immortalephemeral

[immortalephemeral]

20 Maim. 437 words

@tomarrymortmicrofics

Black was touching him again. 

Ever since Harry had joined that insipid quidditch team, Orion had nursed the belief that they were joined at the hip. Insufferably, wherever Harry went, there he was, like an infernal pimple that refused to go away. Or a jack-in-the-box like the commercial he saw once on the telly, popping out of its decrepit hull whenever you least expect it.  As if it wasn’t enough that he had to share Harry with a sport that was barbaric (at best), he had to further divide his attention to appease an ingratiating fool.

“Harry,” Orion crooned, his hand still curved on the ridge of Harry’s spine, “are you coming to Hogsmeade on Friday?”

There are twenty seven bones in the human hand. In a silent rage, Tom envisioned the fragility of them beneath Black's skin, how malleable they were to steady, unrelenting pressure. The mindless chatter of the Great Hall only served to exacerbate his bloodlust.

Endlessly polite, Harry smiled mildly. “Did you guys have any plans?”

“We’re making a day of it and going to Madame Rosmerta’s. You should join us, since you’re part of the team now.”

Before Harry could say anything to cosign this liaison, Tom shot Orion a quelling glare. “If Harry decides to attend Hogsmeade on Friday, it will be on my arm. And if I have my way, Black, which I usually do, you won’t be within sufficient range to see it.”

Adequately rebuffed, Orion shrank in his seat.

Harry, however, wasn’t as easily subdued. “I believe it’s my decision who I choose to spend time with.”

“As it should be darling,” Tom remarked. “It was merely a suggestion.”

Harry gave him a skeptical once-over, likely deducing that it wasn’t suggestion at all. For now, Tom had to play the long game—slowly, slowly, catchy monkey. Like a skittish animal, Harry was an impending flight risk. And with time, his soul will learn to be less sociable, especially when the chosen company had nothing noteworthy to offer. Until then, Tom will smile (with gritted teeth) and posture at civility, but he drew the line at allowing cretins to encroach on his territory. 

When Harry turned his head, entrenched in his poached eggs, Tom gave Orion another withering glance. Fleeting—to avoid the attention of the sable-haired boy finishing breakfast—but it was enough, brimming with just the right amount of venom to sail his point home, and fortuitously, for said cretin to withdraw his hand. 

Tom let out a pleased hum. He crossed his legs at the ankles and continued to skim The Daily Prophet in peace.

[immortalephemeral]

Spring display of Mexican Gold Poppies (Eschscholzia californica ssp. mexicana), with some Coulter’s Lupine (Lupinus sparsiflorus) mixed in, Superstition Mountains, Arizona.

[immortalephemeral]

[immortalephemeral]

Day 19 - Pearl | Words 1,158

@tomarrymortmicrofics

Riddle walked through the statues, treading a familiar path as he ignored the world around him.

As it was every year, The Garden of the Gods was packed with people. Groups, families and individuals mingled around him. Some, like him, walking their own silent paths.

Others already surrounding their Gods, offerings given and received in exchange for prayers answered. Shared power—a magical influx—, for peace, for love or whatever their Gods were willing to give.

Envy curled up his spine as he thought of them, but he didn’t pause. He didn’t turn to another God—one who responded—he’d been walking this path too long to turn away now.

Riddle had been warned.

Long ago, when he’d first walked through the power of the Gods, Abraxas had warned him.

In a clearing set apart from the others stood a single statue. An older God. So old that no one recalled his name.

Abraxas had told him no one bothered leaving offerings for him. Even those who gave to all Gods skipped this one. Because who would give to a God that never answered.

He’d stood before the fading statue, carefully hiding his awe at being around so much magic. At being included and accepted in a ritual old as time.

He’d almost walked away. Almost heeded Abraxas and sought out another. Yet as he’d gone to turn away a flash of movement stopped him.

A spark of green in his peripheral vision, a touch of great power and a feeling…

Riddle had stayed.

He’d offered a bowl of burnt apples and fumbled through the ritual words, breathless with hope—to receive only silence.

Yet it hadn’t deterred him. Perhaps burnt apples simply weren’t the correct offering—and the challenge, the obsession, consumed him.

He’d left, returning every year—all fifty of them—with a new offering. Searched all the lands of the world for more gifts. Furs and fine clothes, gold and precious metals, strings of pearls and fat diamonds, stones of every size and colour.

He’d offered books and knowledge. Old tomes found in long forgotten graves. Books he’d had to fight for and others he’d been gifted.

And still he was ignored.

He’d offered words of prayer, of promise and devotion. He’d begged and pleaded.

He hadn't raged and cursed and wept, though he'd wanted to. Riddle had managed to keep his emotions in check, and chosen every word with care, too cautious of angering such a powerful being.

He’d offered more. Sliced his own palm and painted the statue in blood. Burnt the heart of an enemy defeated in combat. A lamb sacrificed upon the deity’s alter.

And still he was ignored.

He brought nothing this time. For there was nothing more to bring. Only himself.

He knelt before his chosen God in silence. Giving nothing, having nothing, and receiving nothing.

“You’ve been coming here for years,” a quiet voice broke the silence. A young man by the sound of it, still young enough to sound like youth. “Has he ever responded?”

Riddle didn’t turn his gaze from the statue, too exhausted, too hurt, to face the newcomer.

“Never,” he replied.

The other was silent, and Riddle wondered if he had left but then he spoke again,

“Have you no offering this time?”

“I have given everything,” he replied, tone harsh at this stranger's audacity to throw his failure in his face.

“Are you sure?”

Riddle let out a mirthless laugh and dropped his head, eyes shut tight to prevent the swell of emotion from leaking out.

“What more have I left?”

The stranger hummed in contemplation. “Only your life,” was his soft reply.

Some Gods were cruel. Demanding offerings that were too great for any man to sacrifice. It was just Riddle’s luck that he’d choose a God who might actually demand his death.

His chest squeezed at the thought. He didn’t want to die, was terrified of it, and what sort of God would demand such a thing. And yet…

Nothing else had worked.

“I said nothing about death, Tom Riddle,” the other countered his thoughts.

Thoughts he hadn’t verbalised, a name he hadn’t given.

He lifted his head, turning to face the source of the voice but no one was there. The clearing was as empty as it always was. Empty and silent.

He turned his gaze to the unmoving statue, wondering if he was finally losing his mind. Had he imagined the voice?

But no. There, at the edges of his vision. If he took the care not to look then he could see.

Green. A shade he knew well, for it was the colour of death.

And as he focused without focusing, there was power. A magic so old and strong it ached in his bones.

His breath caught and he didn’t dare to make a sound, didn’t dare move in case he broke the spell.

Even so he asked himself, asked his God, what was giving his life, if not dying?

The answer came to him slowly, drifting through a fog, wisps of understanding that tickled his mind.

He’d spent years kneeling before this alter. Travelled the world and lived for a being he thought uncaring. Sought out the hidden wonders, the beauty and ugly, and journeyed the spaces between time and death.

He’d given up on his dreams of immortality, of his need to conquer and dominate—all for a God who’d never answered.

Until now.

He’d lived a life without realising.

Riddle settled back against the statue and spoke. Wove a tale of his life, not with careful precision or care of offending, but open and honest as he never was.

It was clear his occlumency shields were no barrier for his God anyway.

The more he spoke, the more settled he became. Magic flooded the clearing, wrapping around him in an embrace that must be what love felt like.

He became unburdened, light and free and at peace as he never felt before.

The years he’d lived could never be told in a single night, but he tried anyway.

His voice became hoarse, his mouth dry as old parchment and yet he continued. Only when the sun rose above the treetops did he trail off.

He opened his eyes, still basking in that heavy magic and came face to face with a young man.

Black hair, green eyes and pale skin. He looked no older than seventeen, and yet there was an agelessness about him.

The man—his God—drifted closer, straddling lightly on his sitting form and capturing his eyes with his own.

“Will you give me your life Tom Marvolo Riddle?”

“All I have lived and all that is yet to come,” he promised breathlessly.

His God leaned closer still.

“Then life you shall live for eternity,” he declared.

Soft lips descended on his, warm hands pulled them together, and Riddle lost himself as he offered his God all that he was.

Death’s Bitesize Bits and Bobs

[immortalephemeral]

Day 19 - Pearl

@tomarrymortmicrofics | 176 words

For year upon year Voldemort watched. He knew Dumbledore thought he’d fled to Albania or some other country on the continent, but he was wrong. Voldemort hadn’t left his homeland, instead he had lingered and watched as the old man placed his downfall on a muggle doorstep in the early morning hours of November.

He had watched as his nemesis was forced to weed the garden at much too young an age. Had watched as he was chased by his cousin, as he apparated onto the school’s rooftop in a bout of accidental magic. He had watched as his family scorned him and the wizarding world’s savior grew more and more jaded.

And as he watched the child grow up so much like Voldemort himself, he had wondered. Wondered, if Harry Potter would emerge a pearl from the shithole the old goat had placed him as if it were an oyster or if he would drown.

And while Voldemort pondered, he thought to himself that he would be greatly disappointed, if the latter came to pass.

[immortalephemeral]

@tomarrymortmicrofics | pearl | 510 words

Hermione tells Harry he can't keep taking Dreamless Sleep.

“It could kill you, Harry,” she tells him, fiercely pointing at the text in the book in her hand. “It says right here that overuse can cause brain bleeds, hallucinations, vomiting, seizures, rectal prolapse…”

“Okay, Hermione, I get it,” Harry snaps. He fights the urge to childishly stick his fingers in his ears and drown her out by singing nursery rhymes.

He’ll cut back, he decides. He can't stop taking it completely.

Except, Hermione is determined and already knows all his usual tricks. All his vials are summoned and vanished. Then, he has to make a vow with her that he won't purchase more. It's not an unbreakable vow, but Hermione will be magically notified if he breaks his promise and Harry knows he won't like her reaction.

“I really am sorry about this,” she says gently. “I know how difficult it is to relive everything you've been through, but I simply can't sit back and allow you to die.”

Harry thinks about telling her the truth then. That he's not reliving anything. But he doesn't think it would matter.

That night, Harry tosses and turns until exhaustion pulls him under. When Harry falls asleep, he quite literally falls, tumbling through space like a little Victorian girl falling down a rabbit hole.

He faceplants on soft carpet, making a small whimper of distress. He sits up to take in his new surroundings, a rather pretentious-seeming bedroom that wouldn't look out of place in the Grimmauld Place of the past. The furniture is made of deep rich oak with mother-of-pearl inlays, forming the shapes of various plants and creatures.

“Oh,” says a bored voice, “It’s you again.”

Tom Riddle sits at a vanity, dipping his comb in a potion and running it through his thick curls.

“Where are we?” Harry asks.

“Malfoy Manor,” Tom says. “I've been invited to the Solstice Gala. It's quite an accomplishment for me so I really hope you aren't planning on spoiling it with your theatrics.”

Harry huffs. Sure, he had shouted at Tom and flailed about the first dozen or so times he had these dreams but what did it matter?

“It's not like any of this is real anyway,” Harry says petulantly.

Tom's answering frown is reflected in the mirror. “You're the one who’s not real,” he says dismissively.

Harry barks out an incredulous laugh. “I'm not real? Why the fuck would you be dreaming of me?”

Tom turns in his chair and fixes his eyes on Harry. “Why indeed?” he says in a low tone.

Harry feels small and vulnerable down on the floor with Tom looking down at him so predatorily.

‘Will you walk into my parlor?’ said a spider to a fly.

Harry swallows, meeting Tom’s sharp gaze. He's been trying not to think of this: the real reason why he’s been slowly poisoning himself to avoid these dreams.

The truth is, he stopped being afraid of Tom a long time ago. Now, Harry is more afraid of his desire for him.

[immortalephemeral]

19 Pearl. 96 words

@tomarrymortmicrofics

This was intolerable.

How many more hurdles will Harry decree him to jump through? Has Tom not shown that his loyalty was unquestionable? That he was the other half of his soul, blood of his blood?

He was a god, capable of bringing the world to its knees, and this impetuous boy, with his messy black hair and verdant green eyes, thought Tom was a puppet to be bandied about on a string; a pearl or bauble—fetching but defunct—to be strung around his throat.

No matter. He will learn the errors of his ways. 

They will all learn.

[immortalephemeral]

The Muse at Sunrise, Alphonse Osbert

[immortalephemeral]

Something's gonna break one way or another

[immortalephemeral]

Day 17 - Ambience | Words 1,585

@tomarrymortmicrofics

Riddle put the last of the reports to the side with a sigh.

Alone in his office, he allowed his eyes to fall shut and gave into the urge to rub his temples. After a moment he dropped his hands and blinked in the low light.

Satisfaction pulled at his lips as he stood and stretched, popping joints and pulling a pleasurable crack from his back.

He’d been sat behind his desk for too long, but such things were necessary. He had more than one business to oversee, and while he delegated liberally, someone had to ensure everything continued to run smoothly.

Everything did of course. Previous problematic situations had been taken care of, his various clubs managed to appear above board and the thief had been caught.

That was still something that needed seeing to, but Dung was no longer a problem and Riddle was content to hold their conversation off until later.

Let the man stew. Let him wonder why Riddle hadn’t come to him. His own fear will be enough of a torment, the uncertainty and waiting will drive him to desperation. Until he wanted Riddle to come, if only to get it all over and done with.

Riddle would make him wait even longer than that, for he worked to no one’s watch but his own. Their conversation will be long, bloody and excruciatingly unpleasant—for Dung.

Riddle wished to be well rested before he explained to the man exactly why stealing from him had been a bad decision.

Even so, that was another day’s problem and for now Riddle was prepared to relax before the next storm inevitably hit.

He exited the office, becoming immediately besieged by low thrumming bass and a high lilting violin.

Through the large window that overlooked the club he paused to watch, pleased to see rehearsals for tonight’s show well under way.

Two women dominated the stage, dancing a tale of love and frolicking like two lovers in spring.

They were beautiful. Dressed like the fae with naught but flowers and leaves hiding their dignities and skin almost luminescent in the soft lighting.

The violin kicked up as the music darkened, drums pounding and cellos crying mournfully. Red light flooded the stage as the lovers split apart, pulled away by imaginary beings and heartbreak taut in every limb.

Riddle nodded approvingly and twisted on his heel. He made his way down to the floor where the clubs visible owner, Barty, was critically watching the show.

The man nodded to him as he sat down in a plush chair and absentmindedly accepted a drink from a bar girl. He sent her a quick smile when she curtsied but his eyes were soon drawn back to the stage.

The story was coming to an end as the lovers found each other again. The red softening to something passionate as the music lightened.

The girls danced together, never touching but reaching, twisting and slinking against each other in a way that would make any hot blooded male pay attention.

Well, any person who were attracted to woman that was.

They finished in an embrace, legs entwined, faces inches apart and chests heaving.

The stage lights and music cut off.

“Excellent!” Barty praised the two girls who turned to face him as the curtain closed, faces flush with pride. “I knew you two would be perfect together. Dance like that tonight and I may even consider giving you a raise.”

He winked at them and shooed them off, allowing them to exit backstage, whispering and giggling.

“Boss,” Barty acknowledged once they were gone.

“Barty, come joined me,” he offered, holding a hand out to the seat next to him.

“One more rehearsal Boss, and I’ll be glad to,” the other man said a touch apologetically before his expression turned mischievous. “I think you’ll like this one.”

Riddle raised an enquiring eyebrow and gestured to the stage.

“That wasn’t the closing act?”

“No sir—we picked up someone new,” Barty confirmed, mischief still dancing in his eyes as he smirked. “We acquired him from The Pink Cat. He’s stunning, but you’ll see that.”

Riddle shifted and sipped his drink, levelling Barty with a knowing look.

“You acquired him?”

“Well, stole him really, though it didn’t take much to persuade him. Umbridge has never been good to her dancers, and he was extremely under appreciated under her care.”

Barty’s eyes darkened, all mirth draining from his face as he glared the far wall.

Riddle could imagine what angered him. Over the years they’d had a few dancers and signers jump ship from the awful woman’s club.

Most of them had come baring scars and trauma—flinching away from being touched and a weary suspicion wrapped around their hearts.

Under Barty’s care they’d flourished, but it always took a long time for them to get used to not being hit and whipped for every mistake.

Riddle was pulled out of his thoughts when the first note of music began to play, and he turned to regard the stage.

The curtain parted slowly to show the stage bathed in green. Deep green back curtains covered with vines of leaves. More leaves scattering the ground and in the centre a black haired man. Kneeling on the ground, back to the room and arms suspended above his head grasping a dancing pole.

Green light bathed the stage, darker around the edges and highlighting the centre. A forest definitely, and yet giving it an otherworldly ambiance—to keep in with the theme of fae he supposed.

Riddle inspected what he could see of the man as he pulled himself up the pole, the music growing louder and haunting.

Dressed in naught but tight silver shorts, his perky bum drew attention immediately. If his skin was marred by scars they’d been cleverly painted over with smatterings of green and silver snake scales, glitter catching the light along the lines.

Despite his skinniness, strong muscles rippled as he moved, limbs wrapping around the pole sensually.

Riddle was captivated, and he hadn’t even caught sight of the man’s face.

He’d always liked snakes and kept a handful of them, building a sanctuary for their own pleasure.

The dance progressed and Riddle couldn’t draw his eyes away. The music raised the hairs on the back of his neck and he shivered, leaning forward and missing the way Barty smirked at the movement.

The man danced seductively—pulling himself up and down the pole, twisting and turning and practically fucking the thing—causing heat to flush to Riddle’s cheeks, and lower, deeper.

A possessive need gripped him. To whisk this delectable snake away and hide him in his garden—so that no one can feast their eyes upon him.

He stamped down on the emotion, but as the man finally turned and he caught the sight of vibrant green eyes, he couldn’t stop himself from standing.

He drew closer to the stage. Drawn in by a hook, by the tempting flashes of silky skin, until he could get no closer.

He licked his lips, eyes half lidded and desire heavy in every limb.

The man noticed him watching, but did no more than send him a coy smile before dismissing him.

He was sinful temptation, the snake of Eden and the forbidden fruit both.

He would lay him out on the finest of silks. Run his hands over soft skin and strong muscles, until the other trembled with wanton desire.

His mouth watered at the thought of sinking his teeth into delicate thighs, of climbing higher and drinking down every last drop of cum, blood, sweat and tears the man had to offer.

To lick and learn every inch of him, study him like a desperate man reading scriptures.

Cherish him. Imprint himself so deeply into the man’s being until his very soul whispered his name.

“He’s magnificent, isn’t he,” Barty’s quiet words broke through his thoughts. Which was good really, as it prevented him from doing something impulsive.

Like climbing on to the stage and pinning the man against the pole he was currently wrapped around.

Sexual assault charges would not be good for business.

“He’s enchanting,” Riddle replied just as quietly without turning, too unwilling to take his eyes off the stage.

“His name is Harry, he’d 25 and was picked up by Umbridge four years ago,” Barty informed him.

Harry, such a common name for someone so extraordinary.

“And before that?”

Riddle felt Barty grimace more than saw him. “Not a clue. He’s reluctant to talk about his past. Reluctant to talk at all really, it was hard enough getting that much out of him.”

Riddle hummed but didn’t order Barty to try harder. These things took time, and he knew the other man would learn everything eventually.

However, Riddle rather thought he’d enjoy the challenge himself.

Music died down as the dance slowed, lights fading until only darkness remained.

Harry was already at the back of the stage by the time the main lights came on. Before he slipped away his eyes locked with Riddle’s, full of a burning interest.

Yes, skittish and quiet—and undoubtedly traumatised—Harry would need to be treated with a gentle hand. A patient hand.

One that would draw out the hint of steel hiding deep in green eyes.

Riddle could do that, he would do that, but first he had to find away to talk to him without scaring him away.

Dung can wait, Harry was a far more tantalising pursuit.

- A day late! Forgive me? I had most of it written yesterday, but then I became… distracted—it’s a talent of mine…

Death's Bitesize Bits and Bobs

[immortalephemeral]

[immortalephemeral]

[immortalephemeral]

Perhaps the World Ends Here, Joy Harjo

[immortalephemeral]

Tom wearing the waist-snatching robe because the guy that keeps trying to kill him (Harry) is going.

[immortalephemeral]

Tom and the transfer students that keeps trying to kill him

[immortalephemeral]

“Boy, you wanna come to my motel, honey?

Boy, you wanna hold me down

Tell me that you love me?”

[immortalephemeral]

Ginny: so, why do you carry his photo?

Harry: because I hate him

Ginny: oh yeah makes complete sense.

Harry: *stares at photo. Sighs*

Ginny: when you're ready to talk I'll be here.

Harry: talk about what?

Ginny: you'll know when it happens