much wider and realer that reaches his eyes and transforms his face for just a moment into something that looks almost, bafflingly, human. Fond.
Tom nods to his left. “Hedwig is that way.”
Harry falls back into step beside him. The pack strap sits against his shoulder, and he fiddles with it mindlessly if only for something to do with his hands. Anything to distract him from feeling so unfairly punished by traveling alone – now worse than alone – at night.
“How long did you know,” he asks, after a moment.
Tom doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Since you palmed it from the cart. I thought you would attempt to kill me with whatever you had squirreled away, and I was curious how far you would get.”
Harry’s jaw tightens. None of this surprises him – Tom would, of course, enjoy mind games like this – but the ease of his dismissal stings regardless. He is outmatched, for the moment.
“The cloak, however, is a surprise. A fine piece of magic.”
The appreciation in Tom’s voice makes his hackles rise. That cloak was his father’s. Tom has no right to how covetous he sounds saying it.
“Aren’t you going to take it?”
Tom’s answering smile can only be described as hungry. “I would rather you give it to me because I asked.”
“Never,” Harry spits.
“Then no,” Tom replies just as easily.
They continue on in strained silence, with several more rows of increasingly gnarled trees passing them by. Surprisingly, Tom speaks first.
“For what it is worth,” he says, a smile playing at his lips, blood-red gaze sliding to Harry, “you have made it the farthest.”
A cold comfort.
“Thanks,” Harry scowls.
But he doesn’t break his stride and walks on. There will be no one to come and save him. With only his cloak carefully stowed back in his pack and his wits to aid him, he offers a silent prayer to any gods that might be listening to let him and Hedwig survive the night.
