syntheticsoulmates

[syntheticsoulmates]

“If anyone half told him that he was going to hate someone even more than Voldemort he was sure as hell that he would have denied it... But Umbridge was seriously making him thing otherwise the woman was absolutely cruel and crazy! He was sure that the blood loss was making him delusional and that is why he was writing a letter to Riddle telling him that he was an asshole but he had permission to kill Umbitch for torturing kids with a Blood Quill”

Harry clenches his jaw, muscles protesting as he holds himself stiffly. Sweat slithers down his brow, dripping onto the wooden desk. His body burns with agony, waves of pain crashing up his arm and spreading throughout his body. Harry’s hand is the epicentre of the pain, where the shaky words I must not tell lies are slowly carving through flesh and sinew and muscle. The pain is crippling.

“Continue,” Umbridge snaps, her watery, beady eyes glaring at Harry from under her fuchsia pillbox hat.

She looks absurd. Like a swollen frog stuffed into a human costume. Harry would laugh, except all he can do is bite down on his tongue and try to not gasp in pain – he’s not going to give Umbridge the satisfaction.

Keep reading

[syntheticsoulmates]

Skull

DAY 24! Hi everyone! Not feeling too great today so you get a Drabble! 100 words exact!

Tomarry D&D-athon Day 24: Skull.

My list of words for the rest of the month and a description of the event can be found Here!

——————

“Are you sure you’re a Pirate?”

Tom side-eyed the prisoner, a frown marring his face, ��What do you mean?”

“Well,” His green eyes surveyed Tom’s ship, lingering on the folding form of the Death Eater’s flag, a skull with a snake pouring from its mouth. “Pirates don’t really do the whole ‘saving people’s lives’ thing.”

Tom fully turned to face his prisoner, his face incredulous and eyes wide; he fought back the urge to laugh. “Saved you? If anything I've appropriated you. I’m sure someone would be willing to pay a hefty galleon for those pretty green eyes of yours.”

[syntheticsoulmates]

College AU 📖

Anyone got any fic recs?

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 24: Formula (REPARATIONS)

I’ve been told my fic from this morning was pretty cruel and unusual towards the emotions, so have the fix it! Just relieved fluff, on a beach! 

***

Harry’s hands are finally warm in his. Harry’s always had better circulation than he does, and it feels so natural for the pleasant warmth to sink into his joints, and Tom doesn't even mind their mild sweatiness. Tom forgot Harry’s hands did that.

Every time he moves to pull away Tom says: “It’s best to anchor you to the physical for as long as possible,” so Harry lets him keep holding on to him.

Harry rolls his head on Tom’s chest, settles in for a good long snuggle. “Hey, what’s that?” Harry jerks his head at the wrapped up package peeking out from Tom’s ritual bag. His stomach rumbles, and he looks down in startlement.

Tom rolls his shoulders, and then pulls out a small tupperware full of finger foods from the go bag, ignoring the package. Little sliced cheeses and cured meats. Harry’s favorite crackers. Grapes. Olives.

Harry reaches out, but Tom ignores him, and holds the food to his mouth. Harry takes a bite like he’s half-way afraid to snap Tom’s fingers off with his teeth, but is also starving. It’s adorable.

“Holy shite,” Harry says, around the cracker, spraying crumbs. He brings his hand to his mouth and turns bright red, embarrassed.

“Good?” Tom asks, one eyebrow arched. He flicks the crumbs off with big obvious sweeps, but can’t hold on to his indignation for long. He offers another cracker with a little piece of ham. Then an olive. It’s satisfying, soul-deep, to feed Harry from his hand.

Harry finishes off the tupperware with alacrity, and then Tom has him snuggle back in. The beach is getting chilly, and he’ll start a fire soon. For now, there’s nothing like the relief he gets from Harry’s body warm and soaking into his.

They watch the sunset and listen to the waves. Harry complains about the sand at the same time he gushes about it. When Harry finally gives a little shiver, Tom pulls out his wand and conjures a little fire circle. It’s a couple of transfigurations to get the wood, and afterwards Tom feels wiped. He brought his husband back from the dead, after all. Well, grew him a whole new body, at least. Harry can tell.

“Did you bring my wand?” Harry asks. Tom shakes his head. It hasn’t moved from it’s box on Harry’s nightstand, and it’ll stay there until he’s there to move it. Tom passes his over, instead.

Harry’s Incendio is gleeful and overpowered, for a moment flaring up hot enough it dries out Tom’s face and makes him worry about his eyebrows. Harry’s eyes are gleaming in the bonfire’s light. “Tom,” he breathes out, then just chokes off. Tom lets him have a minute. Today is joyous, and Tom doesn’t want to mar it with his own tears.

Tom tries to relax under the stars, but the fire’s crackle grows louder and louder, until it feels like he’s got pop rocks in his mouth and ears. His hand twitches for his ritual bag. Harry startles.

Tom pulls out the package, and then rips it open with brutal, vicious fingers.  He can feel his fingernails catch on the fabric inside, tearing runnels in the delicate cloth. He gets sick of it halfway through and just chucks the package into the fire.

“Wow.” Harry says, and Tom can’t say anything, just taking big deep breaths. Harry pats his shoulder. “Was that the sheet?”

Tom can only nod.

Harry looks as the delicate fabric just wisps up into the flames. There’s no body to it, no resistance. It burns like old newspaper, like the puffs on a dandelion, just catching into immediate smoke. 

“I thought you’d keep it,” Harry says. “Since it was the only way you could touch me.”

Tom clears his throat, shakes his head. No. He’ll never keep anything that comes between him and his husband.

[syntheticsoulmates]

Til Death Do Us Part 

Chapter 28: Nurture

Excerpt: Harry liked to think he took care of himself. This could not be further from the truth; that bleeding Gryffindor heart only led Harry towards trouble. Foolish man would break his own arm if he thought some unfortunate soul would be better off for it.

A/N: a bit of levity, and then some more sad parts skldjgldgjh

[syntheticsoulmates]

omg, I'm so sorry if I caused you genuine distress. Tom totally succeeds in resurrecting Harry and they hold hands on the beach and burn the stupid sheet in a bonfire. *hugs*

OH THANK GOODNESS THIS IS SO NICE TO HEAR MY TEARS OF SADNESS ARE NOW TEARS OF RELIEF

also completely unrelated but every time I see your name, I think of the lyrics “hot and dangerous” from the Kesha song “We R Who We R.” and that always makes me smile

[syntheticsoulmates]

Blackmail

DAY 23. I’M ON TIME AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Tomarry D&D-athon Day 23: Blackmail.

My list of words for the rest of the month and a description of the event can be found Here!

——————

“Alright, Riddle, I’m here! Where the fuck are you?!”

Harry shouted, arms crossed as he stood alone in the middle of an open field. Nothing but the sight of grass and flowers as far as the eye could see.

This entire situation was ridiculous.

“Potter,” Harry sighed and turned around. There Riddle stood, in all his creeping silent-apparition glory. As handsome as a daydream with a heart so vile, nightmarish could hardly begin to describe it.

“Harry Potter, as I live and breathe. How long has it been? Seven? Eight years?”

Harry was seconds away from strangling Riddle’s pale, perfect neck, “Let’s just get on with this. I don’t have all day.”

Riddle was pouting, “You old Gryffindors always want to jump right into things, where’s the subtle tiptoeing around each other? Where’s the suspense? The drama?”

Harry was going to kill him.

“I would think things were dramatic enough with your shitty theatrics, no need to spoil my joke of a life more by overdoing anything.”

Harry meant it too, he was exhausted and this had barely been going on for a few days. Why did he have the worst of luck? Stupid Potter genetics.

Riddle’s smile was syrupy sweet, “Come now, Harry. You’re acting as though no one has ever had Blackmail on you before.”

“That’s because no one has ever had Blackmail on me before, Riddle. I’m sure this will come as a shock to hear, but most people aren’t as awful as you.” Harry finished with a vicious point at Riddle’s chest, and if the hand gesture had started as the wand movement to a curse, well. Riddle should be thankful Harry was unarmed.

For now.

“I’m not hearing all people, so surely there’s a story to unpack there. Don’t worry; we’ve time.” Riddle nodded, all charming and understanding. As though they were both in on some obscure joke.

Harry rolled his eyes, “Just give me the robes.”

Riddle was more than happy to pull out a small wrapped parcel from his pocket. A quick engorgio returned it to the proper size.

“Okay. Going over this one more time,” Harry said as he grabbed the parcel from Riddle. “All you want me to do is show up to your weird cult meeting, mingle, ’accidentally’ reveal my face by dropping my mask or something, and then you swear to give me those photos? That’s it, right? You’ll be happy with just that?”

Riddle had the gall to look offended, “I’m a man of my word, yes, if you follow those simple instructions, Harry, you may have your photos back.” He paused for a moment, and his mouth seemed to be fighting off a grin. “Though if you’d allow me a secrecy vow to let me keep them for personal reasons, I’d certainly be happier.”

Harry’s face went beet red, “Shut the fuck up. Merlin, no, never. I’ll see you tonight you fucking bastard.”

As Harry turned around to apparate home, he heard Riddle call out, “Technically my parents were married-!”

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 24: Formula

“Tom, Tom. Toooooooom.” Harry’s voice chorused in his ears. “It’s time to get to beeeeeed,” he sang.

Tom jerked in his seat, unstuck his face from the parchment. “The formula,” he blurted, high on the certainty of dream logic. “Could be balanced with arithmancy to accept the life force of a goat.” He scrambled for a piece of parchment, but as soon as he started to inscribe the symbols the logic fell away and he threw his quill in disgust. Ink splattered.

Harry made a fond chuffing noise. “You should go to bed,” he ordered softly. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

Tom ignored him, refusing to turn around. He carefully dragged his bleary eyes to the tome. Maybe his subconscious was telling him something, and if he kept looking he’d find what he needed.

“Tom,” Harry’s voice hardened. “You’re hurting yourself like this. I can’t watch.”

“Well, you should have thought of that before you died on our honeymoon,” Tom spat with real heat.

Harry rolled his eyes. He phased through Tom, making him jerk at the unnatural feeling of occupying the same space at the same time as a block of dry ice.

Tom forced himself not to shiver. He determinedly re-focused back on the book. Harry sighed, sounding far away and ephemeral . The candle by the window guttered and the pane began to frost over. Ghostly fingers drew over the pane, disturbing the frost.

Tom watched him out of the corner of his eye, where he seemed most solid. Harry’s movements were soft, repetitive as he drew out a small little Quidditch team in the frost. When he was a wizard, Tom had shown him a small spell to animate them.

Tom found himself sliding off his hand to the book face again with a small thud.

Harry reappeared, see-through at his elbow. “See, c‘mon. You’re being stupid. There’s no way your reading comprehension is any good like this.” Tom couldn’t see anything, but the book started to tug itself away.

Tom dithered to haggle. “Only if you lie beside me.”

Harry paused. He flickered in and out like he did when he was torn. Harry shook his head. “No,” he said, with no pleasure. “You get too cold. And you won’t turn up the heat to compensate.”

Tom very purposefully went back to his book, tugging it back into place. “You know it becomes difficult for you to manifest at higher temperatures,” he said idly.

Harry slid out of existence and then back in a serious gutter of the candlelight. Tom frowned at him. Harry was standing through the top of the tome and table, arms crossed angrily and just opaque enough Tom had to squint through his torso to see the words. His arms ached to hold him.

“You need to rest,” Harry insisted, stubborn. “Don’t make me grab the pans,” he threatened. Harry would bang and clang and make a terrible nuisance of himself past the point where Tom could focus.

“Then rest beside me.” Tom rejoindered, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

Harry reached out, carefully traced the air above Tom’s cheek. “Okay,” he yielded.

***

It had been a long time since Tom could actually herd Harry anywhere, but Harry let Tom coax him up the stairs as if he could. Harry gamely floated a half inch over the floor, let Tom box him in with his body and open all the doors.

“Lemme grab our sheet,” Harry said.

“No, I’ll fetch it.” Tom shook his head, to cut Harry off. “You wait in bed for me.”

Harry bit his cheek, and flickered. “I’ll chill it down before you get in.”

“I’ll be warm anticipating my husband waiting for me,” he said smoothly.

Harry sighed and drifted over to the bed, shoes disintegrating into air as he went. He paused for a moment, and his shirt went the same way.

Tom stepped into the bathroom, quickly brushed his teeth, washed his face. Changed into thick fleece pajamas with a woolen lining. Then, Tom opened up the cupboard with their towels, ran his hand over the fabric sitting sheer and soft in its place of honor on the top shelf. Their own wedding linen, in a way.

Their sheet was sheer, so close to being translucent Tom could actually catch the haze of Harry through the weave if he tried, and was almost as soft as his memory of Harry’s skin. He pulled it out carefully so as not to let it snag.

Harry was waiting for him, half naked, bare toes peeking out, on top of the duvet. His body didn’t depress the fluffy down.

Tom pulled the duvet back up and through him, then carefully paused. “Ready?”

Harry nodded, and Tom carefully spread the gauzy white across Harry’s chest and legs. The fabric draped over him, a little tent with no supports. There was the barest blush of ghostly nipples and soft groin, broken up with the prominence of Harry’s knobby knees and elbows, his bony feet.

He reached out a trembling hand, caressed the length of Harry’s flank through the fabric. It was like touching ice through the fabric, viciously cold but far enough removed that he could still press and stroke and hold. Harry shifted under his touch.

“We should use a thicker fabric,” Harry fretted.

Tom ran his hands down his husband, ignoring the chill. He carefully caressed one faded pink nipple with one forefinger. “No, we shouldn’t.”

Harry batted him from under the sheet, glaring. His body was dead. In all ways. “You need to sleep.”

Tom slid into the bed beside him, nonplussed at the scolding. “Turn on your side. I want to spoon you.”

Harry glared. “What if I want to spoon you? Jetpack it,” he stuck out an ephemeral pink tongue.

Tom viscerally remembered how it had felt to suck that tongue into his mouth, how slick it was when brushed against his own tongue. He brought the edge of the sheet up over Harry’s chin, bussed his ice cold lips with his own. Quick so he couldn’t dwell on what he was missing.    

“Please,” he whispered, close enough to Harry that his breath fogged.

Harry folded immediately but with a grumble. He turned on his side, the jut of his elbow obvious underneath that sheer sheet.

Tom clambered in behind him, turned off the bedside lamp with a tap, plunging them into darkness. Harry’s body was familiar against his own, especially since in the lack of light his eyes couldn’t report the differences. Tom took even breaths, tried not to smell. Harry didn’t smell like anything anymore, and Tom couldn’t scent the progression of Harry's day in the mass of his hair. Tom missed the softness of his curls against his face with a dull ache in his belly.

“I wish you’d let me go,” Harry whispered, picking and plucking at the sheet with his deft fingers. His spirit was anchored back in the work room, a piece of him carved out and laid in a bed of perfect glassy obsidian, warded to hell and back against anything except Tom’s own touch. Especially a certain set of ghostly digits. “I'm no good for you.”

Tom swallowed, arms tightening around his sheet covered husband, squeezing him tight the only way he knew how. “I know, my love, I know,”

[syntheticsoulmates]

With a Thousand Dreams (I’m Holding Heavy)

Chapter 2: A Picture’s Worth

Summary: Tom Riddle, meet Harry Potter

A/N: once again, this is cross-posted from previous sections here on tumblr. heavy edits were made to section five, but nothing substantial in terms of plot; reread isn’t necessary but i feel the section is now much improved

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 23: Presumed

Sleep? What’s sleep? Have today’s word obscenely early. No delayed gratification for you! 

***

“Harry,” Hermione hissed, dragging Harry into the pantry and out of the line of sight of Tom. “You can’t just ignore this! Tom didn’t come back right. He’s off-putting at best and completely terrifying at worst!”

Harry unwrapped her hands from the front of his jumper. “I don’t care!” Harry said, fierce. “I don’t care if he came back wrong! I’m just glad he came back at all!”

Harry took a step back, edged his way out of the pantry, shaking his head, refusing to entertain this. Then he paused. Tom was waiting, right outside.

“Problem?” He asked, in that perfect posh tone Harry knew he’d practiced over and over in his teen years. His eyebrow was winged up in question. Harry loved him.

“No, not at all,” Harry lied, just as Hermione sealed her fate with a clipped:

“Yes, actually.”

Harry closed his eyes. “Hermione, no.” He brought his hand up to readjust his glasses to the bridge of his nose.

“No! You’re not looking out for yourself so I’ll have to do it for you! Tom, ever since you’ve come back from the dead you’ve been wrong. Awful. I think it would be best for Harry if you just left!”

“I was only presumed dead,” Tom rejoindered evenly. He reached out long-fingered hands to stroke Harry’s face. They were chilled on Harry’s skin, slender blocks of ice. Harry leaned in to them anyway. “I think you’ve a fever, love. Come, sit. I’ll get you some paracetamol.” He guided Harry away, out of the kitchen.

“And now you’re making Harry sick!” Hermione followed, shrill. Tom stiffened.

“How I’m to control viral transmission on command is beyond me,” Tom snarked, dry. He carefully sat Harry down on the couch, threw a knitted throw over him. It was still warm from Tom’s body and Harry felt the heat settle into his joints. It was strange. He never usually felt the cold. Harry huddled under the blanket.

“Could I get a cuppa?” He asked, anticipating wrapping his hands around the mug.

Tom nodded.

“I’ll get it!” Hermione insisted. She turned on Tom with a snarl. “So I can be sure you’re not poisoning it!”

Tom’s lips thinned but he didn’t say anything, just curled his hands into Harry’s shoulders. They were tight, almost to the point of pain, but that just made the muscles there feel good. He ached too. He wondered if he could leverage a rub out of it, if Tom was feeling solicitous. He rolled his shoulders a bit, and Tom took up the motion immediately.

Hermione made the tea and pulled the paracetamol out of her own purse, to Tom’s thinly disguised ill humor.

Harry let her. “Harry, please.” She begged. “Why don’t you come stay with me and Ron, see if you get better.”

Harry put a hand to his head, let himself tip over into the couch. This was too much. He knew if he continued this conversation he’d get a headache. “No, Hermione. I know you and Tom have never got along, but this is insane. Yes, him missing did really fuck me up. But he’s back now!” Harry gestured semi-violently at Tom, who was really showing an admirable amount of restraint. Harry would have to make it up to him later. “And I’m doing so much better.”

“I’ll call the police!” Hermione insisted, vehement.

“You do that,” Harry said, dry. He ran his hand down his face, hard enough that it stretched the muscles in his cheek and tugged on his lips. “But I’m really not feeling up to this conversation right now. So I’m going to ask you to leave.”

It took another thirty minutes, some furious protestations, a truly vicious stabbing headache behind his right eye, and Tom using his obscenely long limbs to get Hermione out the door, but she finally went.

***

“Tom?” Harry asked, voice soft in Tom’s neck. The flat was finally quiet, everything soft and intimate. He was lying on his boyfriend on the couch; Tom’s boniness the perfect cushion.

Tom hummed. He was petting Harry’s hair, wrapping the curls around his long fingers and then tautening them, until their natural spring and their soft silkiness pulled them back in. Each tug felt like it was directly unraveling his heachache, a thread at a time.

Harry swallowed, dry enough that his throat felt sore. “I know Hermione’s not wrong,” he whispered, like the softest gunshot in this still room. “So if you’re killing me, I’d appreciate if you make it quick. I don’t want to be sick forever.” His voice broke but Harry continued in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t want to waste away.”

Tom’s hand stilled. Then he started back up, gesture still soft and tender and lovely. “Do you feel like you’re wasting away?” He asked, voice casual.

Harry shrugged, buckled down further into Tom’s body. He breathed in, right where his neck met his collarbone in a little dip. Harry had missed this so much. “No, not really. Just cold.” He slid his hands into Tom’s shirt, retribution for all the times his boyfriend had done that to him.

Tom hummed in acknowledgment. Harry felt it resonate in Tom’s chest, thrum against his skin like a gentle tickle. “Don’t worry, Harry. That will pass soon.” He settled Harry closer into his body, entwined their legs and allowed Harry to press his socked feet to his warm calves. He pressed a tender kiss to Harry’s head, still kept petting. “I’m only making you like me.”

[syntheticsoulmates]

day 22 - terminus

with a thousand dreams (i’m holding heavy)

do i like this section? i don’t know. am i posting it anyways? yes.

first three sections on ao3 HERE. / section four.  / section four cont.

part five: terminus

Granger was hovering in the hall outside, just two doors down from the master bedroom. She glanced up at the sound of the door, halting mid step. She must have been pacing. Upon spotting him, she adopted a firm stance, her legs held slightly apart as though to brace for impact.

“Granger,” Tom greeted. “I believe he wants to speak to you.”

“Thank you.” Granger nodded. Her eyes dropped to the photo album wedged under his arm. “Shall I see you to the door?”

Tom bared his teeth at her, sharp and only vaguely threatening. “I’m afraid our business is not yet concluded.”

Keep reading

[syntheticsoulmates]

Terminus

DAY 22. I am 3 hours late. I have written over 3k for this damn word and it’s not fucking done. But honestly, I’m not even sure if it’s any good. Then Amanda swooped in like an Angel and suggested I post it in parts. So if you’re curious about this please let me know and I’ll post the rest/continue writing. For now, I just wanna sleep.

Tomarry D&D-athon Day 22: Terminus.

My list of words for the rest of the month and a description of the event can be found Here!

——————

“Magistri Mors,”

Tom whispered the words of Its small placard and gazed on in breathless wonderment. It was the most mundane curiosity in the whole room, yet somehow It pulled all of Tom’s attention. Nothing else could possibly compare. Not the piles upon piles of books or the odd wardrobe beside It, not the scattered portraits or strange noisy objects. Nothing.

Its eyes were carefully shut, sat below a heavy brow and beside a straight, rounded nose. It had full lips, slightly downturned with deep lines that amazingly seemed to be peeling up in the crease like real skin, looking dry as though they desperately needed water or that It had a terrible habit of biting them.

Its stiff jaw trailed up to high cheekbones, and down, down, down, to a long pale neck on bare shoulders with a sharp protruding clavicle, just abruptly cut to rest upon smooth marble. Tom almost convinced himself that It was merely sleeping with how lifelike It appeared, anything was possible here after all. With portraits roaming and speaking, why not It?

The Terminus was clearly a man, though Tom could argue with how delicately each twist of curling hair stood crafted that the Bust could lean toward the feminine. Tom had certainly never seen a man with such beautiful hair.

Then again, being but a small eleven years old just coming to grasp the beginning scraps of understanding in this new magical world, barely— Tom supposed that the Wizards of a time long, long ago could have very well had beautifully curled hair like this.

But Its beauty was not the only thing that held Tom’s attention. It was the humming feeling of unfettered magic so compact around the Bust that Tom’s hand seemed to meet a dense invisible substance around It.

The magic was not unlike the feeling Tom first had when he pressed his hand to the dorm room bed in astonishment. Something so soft and plush for sleeping on, of all things. And it was just for Tom and Tom alone.

He couldn’t fathom why something so perfect laid hidden, trapped, isolated deep within these spiralling towers of items lost to time. Tom himself most likely wouldn’t have stumbled upon It without the help of older Gryffindor boys chasing after him mid-way through another day of thorough castle exploration.

Tom made a careful note to remember this particular seventh-floor corridor so that he may find this peculiar appearing room again, as soon as he located the exit anyway.

In all his childish joy, he couldn’t help but whisper a small goodbye to It, and a hushed, “When I return to visit you, it will be with the translation to your name so that I may address you respectfully.”

[syntheticsoulmates]

“And why would I need to go with you?” Voldemort asked.

“So you can see for yourself what it’s like to socialize like a normal person,” Harry said, his voice bright like a morning songbird’s.

“Your insolence is not a virtue,” Voldemort told him pointedly.

“But it certainly works,” Harry said, his gracious smile masking the troublesome imp that lived behind it.

“It does not work.”

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 22: Punch

“I’m going to die alone,” Harry mumbled into the breakfast table.

Ron pat his back, spoke through his mouthful. “Don’t say that, mate. You’ll find somebody.” Hermione whacked him on the shoulder with her butter knife and gesticulated angrily. It was a toss up whether she meant to scold him for the sentiment or for talking with his mouth full.

Harry shifted until just one brilliant green eye was exposed. “Oh yeah, how do you figure? Cedric was the best fighter at Hogwarts University and he didn’t even manage to get a punch in when fighting sixteen-year-old Tom! He’s objectively ranked the lowest. Can you think of one person who would even be willing to throw down in a boss fight with Voldemort? Besides Dumbledore. Which, ew. He’s like four hundred years old. The chance of anyone getting through all seven of them is infinitesimal. ”

“I still don’t see what you saw in that dude.” Ron said, shaking his head.

Harry bared more of his face to increase the efficaciousness of his glare. “Not helping.”

Hermione cut in. “Well, Harry, not all fulfillment comes from within a relationship. Maybe you should try being with yourself for a while. Learn who you are. See even if you want to date.”  

Harry made a face. “Hermione, let’s face it, I hate being alone. I spent my whole childhood essentially alone and it sucked. I’m a baby adult now, and I don’t have to do that ever again. I’m only as isolated as I want to be, and that’s not at all. I’ve got my friends, and now I want a person.”

“Maybe you could fight for your own right to date?” Ron asked, around a whole square of toast with jam. Harry was idly impressed. He wasn’t sure if Ron did this to annoy Hermione or to rebel against his mum.

“How do you think I got into this mess in the first place?” Harry put his face back down on the table.

Hermione reached over the table and patted him on the back. “Maybe you should try and talk it out like adults?”

***

Harry toed his shoes. “So, what I’m saying is, that I would really appreciate it if you all would stop trying to kill my future dates. This whole defeat of the seven split-off personalities of my ex is just overkill, and I’d like for you to stop.”

The seven of them were lounged around the room. One on his desk chair and two on his armchair, three on his bed, and diary Tom had even condescended to lay on Harry’s beanbag, head and legs dangling off the sides, throwing M&Ms in the air to catch in his mouth. Harry had corralled them all with drinks and snacks after luring them in with a single ‘SOS’ on the group chat followed by complete radio silence. Predictably they’d all started popping up by themselves and in pairs.

“Oh, but Harry,” Voldemort leaned in, where he was holding court on the armchair with another Tom lounging on the arm. Harry thought he looked like a Bond villain. “We all,” he gestured around the room, like he was the Obi Wan meme, “never agreed to be exes.” A small murmur of agreement went around the room. 

Harry stomped his foot. “That’s not going to work this time! Hermione already told me breakups don't have to be mutual!”

Voldemort continued as if Harry hadn’t spoken, picking through a small bowl of chex mix searching for all the little garlic loaves and popping them in his mouth with an obnoxious crunch. Harry hated when he did that. “Well, in any case, we certainly don’t see the problem in running off homewreckers from our boyfriend.”

[syntheticsoulmates]

I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.

@thepotternet and @fanficnet Yule event, day 1: Tom Riddle

[syntheticsoulmates]

Diplomatic

DAY 21. I am on time. TAKE THIS CRACK. TAKE IT. Also who here knows about the Ritual Slaughter of a Sheep by a Foreign Diplomat in 1984 London? Nobody? Just me?

Tomarry D&D-athon Day 21: Diplomatic.

My list of words for the rest of the month and a description of the event can be found Here!

——————

Harry coughed quietly into his fist and held his wand to his throat, casting a sonorous.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, in the black cloaks creating a sacrificial ritual. Please cease immediately and step away from the Muggle woman.”

Honestly, could today get any weirder?

Instead of the scurried scrambling of regretted life choices and guilt, only one of the three cloaked men deigned to turn their head to Harry’s direction. Harry, who was only a hundred or so yards back with a small group of fellow Aurors, had a bad feeling about this.

This particular cloaked fellow must have been the one in charge; they apparated to the edge of Harry’s wards.

“Very sorry to waste your time Aurors,” the Head-Ritual-Person started and pulled down their hood and revealed a young, handsome face. The man couldn’t be much older than Harry, though he was a bit taller.

He had one of those boyish smiles, well crafted and distinctly screamed ’No one has ever denied me a single pleasure in life, and you will not be the first’. Or at the very least, a charming smile that knew how to talk his way out of trouble.

So Harry wasn’t going to wait around and hear what else it had to say.

“It’s quite alright, thank you for your understanding. We’ll call an obliviator for the Muggle and get you three detained for the day, dole out some formal punishments veering from a hefty fine to life imprisonment and all will be well and good. No extra time wasted.” Harry nodded and started to perform a quick expelliarmus, only to have a small parchment shoved in his line of sight.

“Actually,” the Head-Ritual-Man waved the parchment in front of Harry’s face. And had the audacity to wink. “We have Diplomatic Immunity. Would you mind removing the Wards? They’ll get in the way.”

Oh. Well, that was new.

“Diplomatic Immunity…” Harry said slowly, leaning forward until he was just barely outside the ward line. He gave the parchment a quick once over, cast a Ministry Document Assessment Spell and came back with an unexpected answer.

These three men really did have Diplomatic Immunity. And they were using it to slaughter a Muggle Woman for their ritual. And technically. There was really nothing Harry could do to stop them.

Harry sounded lost, even to himself, “But— This is a residential area. Could you at least - I mean there are children here — not that…That’s not to say if there weren’t children here this would be better — but. But-”

The Head-Ritual-Man aka ‘Tom’, Harry guessed by the signature on the parchment, gave a small condescending laugh.

“You’re just adorable. What are you doing later?”

“What?” Well, Harry could list a few things. Drinking to forget being a high choice on that list. Maybe he was going to take a long hot shower and then try to drown himself in a long hot bath. Who is to say Harry can’t drink to forget and drown in the bath? Yeah, that’s what he was going to do.

“Well, I’d ask you to lunch now, but I’m kind of in the middle of something. You know what? No worries, I’ll find you.” Tom apparated back to his…fellow ritual people.

Harry had never thought the words, 'No worries, I’ll find you.’ Could be so threatening. He was learning a lot of new things today. He couldn’t wait to learn more, such as: Would a restraining order work against an Ambassador with Diplomatic Immunity?

[syntheticsoulmates]

Day 21: Chill

“I know you’re not Harry,” Tom hissed. “So I’d appreciate it if you stayed right over there or this is going to get ugly.” Tom flicked his wand towards a chair in the corner, then brought it back to Harry.

Harry made his ridiculous frowny face, the one that made a small furrow between his eyes and scrunched his nose enough that the frames of his glasses sort of rode up into his eyebrows. “Tom, what’s going on?” He asked, sounding a little confused. He took a step forward, and Tom hit him with a stinging hex. Harry winced and drew his arm in, more out of betrayal than pain. “Ow, Tom that hurt.” Harry rubbed his arm, the beginnings of a pout forming on his face.

Tom didn’t falter.

“Tom, you can’t be serious!”

“Deadly,” Tom said. “Now, sit.” He flicked his wand and Harry jerked backwards and landed on the small armchair with a small ‘oof’.

Harry crossed his hands over his chest, the position making his jumper roll up to expose his surprisingly delicate wrists and stretch the material across his muscled arms. “Tom, you’re being an ass. We’ve talked about this. Just because I’m shorter doesn’t mean you can manhandle me.”

Tom simply watched him with blank eyes and ignored him. “Now, like I said, I know you’re not Harry. That’s obvious. I just need to know if you’ve killed him and taken his place or if you’re wearing him like a little Harry-suit.”

Harry laughed, droll and dry like the sarcastic little sass monster he was. “Hilarious, Tom.” Harry shook his head and made to stand up, all deliberate casualness. “What a ridiculous--”

Tom knocked him back and bound him to the chair with a non-verbal swish and flick. “I really am insistent on you. Staying. Put.”

“Tom.” Harry took a beleaguered breath. “Are you sure you’re the one that’s feeling okay?” Harry asked, disgruntled, and he fought against the ropes. He reached into the pocket of his ridiculous cargo pants as best he could, attempting in his little Harry way to be sly.

Tom pulled out Harry’s wand. “Looking for this?” He asked.

“Tom. This isn’t funny!” Harry struggled, starting to get that beautiful flush that tinged his golden skin like a nice ripe nectarine from his cheeks down to his neck. Harry struggled, trying to get purchase with his trainers on the floor. “Give me my wand back,” he ordered, in that imperious tone that normally never failed to get Tom hot under the collar.  

Tom hummed, and put the wand back into his breast pocket for safe-keeping. He took a few steps closer, brought himself down near Harry’s face. He stayed out of range of actual touch, but peered close enough to see Harry’s pores, the gleam of his sweat. “Now, as I see it, I’ve done a pretty extensive search for my boyfriend’s body, and you look physically perfect, down to the way your bottom eyelashes clump together and that weird little not freckle behind your left ear. That sort of detail’s pretty overkill for most mimicry purposes and would require a lot of energy to maintain. My prevailing theory is the Harry-suit. I can’t fault your taste.”

“Ron and Hermione won’t let you keep me like this!” Harry struggled, jerking the armchair, but it was too heavy for him to shift off its feet. Tom had picked it for a reason.

Harry looked adorably cross, heaving and sweating and glaring hard enough Tom would normally worry he might strain something.

Tom shrugged. “Probably not. Their hearts are soft. Mine’s not.” Tom stepped back away, twirled his wand in his hands.

“Now, as far as I’m concerned, I only have one problem: you wearing Harry.” Tom tapped his wand into his hand as punctuation. “I’m afraid that’s intolerable.” Then Tom grinned. “But I believe in problem solving. So, if you let me know what you need to make a comfortable relocation, I don’t need to excise you forcibly and we can skip all the unnecessary pain bits that I’ll Obliviate out of Harry later. I’m good at those bits. Harry knows what I’m talking about, even if he pretends he doesn’t.”

Harry started to cry. “Tom, Tom. You’re scaring me, Tom.”

Tom rolled his eyes, and the little niggling feeling in the center of his chest died an abrupt death. He turned on his heel and faced the Harry-thing with a smile. “Oh please, I’m a sadist; I like it when Harry cries. I like it even more when I don’t have to care about making it better. So please, continue. I’ll save this memory for later.”

Finally the thing wearing Harry relaxed. It smiled, perfectly symmetric across the cheeks. A chill dropped down Tom’s spine, but he kept his face blandly smiling. He’d been Slytherin King for a bloody reason.

“What, going to offer to take your boy’s place?”

Tom snorted. “Dear Morgana, no. Why on earth would I do that? I’ll merely find you some other poor idiot to ride.” Tom leaned in, let his eyes flash red, bared his teeth in something that could never be confused with a smile. “I’m afraid this one is mine.”