#horcruxes

[izharmilgram]

born hungry.

[allofthelights11]

The latest piece of art created especially for Out of Time!

GORGEOUS art created especially for Out of Time by the immeasurably talented Talita Asami!

Out of Time is a 6th/7th year Horcrux hunt rewrite. It's a WIP updating 2x a week.

It's the third in a series, but is the primary work. The prequel works explore Hermione propositioning him to lose her virginity and their subsequent inability to keep their hands off each other. Lots of fun, but not necessary for plot.

-------------------------

Hermione knew when the war comes, she should have certain boxes checked in advance. She didn't expect to fall for the person she propositioned, someone who only earned the role because he was (a) fit and (b) not a friendship she'd be risking with a good shag. Now they're hiding it from Harry, Ron, and everyone else, while Draco balances his growing obsession with Hermione alongside his mission deadline to allow a Death Eater breach of the castle. Featuring possessive and dangerous Draco, BAMF Hermione, jealous Ron, good friend Ginny, double/triple/quadruple agent Snape, good Slytherins (Theo, Pansy, and Blaise) and very, very bad ones, and a little T.S. Eliot. Still to come: ill-fated camping, snake encounters, and Horcrux hunting - complete with all the toxic infestation and mental poisoning the Horcruxes bring along for the ride.

[awyeahitssam]

Harry just can't seem to stay dead. TW: Suicide, character death, frequent character death, torture, murder, disjointed snippets, concept discontinued -

The first time he dies Harry is fifteen months old, and it’s murder. His parents are both dead already, killed by the same hand Harry himself falls to, but they aren’t in the large, white expanse he wakes up in seconds later.

In fact, Harry is quite alone.

So he does what’s natural, and cries,

and cries,

and cries.

He stops after a bit, when his chest begins to ache. If his mummy or daddy were here, they would have come.

He’s alone.

He can’t remember ever being completely alone before, but he’s a big boy. Mummy’s big boy, she always says with a beaming smile when he's been very good. He can wait for her to come get him from this strange place.

This strange, dull, all-white place.

So he sits and waits, only Harry is a child with a short attention span and an oversized imagination. He wishes he had something to do - some toy to play with. He thinks about the colorful puffs of light daddy had introduced to him yesterday longingly, and suddenly pale puffs of smoke appear before him. Pink, purple, green. All of his favorite colors.

Gasping in delight, Harry claps clumsily, but this disperses the smoke and he’s alone again.

He whines, put out. “More,” he babbles. “Moremoremore!”

Obediently, the expanse lights up again. Harry grins gummily, falling onto his back to watch the pretty colors burst above him.

After a time Harry grows bored. He thinks of home - of his blanky and his stuffed toys and his mummy’s beautiful red curls and his daddy’s laughter - and longs to return.

A portal appears below him and he drops through with a squeal of delight.

Eventually this memory fades, just like the memories of his parents, lost in the cobwebs of a small cupboard under the stairs.

...

Unlike Mummy or Daddy, the Lady has never encouraged Harry's babble or answered his questions or bowed to his demands - "juice!" or "up!" were his favorites. In fact the first time he said “no!” which usually made adults laugh, or sigh and shake their heads, Harry was spanked.

Harry had never been spanked before, not even when he crashed his toy broomstick into Mummy’s desk and got ink spilled all over himself and the ground. Mummy had said he had been a very, very bad boy to ride his broom without mummy or daddy around, and Daddy had backed her up with stern, grunting noises even though his eyes were twinkling like they did when he laughed.

Here, when he spit a mouthful of mashed banana on the floor, the Lady shrieked and threw a washcloth at him, glaring until he got the hint and sloppy mopped it up. Harry didn’t know why the Lady didn’t just make the rag do that itself, but then again Harry didn’t understand a lot of things about the Lady.

The Mister was also not very nice. When Harry was quiet Mister paid him no attention, but if he made the slightest sound Mister’s beady eyes would narrow at him and he would start to shout. Mister was very loud, loud enough that he made Harry’s little ears ring and the other boy in the house start to cry.

The Mister stopped at the tears of the other boy, and so the next time Mister shouted Harry cried. This time, Mister did not stop. He just kept yelling and yelling and yelling until Harry’s head hurt really bad, and he seemed to suddenly lose his voice altogether.

That day Harry was put into his cupboard before it got dark outside, and was not let out for a very long time.

...

The next time Harry dies he is six years old. One moment he had appeared on top of the roof of his school, and the next he is falling. (It’s not exactly an accident, but it certainly isn’t on purpose, either. Harry had landed in the center of the roof, perfectly balanced. But he had gone to peer over the edge, searching, half for Dudley and his gang, half for a way down. He didn’t have to search for long. Maybe his depth perception was bad--the teacher had said he needed glasses, but Aunt Petunia hadn't gotten him them yet.)

He breaks his neck.

When he opens his eyes in an endless white expanse he is discomfited, the brightness so disparate from the darkness of his cupboard. Almost as the thought forms, he wishes the space were not so white, and a section of the room--place--endless land--suddenly turns a comforting pitch black.

Harry stares.

...

Harry decides within his first week at Hogwarts that killing himself is too risky. At the Dursley’s he had little to no supervision, discounting nosy neighbors. Here he was watched all the time: students whispered about him in the corridors, professor’s kept a close eye on his progress in classes, and his dormitory had four other boys in it. There was no real opportunity for privacy, and he couldn’t exactly hang himself, be caught in the noose, and have to explain it all to the Headmaster. He would probably be experimented on or something. He was already so different than other boys; to push it further seemed unwise.

His first chance comes when Draco and Fang abandoned him to the mercies of the Forest, but before he can find a suitably sturdy tree branch a centaur pulls Harry onto his back and leads him from the Forest.

Harry’s getting anxious, by this point. He’s never stayed alive for so long. He feels claustrophobic in his own skin. Sometimes he scratches his nails over his flesh like it will stop the pressure in his head, but he knows there’s only one real way to be rid of it.

His time with the Dursleys had taught him nothing if not patience, so he waits. And waits. And waits.

Harry makes it all the way to Yule before puncturing his carotid with a potions knife. Waking up in the white room feels a lot like bliss.

...

Harry is face to face with Lord Voldemort, and he feels so much—but not fear.

Voldemort, he considers, is a being of rage, madness, and destruction. The only problem that Harry immediately considers is that the man might not kill him quickly.

...

Harry has killed himself many times. That doesn’t prepare him for killing somebody else.

Quirrell burns beneath his hands and Harry is so scared, relieved, horrified. He killed somebody but he is alive — yet unlike most people, even if Quirrell had killed him he would still be alive.

...

In his Second Year, Harry kills himself forty-seven times. He’d like to say it isn’t because of the entire school turning against him for an ability he can’t even control, but he’s never been in the habit of lying to himself, and that was certainly a contributing factor.

Harry had thought he’d left the condemning stares in Little Whinging, but whispers break out when he passes and people either scamper out of his way or don’t like they have something to prove.

It’s easier to kill himself with magic, Harry discovers. Typically less of a mess, too.

Snape has no desire to educate children, and especially not Harry. So the next time he finds himself in The Room, throat ripped out by a giant three-headed dog, he asks for books.

He stays for a week, studying interspersed with flying after a conjured snitch, cooking, and resting. He sleeps far better in The Room than he ever has in Hufflepuff’s dormitory. Nobody can reach him here.

It’s his sanctuary.

At the end of the week Harry has learned many things about potions, but more importantly he has learned how to make poisons.

Vomiting them up after is awful, but he has time to figure out which works best, both for killing him and for voiding after.

...

The horcruxes appear one by one.

The diary is first, of course.

...

When Harry escapes the Hospital Wing a week later the stares and whispers are worse than ever, but there’s no malice to them any longer; in fact most all of the students, and even some of the staff, are looking at him like he’s something incredible. Again.

That night Harry downs a bitter vial of poison. He’s dead before his head hits the pillow.

The first time Harry sees someone else in his sacred space, his escape from the world, he screams. He finally understands what it means when people claim they ‘see red,’ because all of Harry’s distance and half-hearted indifference shatters and all Harry can think of is splattering this intruder's blood and making his white room red.

His magic throws the teenager off his couch, rips the book from his hands, and slams him to the ground. It presses down around him, hard enough he can’t move against it, until he’s nothing more than a pinned butterfly.

“How dare you!” He shrieks. “This is my home, you think you can just do whatever you want? I’ll rip your bloody throat out, I will destroy you!”

Dark eyes stare up at him, nonplussed. Considering. “You’ve already done that.”

It’s only then that Harry actually recognizes him. He feels jolted. Alarmed. Present, like he always is here. “Riddle.”

Riddle doesn’t so much as twitch in response. He can’t, thinks Harry, with a burst of righteous pride.

“How are you here?”

Riddle’s face twists. “You should know, Potter. You’re the one who killed me.

Harry blinks down at him. Considers this. “I killed Quirrell as well, but he didn’t show up here.”

Riddle’s eyebrows draw together. “You’re twelve, and I’m the second person you’ve murdered,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Brilliant.”

“It was self defense both times,” said Harry, unbothered by the accusation. “But yes. Except for the fact that you are somehow here, in my home.”

...

When Harry next appears (absently clearing his throat - asphyxiation is far from his favorite method, but it’s certainly the easiest when staying with the Dursley’s) he doesn’t spare Riddle a glance. Though he’s reading one of Harry’s books he’s not in his space, and that’s all that truly matters. It’s more respect than Harry had been expecting. Or perhaps Riddle didn’t want to be pinned down and helpless again, which seemed far more likely.

He toes off his shoes, setting them neatly out of the way before curling into the corner of his sofa. The eyes on him are easy enough to ignore - he’s got plenty of practice by now. He tucks his legs to his chest and summons a book, flipping it open to the marked page.

Harry liked to read travel books. After being confined to a cupboard and the small, monotonous Little Whining for most of his life it was no wonder he found some excitement in accounts of exotic locations and different cultures. The rarely indulged pastime became even more excited when he entered the magical world. Reading about historically important magical sights and imagining that he might one day visit…

Tom eyes him warily. “Enjoying your summer, then?”

Harry sighed internally. Did the boy really need attention? This was supposed to be his time, his escape from the Dursleys - from everyone and everything.

“Immensely,” he returned, not bothering to glance up. He cleared his throat, slightly self-conscious at how hoarse his voice was. He had scarcely spoken ten words since his arrival ‘home’ last week.

...

“What do you want, Riddle?” Harry snapped. “Isn’t it enough you’re ruining my only get away from—”

Harry stopped himself. Voldemort had come back to life once. Who said this piece of him couldn’t as well? After all, Riddle had said they were between life and death.

“Well excuse me for wanting some conversation,” Riddle sneered back. “I spent fifty years locked away in a diary, and the last several weeks in this place.”

“You’re the one who locked yourself away,” Harry snaps, unsympathetic. “And I would’ve let you go on living if you didn’t nearly shut down the school for the second time and attempt to murder me.”

For a moment Riddle appeared mutinous. If he said “you started it,” Harry might actually kill him. Permanently. Somehow.

Instead, he lets out a breath and leans back. Harry becomes aware of his own tense posture, and quickly relaxes back into the couch, jerking his eyes away from Riddle.

This was far from the relaxation he had anticipated.

Harry let out a deep breath and flipped to the next page of his book.

The room fell silent again.

...

On the next visit, Tom is in Harry’s area. He’s using the stove, scrambling eggs, and a strange, burnt smell lingers. Harry waves his hand to banish it.

“What are you doing?”

Tom jerks around, immediately abandoning the skillet and stepping off the kitchen tiles. He eyes Harry warily, waiting for his reaction for a moment, before saying, “I haven’t eaten in a long time. I was… hungry.”

Harry considered mentioning that there was no hunger here. But physical needs and mental ones weren’t always so disparate, and Harry took his meals here during summer as well, to feel the content even if afterwards he returned to an achingly empty stomach.

Harry decides to ignore this, approaching the pan curiously. The eggs are more brown than pale yellow, over cooked and sticking to the skillet. He wrinkles his nose in distaste, waving the mess away.

He turns a frown on Riddle. “You don’t know how to cook eggs?”

Riddle’s lip curls. “You do?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’ve been able to do simple things like eggs since I was four.”

Riddle’s lips purse, but Harry turns from him without waiting for more of a reaction, cracking a few brown eggs on the edge of the skillet.

“Were you trying for scrambled, or is that just how they came out?”

“I prefer over medium,” Riddle responded after a long moment.

And so Harry began to cook. His actions were smooth, comforting in their familiarity. He hardly minded cooking so long as the Dursley’s weren’t hovering around. He had thought that fondness might carry over to Potions, but that was before he met Snape.

Harry loses himself in the motions, peripherally aware of the way that Riddle is studying him. He plates the eggs and a thought is enough to keep them warm, then continues on with toast and a fry-up. It’s a bit heavier than Harry would dare eat if he was in the process of re-feeding his actual body, but if he felt the least bit ill he would just leave this plane.

Riddle takes his first bite cautiously. “It’s good,” he says to himself.

Harry side eyes him but doesn’t say anything. He takes his own bites delicately, measuring, like he always does when returning for Hogwarts. Even here, overeating with a shrunken stomach could make him sick. And doing so, only to return to the physical plane, made his shriveled stomach all the more noticable.

...

He thinks about boarding a train.

Not often, but it does come up.

“Where does it lead?” Riddle asks once, after he’s just sat, staring at it come and go, for long enough that the teenager’s finished his book.

“Somewhere a lot less dramatic, I’m sure,” Harry murmurs, watching it leave the station once again. It’s just a feeling, but Harry believes pure tranquility lies in wait at the end of those tracks. He’s also sure that it’s a one-way trip into nonexistence, and while he occasionally (okay, nearly always) longs for such a thing, he has duties. Neville and Luna depend on him - the world depends on him - and it’s all very…

Dramatic.

Harry sighs, looking away from the tracks and climbing to his feet. He should be doing something productive.

Though honestly he would much rather stare into space for the next few hours and forget the way his friends have, once again, abandoned him.

He turns to Riddle instead.

“The Triwizard Tournament. Ever heard of it?”

Riddle inclines his head. “Yes, of course. It used to be a way for the three premier European schools to prove their superiority. A Hogwarts student most always won. The practice was discontinued in 1792, when all three champions died in the first task.”

Harry stilled, taking in a quick breath.

“The book said ‘high death toll,’ but of course it’s something like that.”

Even if he died he would come back. But if he died, and died in front of a crowd of hundreds if not thousands, then came back it would be terrible.

He would become more than the Boy Who Lived. He would become the Boy Who Wouldn’t Die. An experiment, shunted into the bowels of the Ministry.

Harry sighed, throwing himself back onto the couch.

“It’s been resurrected this year,” he divulges tiredly. “And I’ve been nominated, despite the age limit being seventeen. It’s probably another ploy by your counterpart to kill me.”

There was a long silence, and when Harry at last looked up Tom was staring at him with a strange sort of intensity.

“What?”

“You can not be killed, yet you continuously die. Still, I find the thought Voldemort being the cause of such deaths... distasteful.”

“You'd rather I keep severing my carotid?” Harry asked, unsure of where Riddle was going with this.

“Were I alive, I would rather you refrain some such activities, but as I am not…” Riddle frowned at whatever he saw on Harry’s face. “Your company is preferable to eternal solitude.”

Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring the strange tightening in his chest. “You just want somebody who can cook a halfway decent meal.”

Tom shrugs nonchalantly, not gracing him with an actual response.

“Speaking of which, I’m making comfort food.”

...

“Harry-”

“I’d like to be alone,” he says, stiffly.

“Listen to me!” Tom commands, shuffling even closer.

“Leave me alone!” Harry snarls, jerking away from his touch, and in a dizzying warp Harry is quite suddenly surrounded by blackness, a sharp contrast the the pristine white of the train station.

Harry blinks, eyes squinting at the sudden shift, but then he doesn’t feel Tom’s hand on his shoulder, doesn’t feel their shoulders pressing together, and he relaxes.

...

Sirius is dead - actually, one hundred percent, can not be reached dead - and as soon as Harry escapes Dumbledore’s office he follows.

The first thing he does when he arrives is scream. He doesn’t give a fuck about the dark eyes on him, doesn’t give a fuck about anything because the only human being that actually seemed to care for Harry (for his comfort, his safety, what he wanted) was gone.

“Fucking!” Harry slammed a fist into one of his bookshelves and watched as it went up in flames, before heaving a breath and flinging a palm full of pure, destructive magic at the picture frame of he and Sirius embracing for the first time.

“Harry? Harry!”

“You really don’t want to mess with me right now, Riddle,” Harry hissed, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight that he should have bled.

“What's happened?” Tom pressed, gently laying a hand on the trembling boy's shoulder. Normally physicality seemed to soothe something in Harry, but the wizard sprang away from Tom’s touch as though it scalded him.

“Touch me again and I will raise this god-damned place to the ground, and you along with it!” Harry bellowed.

His entire body was shaking. He felt like he was splitting into a million pieces, felt useless, felt helpless. He hated Riddle for this, for what he had become, what he had inadvertently caused. Voldemort had trained the insane witch who grew up to murder her own cousin and he hated that, too.

“You have to mean it, Harry.”

Oh, but he really, really did. It was his wand - burning hot and angry in his hand - that was stopping him, not his lack of hatred.

“Potter, you cannot win against me!” she cried. He could hear her moving to the right, trying to get a clear shot of him. He backed around the statue away from her, crouching behind the centaur’s legs, his head level with the house-elf’s. “I was and am the Dark Lord’s most loyal servant, I learned the Dark Arts from him, and I know spells of such power that you, pathetic little boy, can never hope to compete —”

Harry’s wand was lost to him, but in that moment he did not care. He had done powerful magic before, and now, with hatred blossoming from within him, he did not feel he needed the conduit.

He rose from behind the fountain, and yelled again, “Crucio!”

Bellatrix fell with a shriek, only it did not stop there. The most horrible, grating sound clawed its way out of her throat. Her agony was clear, but Harry was hardly satisfied with the proof of her pain. She had killed Sirius.

He did not care about the consequences. He walked until he stood above her, close enough to look in her eyes, were they not clenched tight in pain, and leveled a hand to her again.

“Avada—"

“Expelliarmus,” a high, cold voice whispered.

But Harry had no wand. “Kedavra.”

There was a burst of green, and Bellatrix lay dead. Harry grinned as he turned to face the Dark Lord, who simply stared at him, red eyes wide. The man appeared shocked, which only served to amuse Harry more — he looked much like Tom when he was dumbfounded — until he considered what drew him here. Voldemort… hadn’t he killed Sirius just as much as Bellatrix.

Something in Harry grew very cold.

“Did you tell her to?” Harry whispered, giddiness abandoning him swiftly. “Did you tell her to kill the only family I had left?”

Harry was shaking with residual rage. He felt like he could do anything. There were no consequences, nothing mattered, Sirius was dead—

“Such anger, Harry Potter. Such power.” Voldemort’s voice was as chilling as ever. Harry clenched his hands, eyes glaring up into red. Daring him to—to—to what?

“Did you tell her?” Harry demanded, pushing as hard as he could. He didn’t fully understand what he was doing, just that he needed to know, needed to see if Riddle—Voldemort—was responsible for this.

For a moment, Voldemort looked almost amused. Then his eyes widened, and Harry was falling…

He saw himself through Voldemort’s eyes — his exhausted slump, pressed tight lips, eyes alight.

What has the fool been teaching this boy?

He was forced back, his scar burning hotly and pulsating with pain.

He grimaced, but it was edged in triumph.

Voldemort didn't order it. Hadn’t even expected Sirius to be here at all. He didn’t particularly care that the man was dead, other than the errant thought that he was the end of a noble bloodline.

Voldemort’s face shifted to a snarl. The sharp gleam of hunger in his eyes was gone, consumed by fury. “How dare you,” he hissed. “Crucio.”

Harry should have expected it, but he did not. Perhaps he had gotten too used to pushing Tom’s boundaries to recall that he was dealing with a different beast altogether.

Harry was not in control here. Here, Voldemort could fight back, and he could win.

Harry fell, teeth biting into the flesh of his lips to keep from crying out. He arched from the ground, tendons straining, bones creaking as he bent to an unnatural angle. He hadn’t forgotten the agony he experienced in a dreary graveyard, but remembering the pain didn’t acclimate him to the sensation any better. Once upon a time he thought the basilisk burning through his veins was the worst feeling he would ever experience. He knew better, now.

“Scream for me,” Voldemort whispered. A hand brushed over his hair, barely there at all, and Harry ground his teeth together hard. “Don’t fight it, Harry Potter. Surrender…”

"Fuck you," Harry hissed out, barely having to open his mouth for the parseltongue.

The cruciatus stopped abruptly.

“What?” the Dark Lord whispered, or perhaps hissed.

Harry let his eyes slit open. “I said fuck you,” he repeated.

...

He falls sixteen years, six months, and two days later to Voldemort's killing curse. It’s the second time; the first brought him to the white room originally, and Harry wonders if the second will close it off to him.

But no, he appears in the train station as always. It seems death is still his choice, and though some might think a lot of his character for going towards it without this guarantee, the shards of Voldemort would undoubtedly scorn him for it.

This time Harry doesn’t question the new presence, doesn’t so much as glance at the other horcruxes who hover away from it, bright eyes wary. Unlike the others his very soul recognizes this piece of Voldemort, whose form is but an infant, skin raw and rough, flayed-looking.

It shudders, so obviously in pain, and Harry thinks it says something about the horcruxes, about Tom Riddle and Voldemort and everything in between, that the man doesn’t have enough compassion to help his own soul.

And they accused Harry of self-loathing.

From the depths of his soul, Harry really does pity them. Yes, he hates them at times, feels annoyance and affection and a chaotic jumble of incomprehensible things for the destroyed soul pieces, but he loves them too. Perhaps has loved this one the longest: this burnt husk of Voldemort that’s always been with him.

He wonders if he can even go back without him, can stand the hollow feeling where Voldemort’s soul had once fit alongside his own. He can almost feel it now, a black, echoing chasm. Or perhaps that’s just the grief for all those already dead...

Harry picks the child up easily, ignoring Tom’s grunt of discontent and the diadem’s irritated hissing. They haven’t been introduced yet, but Harry trusts the others not to allow him to attack Harry, if only in self preservation.

The reminder of the ring’s punishment is still fresh enough in their minds.

The horcrux doesn’t flinch away when Harry moves to cradle it to his chest, infinitely gentle and conscious of no-doubt sensitive skin. He wonders if its state is because of Voldemort’s Killing Curse or the neglect of Harry’s soul, though he rather suspects the former by the way the horcrux twists into him, soft whines ceasing as the cool silk brushed his tender skin.

Harry coos at it thoughtlessly, watching in wonder as it seems to oh-so-slowly heal, skin warping until it’s a smooth, pale, utterly human bundle. Dark eyelashes part and Harry is somehow unsurprised to find his own bright green eyes staring back at him from Tom Riddle’s toddler face.

What is a bit shocking is the amount of trust those eyes hold. Harry can’t ever remember looking at somebody like that. Logically Harry didn’t think Tom Riddle was capable of it.

Emotionally it made something in him melt.

Damn toddler-horcrux. Maybe Harry did have some kind of paternal instincts after all.

“That’s not one of us,” Tom Riddle sneered.

“Don’t be a berk, Tom, he obviously is,” Harry sighed. The toddler turned to look at Tom condescendingly, before turning back to Harry with a gummy smile.

Fuck, he was cute. And manipulative. Don’t trust him, Harry. Don’t give in.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Harry said sternly, even as he gently combed a hand through soft, night-dark curls. “Just because it’s working doesn’t mean I don’t know.”

“Really, put that thing down, love.” The locket said.

“This one is more mine than any of you are, and he’s staying in my arms, where he belongs.”

Harry stared down into green eyes contemplatively, before shrugging. “Well, for the moment at least. Soon I’ll need to return and off Voldemort before he gets any grand ideas of hurting more of my friends. Nagini first, though.”

The toddler huffed loudly, pudgy hands reaching up and tugging at Harry’s hair. Harry huffed, wondering if this was typical child behavior or baby Tom was trying to punish him. He caught the small hand and gently untangled it, keeping it loosely clasped in his own.

“Here’s the thing,” Harry said, looking up from the toddler. “If you guys hurt a hair on his head while I’m gone, you’ll be getting on a train to the afterlife. Express.”

The horcruxes looked bitter, mouthes twisted in disdain, though the youngest was merely watching Harry with the same thoughtful gleam in his eyes he had for five years. Harry stepped towards him, raising a brow until he held out his arms reluctantly to accept the child.

It immediately began to bawl, struggling to get back to Harry. Harry leaned in, pressing a kiss to its forehead and cooing softly. “It’s okay, my darling. Tom has you, you’re safe. He won’t hurt you, and I won’t be gone forever.”

It worked. The babe settled under his babbling, with a few heavy sniffs. Harry smiled down at it softly, and looked up to meet Tom’s gaze, intent on his face.

“I’m trusting you,” Harry says lightly, reaching out to cup the boy's cheek. He’s older than Tom, now, standing a bit taller than the sixteen year old. “Take it seriously this time, won't you?”

“You want me to care for our soul while you ensure my permanent death,” Tom replies smartly.

Harry hums, considering that. He’s standing close enough that the toddler manages to squeeze tubby fingers into the front of his robes, clinging. He slowly lets his hand fall from Tom’s face, gently grabbing the hand and holding it, instead.

“Yes,” he agrees, “that just about covers it.”

Briefly, Tom looks annoyed. Then, inexplicably, he looks fond. “We really are nothing alike, Harry Potter.”

Harry smiled at his surrender, a crooked, muted thing. “Now who’s lying to himself?”

End.

...

This guy is long abandoned, I believe I stopped touching it about five years ago or so. I found the fact that I was tracing the same plot points from the incredibly silly, and didn't enjoy the way I had expressed Harry's 'depression'. Really, I was just writing snippets, playing around with the concept when I started. I was about to just delete everything, and then I thought, I know at least one of you will enjoy this. So, here it is!

A story may come tumbling out in 3-5 years with the same general premise, but with some large changes. If that ever comes out, it will be a love note to mental health, and depict the struggle as realistically as I can write it.

Hope you have a peaceful night/day! 🖤

[hptheboywholived]

Horcruxes - by Skarlessa

[lulublack90]

Prompt 28 - Skinny Dip

@jegulus-microfic March 28 Word count 1058

Previous part First part

Regulus woke with his legs tangled with James’s. He’d left a note for his parents telling them they’d had a lead in the assignment Voldemort had given them. In fact, he was certain that Remus was extremely close to their quarry. 

James stirred. He pulled Regulus closer to his body and buried his face in his chest. 

“Mmmmm, I could get used to this.” He peppered kisses all over Regulus’s chest. Regulus didn’t put up any fight, enjoying the moment far too much. 

“Come on. We’d better get up. We have a lot to do today.” He pulled away from James and stretched his whole body, which just brought James right back to him. “James, get off. We have to go.” He giggled as James snuffled into his hair. 

“No, don’t want to. I’m just gonna keep you here in this bed with me.” 

A loud banging at the door soon stopped them.

“Come on, love birds. We’ve got priceless heirlooms to destroy.” Evan called as he banged on Sirius and Remus’s door and his sisters. 

It took a while for all of the Thestrals to gather that morning. But eventually, they were apparating into the caves outside of Hogsmeade. 

They followed the Gryffindors into the forest as they knew where they were going. It had made more sense to go together this way than to walk up to Hagrid’s cabin, seeing as how they’d all ended up at Evan’s last night. 

Regulus held the small chest tightly in his arms. He wasn’t about to lose them now, not after everything they’d been through to get them.

It took less than an hour to get to the part of the forest the Marauders wanted to use. They stopped in an almost perfectly round clearing. You could feel the magic thrumming through the area. It was ancient and swirled around them. Regulus placed the chest in the centre of the grassy circle and unlocked it. The ancient magic reacted to the dark magic within. It became hostile. The forest around them darkened, blocking out what little light there was.

Remus stepped forward, pressing his hands against one of the trees that lined the clearing. Regulus stared in awe as the magic slowly backed off and formed a protective barrier between them and the rest of the forest. 

Remus smiled as he took his hands away from the tree. 

“Thank you.” He whispered. 

“What was that?” Lily asked the question the others must have been thinking. Well, Regulus, Barty and Evan. Everyone else didn’t seem so shocked. 

“Werewolf,” Remus shrugged. “I’m more in tune with the natural magics than most. The forest knows what we have, and it isn’t happy. I told it we have come to destroy them, so the forest is going to keep us contained in here until the Horcruxes are all gone. So please don’t try and pass the border, or you’ll be sorry.” He looked pointedly at Barty when he said the last part. 

Regulus tuned out whatever Barty had replied. He took the Gaunt ring out of the box and laid it on the grass. 

“Are you ready then?” He asked. They immediately formed a circle around him and watched as Regulus poured Basilisk venom from one of the vials onto it. 

A thick black liquid oozed out of it, and a blood-curdling scream. They all ducked for cover, pressing their hands to their ears. But nothing happened. When they looked back, all that was left of the ring was a twisted mass of blackened metal and the stone. Regulus cast a few spells over it. 

“The Horcrux is gone, but I don’t understand why the venom didn’t destroy the stone.” He handed it to James to take care of while he set up the next Horcrux. They could deal with that later. 

Next up was the diary. It reacted much the same as the ring had. There was, however, a lot more of the inky liquid seeping out, as though the notebook had been filled with writing that they just hadn’t been able to see. 

Regulus was glad they’d managed to gather as much Basilisk venom as they had, as it looked like they’d be using most, if not all, of it. 

Hufflepuffs cup twisted and melted into an unrecognisable blob, the fragment of soul shattering and dissolving into nothing. 

He held the diadem in his hands. It was truly beautiful he didn’t want to destroy it. But for the sake of the wizarding world, he had to. 

More Basilisk venom dropped onto the delicate tiara, and it spilt and cracked into three pieces before it melted as the wailing scream pierced their ears again.

Regulus reached into the chest and took out the last Horcrux. The Locket. He placed it on the ground and looked at his friends, who stood around him in a loose circle, pointing their wands at the Horcrux. 

“Last one. Are we ready?” They nodded, and he raised the final vial of venom. But before he could let a single drop fall, the locket opened, and his mother appeared before him. He stumbled backwards, somehow managing not to spill the venom. 

Walburga sneered at him. Her mouth opened, and Regulus knew whatever she was about to say would devastate him. 

Sirius blocked his view, grabbing the vial and pouring the entire thing into the open locket.

“Piss off you evil bitch!” He snarled. Walburga screamed in a vortex of black smoke before vanishing into nothing. The locket was gone. Obliterated by the amount of venom poured on it. 

They’d done it. All the Horcruxes were gone. Shakily, he got to his feet and was barrelled over by his friends as they all whooped and cheered in triumph. 

The forest’s magic let them pass, now happier. It pressed close, almost like a hug, before releasing them. 

They came upon a stream that fed a large pool of water as they walked back to the edge of the forest.

“Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m going to skinny dip in that pool!” Barty cried as he vanished his clothes and dove into the clear water. “Come on, it’s refreshing, especially after that madness.” He jabbed his thumb back towards the clearing. The others looked at each other and, after a collective shrug, joined Barty in the pool.   

Next part

[hp-shippy-prompts]

Prompt:

Tom and Harry don’t like each other. As in, they genuinely don’t like each other. No UST, not oblivious pining, just hatred, and the desire to see the other expelled.

On one occasion, Harry sneakily follows Tom, having spied on him on the Marauders map and seeing him disappear in a bathroom. He hears Tom whisper to the sink and jump down the hole, and he does a Ron, copying the sound Tom made until the passage opens again.

He sneaks in, sees a big arse snake (basilisk) that causes him to scuttle back... right into the middle of the ritual where Tom is trying to make his first Horcrux.

Naturally, the soul splinter gets attracted to a living host rather than a lifeless book, and Harry ended up as Tom’s first Horcrux. It can’t be undone, not without killing Harry, and that would destroy Tom’s soul. He can’t risk it.

Now, despite still hating one another, Tom becomes very possessive. After all, how many near death stunts does the idiotic Gryffindor perform each year?!

(Now the UST begins. 😏)

Bonus:

Harry learns he can suddenly understand Parseltongue when Tom complains to the basilisk about its lookout skills.

Tom: Why didn’t you warn me he was there?!

Basilisk: You told me, under no circumstances was I to disturb you.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

do you have thoughts on the diary horcrux and why it seems to have been so much more sentient than the other horcuxes? (also do u think riddle could really have come out of the diary?). thank you for all your incredible meta.

Thank you for your compliments! 😊

So, I kinda have thoughts about anything Harry Potter related, so, yeah.

Okay, I'll start with the second part, actually. Tom Riddle in the diary definitely thought he could come out of the diary, and he seemed to be correct. By taking Ginny's life force he was able to appear outside of the diary. And according to Harry, he got more solid as he took more of her life:

but the longer Riddle stood there, the more life was dwindling out of Ginny . . . and in the meantime, Harry noticed suddenly, Riddle’s outline was becoming clearer, more solid. . . . If it had to be a fight between him and Riddle, better sooner than later

(CoS, page 292)

As for the magical theory of why it worked, I already mentioned here that in Alchemy, everything is alive. Everything that is alive is made up of three components:

1. Soul (Sulfur)

2. Body (Salt)

3. Life (Mercury)

So what Tom is doing is stealing Ginny's mercury — her life — he says as much:

But there isn’t much life left in her [Ginny]. . . . She put too much into the diary, into me.

(CoS, page 289)

Now a life can only be used to create something equal to it — another life. If you want to bring someone who isn't alive (dead or unliving, like the diary) to life, you'll need another life to do it. It's a life-for-a-life scenario since in Alchemy everything works according to the law of equivalent exchange.

This law means all energy or components can only transform into something equal to it. If you want to cast a spell, you'll need to put magical energy in it equal to the effect you want to cause.

It's the same here. He kills Ginny and gets his own life in exchange for hers.

What somewhat bothers me about it is that he seems to have a body get created as well. Like, his current body (salt) is the diary itself, hence why when Harry stabbed it he died, but he was making himself a new one. The only way to do that, is to extert something of equal energy. In this case, I believe it was Ginny's magic. He wasn't just pulling out her life to create a life for himself he was pulling her magic to make him a body:

But there isn’t much life left in her. . . . She put too much into the diary, into me. Enough to let me leave its pages at last. . . .

(CoS, page 289)

He says she put too much into the diary, not just life. I believe he was feeding on her magic too, which leads into the first part of your question.

I don't think he's necessarily more sentient. Like, I think all Horcruxes could be as sentient as the diary. And we see the locket become more sentient as the trio wears it. And I think that's the crux of it.

The Horcruxes seem to steal magic from their surroundings, which makes them more powerful and more sentient as a result. The diary spent years in Lucius Malfoy’s office, sucking up bits of magic from him and anyone else who visited that office. Then he had a whole year of Ginny (and Harry for a bit) writing to him. This all means he has plenty of magic to make him sentient.

The other Horcruxes, in contrast, didn't really have any human interaction until their destruction. Besides the locket, which we do see growing in sentience:

“There was a locket.” “What?” said Harry and Ron together. “In the cabinet in the drawing room. Nobody could open it...”

(DH, page 166)

No sentience in OoTP, nothing felt magical about the locket.

“Can you feel it, though?” Ron asked in a hushed voice, as he held it tight in his clenched fist. “What d’you mean?” Ron passed the Horcrux to Harry. After a moment or two, Harry thought he knew what Ron meant. Was it his own blood pulsing through his veins that he could feel, or was it something beating inside the locket, like a tiny metal heart?

(DH, page 239)

After Umbridge wore it for a bit, it had more sentience. It has a heartbeat, it feels alive like it didn't before. Hermione doesn't mention this sense existing the first time, and that's because this pulse wasn't there.

She held out her hands, and Harry lifted the golden chain over his head. The moment it parted contact with Harry’s skin he felt free and oddly light. He had not even realized that he was clammy or that there was a heavy weight pressing on his stomach until both sensations lifted. “Better?” asked Hermione. “Yeah, loads better!”

(DH, page 249)

And the longer they wear it, the more effect the locket has. The more magic it has to become more sentient and influence the trio. Throughout Deathly Hollwos, the Horcrux becomes more powerful the longer they wear it:

Then something closed tight around his neck. He thought of water weeds, though nothing had brushed him as he dived, and raised his empty hand to free himself. It was not weed: The chain of the Horcrux had tightened and was slowly constricting his windpipe.

(DH, page 321)

The Horcrux was still swinging from Ron’s hand. The locket was twitching slightly. Harry knew that the ting inside it was agitated again. It had sensed the presence of the sword and had tried to kill Harry rather than let him possess it.

(DH, page 321)

Then a voice hissed out from the Horcrux. “I have seen your heart, and it is mine.” “Don’t listen to it!” Harry said harshly. “Stab it!” “I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have seen your fears. All you desire is possible, but all that you dread is also possible. . . . ”

(DH, page 325)

So, I think it's all a matter of how much magic you feed the Horcrux.

[headache-smoothie]

inspiration: Equals in Life (Partners in Death) by @reggieblk

go read!!! one of my favorite fics :)

[crackishincorrecthp]

Harry, to Hermione & Ron while they're Horcrux hunting: Real life should have a fucking search function, or something. We need the Horcruxes and Accio doesn't work on them!

[brekkers-cane]

regulus drank the potion in the cave himself because he did not want kreacher to suffer again. sirius was not kind to kreacher when he lived at Grimmauld Place which lead to kreacher betraying him. regulus died because he was kind and sirius died because he was cruel. oh the irony.

[ihsnamih]

[lavendarhearts]

"oH, SnAPE wAs ThE OnLY GoOD SlyTHerIN" let's not forget that this man bullies his students on the daily, hits them, and refused to help Hermione when she was hexed by Draco. This greasy slimeball also attempted to murder Neville's toad, Trevor, and punished Neville because said toad didn't die. Besides, there are more honourable Slytherins like Narcissa, who straight looked Voldemort in the face and lied to him. Regulus, who willingly drank poison and drowned in hopes that someday Voldemort would die. The list could go on. I loved Alan Rickman as Snape but you cannot excuse bullying children with "Oh, he was bullied too." because Neville was also bullied. His entire experience at Hogwarts involved a lot of bullying from so many people, even Harry and Ron. But when he grew up and taught at Hogwarts, do you see him running around, hitting kids? Absolutely not.

[lurveinn]

Just had a wild idea

Not sure if I'm going to write this, so if anyone else wants to, please go ahead, but just wanted to share with the group:

Summer 1942: Arcturus Black meets Tom Riddle while settling a dispute between him and Cygnus;

Arcturus recognizes the ring, wonders how Tom got it, figures Borgin sold it to Tom;

Months later Arcturus asks Borgin if he did, sees that he didn’t, and determines Tom must have Gaunt ancestry– but the Gaunts would never willingly give their ring to a halfblood;

Arcturus looks into Gaunt deaths, goes to Azkaban, breaks through Morfin’s fake memories, discovers the ring is a Horcrux;

Arcturus and Septimus Malfoy plot to have Tom killed;

Tom’s ring is stolen off of his dead body and Septimus dies destroying it;

Tom’s diary, however, is left forgotten for decades, buried under his floorboards and guarded by curses, until another no-name half-blood with a deathly rivalry with a Black makes it into Slytherin: Severus Snape.

Ships: Tom/Severus, End-game Sirius/Severus (?)

[lulublack90]

Prompt 24 - Candy

@jegulus-microfic March 24 Word count 995

Previous part First part

They arrived at the boundaries of Malfoy Manor, dressed in their best dress robes. Walburga had insisted that Remus be left at Grimmauld Place, locked in his room. Regulus hadn’t protested. He knew better than to defy his mother. He had locked Remus in himself. That way, he knew Remus wouldn’t be hurt if he tried to escape. If his mother had set up the wards and Remus had tried to break them, he would have been cursed. 

Regulus had also left his mirror with Remus and his walkman. Then he could talk to Sirius or James if he wanted and listen to music. Regulus hadn’t realised how much he actually liked Remus Lupin. He’d pulled a face when he realised he cared that Remus was comfortable while he was locked up. 

Walburga snapped him out of his thoughts with her sharp tone. 

“Best behaviour tonight, Regulus. Do not disappoint me.” 

“Yes, Maman.” He said, his back straightening slightly as he slipped into his posh little pureblood Lord role. 

Orion stepped up to the door, and it instantly opened. A tiny house elf greeted them. She was wearing a tea towel emblazoned with the Malfoy family crest. 

“Lord and Lady Black and Young Master Black, please be following Candy to the drawing room.” She bowed low and turned. They followed her, the front door magically closing after Regulus had entered.

Candy led them to the largest of the drawing rooms. Walburga would have settled for no less and taken offence if anywhere else had been suggested. 

Narcissa was well aware of her Aunt’s temperament and had gone all out. Magical cocktails waited for them. A deep red one that slowly shifted to green and left the drinker smoking at the mouth called dragon’s breath. It was quite refreshing, with a spicy hit that Regulus found surprisingly pleasant. And a blue shimmery one that fizzed and popped, named after the famous sweet’s fizzing wizzbies. Regulus thought Remus would enjoy that one. He had to quickly shut down that thought. Figuring out that he liked Remus was already becoming an annoyance. 

Candy kept popping in and out, bringing more and more alcohol. Regulus had taken to vanishing small amounts of his. He needed to be clear-headed for what he had planned.  

Orion’s voice had grown steadily louder with each drink. But when no one else was looking, he winked at Regulus. He realised that Orion was doing exactly what he was. He knew how important tonight was. 

Candy reappeared and whispered something to Narcissa, who stood opening her arms, letting her silk dress robes flow around her and proclaimed that dinner was served. 

The meal was just as exciting as the drinks had been. Narcissa may be married to a Malfoy, but she was a Black at heart and loved drama. 

Seven courses later, Regulus was feeling sleepy with the amount of food he had eaten. He hadn’t taken that into consideration. 

They retired to the drawing room, the fireplace now blazing. Cognac and coffee were passed around, and they settled in for the rest of the evening, discussing politics and his mother’s favourite topic, the Dark Lord. 

“Regulus has a wolf staying in our guest room,” She complained. “But it is at the behest of the Dark Lord, so I can not go against his wishes. But it makes me feel physically sick thinking that halfbreed is lurking in our ancestral home.” Regulus kept quiet, waiting for his chance.  

Candy had just refreshed everyone’s drink, and he made his move. 

He stood and excused himself, saying he wouldn’t be a moment. He made sure to sway slightly, as officially, he’d drunk quite a few of those lethal cocktails. 

He didn’t even know if the last Horcrux was here. He’d spent enough time around the others to hopefully be able to pick out the dark magic that surrounded each of the ones they’d found. The only problem was Malfoy Manor was enormous. Far bigger than anything Lucius and Narcissa could ever need, but Regulus also knew the Manor like the back of his hand. He started in the collections rooms. There were some very dark artefacts in there, but nothing that felt familiar. He slipped down to the hidden rooms beneath the Manor where the really dark stuff was. Again, nothing stood out. 

He checked Lucius’s bedroom and Narcissa’s, just in case. Lucius had a lot of portraits of himself in his, but other than that, it was pretty boring. 

He was about to give up and head back to the drawing-room when a shiver ran through him. Almost as though he was being led, he opened the door he’d just walked past. It led him into the vast library. 

He was running out of time. They would notice he was still gone soon and come looking for him. He closed his eyes and tried to feel out where he needed to go. It was definitely the same magic. He walked towards the centre and the round bookcase. It was beautiful, all dark wood and rising right to the ceiling. 

The books on it were the pride of the Malfoy collection. He didn’t want to think what some of them were bound in. But there on the display shelf was something completely out of place. 

A small black diary stood pride of place on its own stand. The dark magic was dripping off it. Regulus picked it up and flicked it open. It was blank. But he knew it was a Horcrux.

He did something next that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He grabbed the nearest book that just happened to be a first edition of Moste Potente Potions and tore a page from it. Quickly, he transfigured it to look like the notebook and replaced it. He checked his work one last time and was about to leave when. 

“And what exactly are you doing, Regulus?” Lucius Malfoy purred just behind him.  

Next part

[hp-shippy-prompts]

Prompt:

Soulmate/omegaverse au

Years ago, when Tom was still at Hogwarts, he had an Omega boyfriend. Only, Harry didn’t agree with Tom’s ambitions to rend and rebuild the wizarding world. Harry gave him an ultimatum, but Tom chose his plans over Harry.

A decade later, Tom has achieved his goals, and goes searching for Harry, partly so he can say, ‘I told you so’, but mostly because Harry was the only Omega, the only person, Tom had ever cared about other than himself.

Only, when he finds Harry, Harry has lost most of his magic, all of his scent, and no longer goes through the heats Tom had only had a handful of opportunities to enjoy. The only reason for this to have happened is if Harry found his soulmate and lost them.

This leaves Tom both devastated and furious. While he knew in theory Harry might find someone in his absence, it was another thing to have it confirmed. And whomever it was cost Tom the Omega he loved wanted.

Never does he consider that he was the Alpha Harry lost, that he hadn’t recognised Harry as his Soulmate like Harry had recognised him, because he’d split his soul before his secondary gender had presented.

Is it too late for Tom to repair his soul and win Harry back?

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Secrets of the Darkest Art: How to Make a Horcrux

So I saw many theories regarding how to make a Horcrux, but none of them really made perfect sense to me, so I decided to give it a crack myself as part of my mission to understand Lord Voldemort/Tom Marvolo Riddle (Which I think I did, big post coming about that at some point, this is but another piece of that puzzle of a man)

So this is my reverse engineering of a ritual to create Horcruxes based on book evidence, my knowledge of real-world alchemy, real-world ancient Greek cults and rituals and linguistic analysis.

How to reverse engineering a dark magical ritual:

The first thing, is to define what we knew fore certain:

The name: "Horcrux"

The creator is an Ancient Greek wizard named Harpo the Foul.

A death is required in the making.

A Horcrux holds a piece of the casters soul that anchors them to life so they won't die.

I'll actually start with the third point.

How to split a soul?

Both Dumbledore and Slughorn mention a death being required to tear your soul to make a Horcrux, and that never really sat right with me. It magically doesn't make sense and even the canon examples we have for Horcrux murders make this statment iffy.

We have seven examples of murders used to create Horcruxs (thanks to one Tom Riddle being dramatic):

The Diary - Myrtle Warren - killed by a basilisk. Sure, Tom freed the Basilisk, but it hardly seemed targeted at Myrtle specifically and you can argue he didn't actually kill her (more a manslaughter by negligence). He didn't cast the spell, so how come this tore his soul?

The Ring - his father (Tom Riddle Sr) - Avada Kadevra.

The Cup - Hepzibah Smith - she was poisoned by her house elf. Sure, the elf was under the imperious, but it wasn't a first-degree murder, and like with the Basilisk I find it hard to consider this the same as casting a killing curse. Magically those are very different things.

The Locket - Muggle Tramp - Avada Kadevra

The Diadem - Albanian Peasant - Avada Kadevra

Harry Potter - himself - backfired Avada Kadevra

Nagini - Bertha Jorkins - Avada Kadevra

Now, I used the term "magically different" or "magically make sense" what do I mean by that?

Well, besides the fact I'm going to make a full post about how I see magical theory in the Harry Potter Wizarding World, I'll say it takes a lot after occult philosophies from Alchemy that are very old, Slughorn mentions as much in book 6 and there are a few other references to it. I'm just gonna cover the basics required for this theory.

In Alchemy, everything (people, animals, plants and rocks) are built of three base components:

The Salt - the body - the physical form.

The Sulfur - the soul - the self that holds the divine flame.

The Murcury - the spirit - the life essence that binds the salt and sulfer together.

Now, in Alchemy, the main study is in purifying and combining these different aspects of material. Let's look at a herb, for an example:

If we want to retrieve its salt, we'll dry the herb completely using fire to leave behind a fine light grey ash that represents only the physical form.

If we wanted its mercury we'd distill all liquids from it until we get a purified, clear liquid which in the case of plants would be alcohol (it's why alcohol is referred to as "spirit").

And if we wanted its soul, we would take the remains from the distillation and drying process which would be a kind of oil.

(it can get more complicated with different materials, but this isn't a post about Alchemy)

Now, back to Horcruxs.

So, if we would want to split a soul, Alchemecly, how do we go about it?

Well, we don't. Not really. See a soul can't really be split, as every part of it, every bit of that oil from our random herb represents the entire soul. It's why something like a Horcrux could theoretically work in giving a full life to the diary the way we see in Chamber of Secrets.

Additionally, to work with any material in Alchemy, you are required to purify it first. It means that to get a piece of soul to bind to a diary, you need a pure soul.

Killing someone else won't sever your own soul from the spirit and the body, it's not how this works. Killing someone severs their spirit and therefore splits their body, spirit, and soul. Besides, an Ancient Greek man, like Herpo was, would hardly consider murder as vile as we do today. It wouldn't even cross his mind that any murder (even an indirect one) could harm one's own soul.

No, the only way to "split" a soul is to first sever it from life, disconnecting the bond between soul and body. Essentially, the only way to promise you immortality is to kill yourself.

I know it sounds a little confusing, but, essentially, once the soul is severed from the spirit and body you can split it. Think of the herbal oil, once you have the oil, separate from the rest of the plant parts, you can combine it with new ingredients. You can only work on a specific aspect once you severed it from the other two and as what binds all three together is spirit — life — the only way to do it for a human soul — is death.

But really, how?

Well, here comes the second thing we know about making Horcruxs — that dear Herpo was Ancient Greek.

In Ancient Greece they had multiple different religious cults, some of which were Chthonic cults. Cults that dedicated themselves to death or ditties and heroes associated with death and more importantly — rebirth.

Many of these cults were dedicated to figures like Orpheous, Dyonysus, Persephone, characters in mythology who are known for going through the underworld — through death — and coming back out. These cults were very secretive and not much is known about their practices, but some is.

What is known is that they had rituals were they reenacted a death and then rebirth (usually drinking wine — a water if life, was the representation of rebirth).

This created a very clear idea in my head — to split a soul, you'll have to ritualisticlly, magically kill yourself, severe a peice of your soul and then revive yourself with a water of life — a potion.

This potion is never mentioned, but I believe it exists due to these Chthonic cult rituals and how they were structured. Not only that, but the Greek underworld did have a river known for being incredibly painful to drink, literally made of fire, but being able to bring the dead back - The Phlegethon River.

Note: Lethe River Water (the river in the Greek Underworld that makes the drinker forget) is a canon ingredient in a Forgetfulness Potion.

So what is the dead body for?

Well, congratulations, you killed yourself to retrieve a sliver of your soul and revived yourself so you won't stay dead. You found an item you can keep secure to tie that sliver of soul, too. Now, how would you bind then? After all, the only thing meant to bind a human soul to a body is a human spirit - a human life... you get where I'm going with this.

This is why Tom didn't have to be the one to do the deed. As long as he had a recently deceased corpse to harvest the life from to use to bind his newly split soul and the item of his choice.

It explains why nothing was missing from the bodies. Myrtle and the Riddles were investigated by the Ministry of Magic. One would assume the aurors would've noticed if any corpse was missing a hand due to the killer eating it (as other Horcrux theories suggest).

Not only was nothing missing from the body, the soul was intact. Myrtle became a ghost after death, a ghost is quite literally, just the soul, no body, no spirit.

So the only thing that was taken from Tom's victims was their life, quite literally at that.

Is that all? Can we make a Horcrux now?

Not really. See, when analyzing spells in Harry Potter is their name.

Avada Kadevra - is a reference to an Aramaic healing spell "Abracadabra" pronounced in Aramaic as: "Avra Kadebra" and meaning "I will create as commanded". Merged with the Latin word "cadaver" meaning "corpse" to create -> "I will create dead bodies as commanded"

Or Wingardium Laviosa - is a cross of the English word "wing", the Latin word "arduus" (meaning "high, tall, lofty, steep, proudly elevated"), or "arduum" (meaning "steep place, the steep" and the Latin word "levo" (meaning to "raise, lift up"). So together the spell means -> "lift high up".

So, it's pretty clear spells, their names and incantations are very self-explanatory. So a Horcrux should be no different.

I've seen some attempts at translating the name Horcrux. Unfortunately, these attempts treated the name as Latin, modern Greek, or Old English. Herpo, was Ancient Greek, though, so I went and translated a few possible meanings from Ancient Greek (Classical Greek and Homeric Greek are what I looked at):

ὅρκος (orkus, pronounced "hor-kus") - an oath, the object by which one swears, bound by oath (still used in modern Greek).

κρόκες (crukes, pronounced "cru-kes") - saffron-colored (blood red in Greek), crocus flower. The crocus flower symbolizes both death (the saffron that is the spice) and rebirth (the golden crocus which brings renewal and joy) because Demeter wears them when Persephone returns from the underworld in myth.

So what we have is a spell called "binding oath of death and rebirth" which all around sounds fitting.

There might also be a "made in blood" tucked at the end due to the association of κρόκες with the color of blood.

But what does it matter?

Well, somewhat. As now with this name, I expect the binding between the spirit from the victim, the split soul, and the item would be done in a sort of oath - an orkus.

The association with blood gives us another hint. Blood is the part of the human body most representative of life. Therefore, in Alchemy, your blood is your spirit. So it'll make sense that your own blood would be used in the binding process or more correctly in the process of turning another person's spirit into your own. Making the thread to bind the body (item) and the soul piece your own. As it also refers to just a red firey color, it can indicate the Phlagatton potion I hypothesize should be part of the ritual due to how Chthonic rituals usually went, as the Phlagaton river is made of fire.

So we have a general idea on how to make a Horcrux. You need an item of your choice to bind your soul to. You need a life (spirit) harvested from a human that you transformed into being your own using your blood. And you need a piece of your own soul, which you get by killing yourself and then reviving yourself. And you finish it off by binding it all together with an oath.

But how could you make one accidentally?

So, everyone knows Voldemort succeeded in somehow making a Horcrux accidentally, something a lot of theories I saw don't account for. Becouse whatever process you need to go to to make a Horcrux, Voldemort went through all of it the night he died the first time and marked Harry.

All the steps for my method of making a Horcrux were met that night.

The item in qustion is baby Harry, nothing interesting there.

The soul sliver was split the way it always is — through death. Voldemort dies, killed by his own killing curse and that is what splits his soul.

The life or spirit that then binds his soul to Harry isn't Lily's spirit or James'; it's his own spirit that acts as a binder between Harry and Voldemort’s split soul. Because the spirit was already his, there was no need to transform it by blood.

Step-by-step guide to making Horcruxes:

I'm not going to actually give the full step-by-step least a budging dark lord is looking for this information. I do have notes about exact incantations and even the full recipe and instructions for the Phlagaton potion I'm going to mention. These instructions won't be here since they are more in the realm of speculation and headcanon. This is just the overview of the ritual based on canon information and the occult philosophy I mentioned above.

Step 1 - Life and Blood

Get access to a recently deceased human and extract their Mercury (Spirit or Life Essence).

Submerge the retrieved life essence with your own blood on a new moon (life and vitality). (7 drops of blood will probably do)

Step 2 - Water of Fire

To complete the cycle of death and rebirth you’ll need the Phlegeton Water potion to return you to life at the end of the cycle.

As you brew the potion, it must be brewed in a dark room, preferably underground to remind as much of the underworld as possible.

While brewing the potion one must be in the mindset of the Phlegeton, must be willing to go through agony to achieve eternal life and imbue these thoughts in their potion. (In alchemy, when working, it is believed you imbue your work with your thoughts during the Alchemical process. As an Alchemical process affects both the material being worked and the Alchemist themselves)

Likley Ingrediants:

Saffron spice

Golden crocus flower juice

Pomegranate juice

Step 3 - The Ritual Preparation

Set up your space so none of the components may escape the ritual space and so the ritual will not be interfered with.

Make sure the spirit you retrieved is within reach.

Make sure the item you desire will hold the Horcrux will be within reach as well.

Coax the spirit into the item and prepare it to tie your soul to the next step.

Step 4 - Death and Rebirth

To create a thread of your soul to tie to the ritual, you must die figuratively. Go through death to return stronger from the underworld.

Once you feel like death has reached you and your soul is separated you should heal your soul and finish the cycle, bringing you out of death and back to life by drinking the Phlegeton potion.

After the pain subsides you will feel healthier than before, stronger than before, and you’ll have an additional thread of sulfur (soul) in your chest to be pulled out and placed into the Horcrux.

The split-off soul should, on its own, try to search for life and a body to be bound to. If it doesn't, coax it out yourself and bind it to the Horcrux with the spirit you made in step 1.

Step 5 - Oath of Life

The connection between the body (the item), soul, and spirit is still unstable, if most likely strong enough to hold.

Swear the oath of life to finalise the bound between you, the Horcrux, and the soul thread together to ward off death.

I'll end with this note I made regarding Horcruxes when I started working on this theory:

I don't know what all goes into the process of making a Horcrux but I don't believe a person who truly likes themselves and doesn't want to inflict pain on themselves could make a Horcrux. Tearing up your soul is an act of arrogance above nature, sure, thinking you deserve to change the laws of the world and be the exception is part of it, but it's also an act of self-hatred. You need to hate yourself enough to be willing to kill yourself, hurt yourself, and tear yourself up in the most unnatural ways — hence why so few can do so, let alone more than once.

And Tom Riddle does seem to have that exact mix of arrogance, spite, and low self-esteem that would allow it.