Tumgik
#horcruxes
izharmilgram · 6 months
Text
born hungry.
Tumblr media
627 notes · View notes
allofthelights11 · 3 months
Text
The latest piece of art created especially for Out of Time!
Tumblr media
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.
127 notes · View notes
awyeahitssam · 1 month
Text
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! 🖤
81 notes · View notes
hptheboywholived · 8 months
Text
Tumblr media
Horcruxes - by Skarlessa
221 notes · View notes
hp-shippy-prompts · 8 months
Text
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.
234 notes · View notes
headache-smoothie · 6 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
inspiration: Equals in Life (Partners in Death) by @reggieblk
go read!!! one of my favorite fics :)
83 notes · View notes
apathetic-kiss · 10 months
Text
after sirius runs away to the potters and regulus takes the dark mark, they stop talking.
like, really stop talking.
but sometimes after a raid, or a meeting, or being screamed at by their parents, regulus finds himself returning to the park he and sirius would play in as children.
perched on the rusty swing set, eyes red-rimmed and shirt untucked, he sometimes sees a big, black dog sitting on top of a bench.
they just stare at one another. neither blinking, neither moving.
sirius never told regulus about padfoot, so never approaches him properly. plus, reg is much more of a cat person.
he still feels an obligation towards his little brother. remus and the others don't get it; they know he sometimes disappears for hours and comes back quiet and shivering, and they know it has something to do with regulus. but sirius doesn't know how to explain that no matter how terrible his brother may be, he's still sirius' responsibility. he always will be.
so he goes. sits and waits for his brother to arrive, subdued and slowly wasting away, just so that he knows he's still alive. if anything, its to stop the guilt from eating at him inside. because if reg is still alive, still here, then sirius has done his job, even if he left him behind.
the dog is comforting to regulus.
but not for the right reason.
padfoot has always been a symbol of life and friends and freedom for sirius. but for regulus, watching a big, black, dog staring him down, he sees nothing but death.
death, hovering, waiting to take him in his clutches at last.
and regulus never breaks eye contact. he just stares down his inevitable fate as he disapparates out of the park.
241 notes · View notes
lulublack90 · 3 days
Text
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
35 notes · View notes
crackishincorrecthp · 6 months
Text
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!
71 notes · View notes
merriweather-boat · 3 months
Text
Thinking about Tom Riddle as he gets older in a world where he stays human long enough for his face to begin to crease and show signs of aging. Tom is fucking terrified of aging, and the lines on his forehead are a stark reminder of the fact that he may have horcruxes, but slowly, day by day and year by year, he will age. When he is older than Albus Dumbledore ever will be, he knows that he will find his first gray hair. In a millenium, he will be alive, preserved by his horcruxes, but he will be a husk of a man. One day, his shell will reject him. The body will collapse, but the soul will persevere. The search for a new vessel is inevitable. He was doomed from the beginning; to die with your soul cut into pieces and placed into foreign vessels is to die gracelessly, to dissolve like a sugar cube stirred into a cup of cold tea. Frustrating. Slow. Unsatisfying.
Voldemort doesn't break the ribbon at the finish line, victorious. He stumbles across the finish line, and nobody is there to say, "What a life well lived!" because he barely lived it at all.
39 notes · View notes
Text
The Riddle of Tom Riddle: Part 5/7
(Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 6, Part 7)
After Graduation
Continuing with my analysis of Tom Riddle's character, we reach his graduation. Here things start getting a little murkier. You'd expect we'll have more information the more recent it is, but there is very little information about Tom's life between his graduation in 1944 and his return to Britain under the alias Lord Voldemort in 1967.
I want to discuss the continuation of his quest for immortality, his choice of profession, and a little bit about his family's legacy.
Graduation
So from Dumbledore, we know Tom graduated top of his class. Head boy and 12 NEWTs, all Os under his belt:
He reached the seventh year of his schooling with, as you might have expected, top grades in every examination he had taken. All around him, his classmates were deciding which jobs they were to pursue once they had left Hogwarts. Nearly everybody expected spectacular things from Tom Riddle, prefect, Head Boy, winner of the Award for Special Services to the School. I know that several teachers, Professor Slughorn amongst them, suggested that he join the Ministry of Magic, offered to set up appointments, put him in touch with useful contacts. He refused all offers.
(Half-Blood Prince, pages 430-431)
Dumbledore says Tom was offered multiple positions in the ministry and that he refused all of them. We knew he applied for a teaching position at Hogwarts, which I'll discuss in a moment, but I want to talk about his refusing these offers and why.
Now, I made no secret of the fact Dumbledore has an agenda when he's showing Harry these memories, he wants Tom to appear as an irredeemably evil monster that must be destroyed. Now, Tom isn't a good man, not by a long shot, but in his younger years, I don't think he was beyond help.
Regardless, I'm sure Slughorn did help him set up appointments with ministry personnel, it sounds just like the sort of thing Slughorn would do. The thing is, Tom is incredibly ambitious, he is as Slytherin as they come in that regard. Most ministry positions, especially the ones that'd be offered to him aren't anything shiny to brag about. These positions Dumbledore is talking about were probably for a clerk or secretary. We see with Percy Weasley, that the approach in the ministry is that you start from the bottom and climb up. Tom, who got used to thinking of himself at the top would've struggled being ordered around like we see Crouch ordering Percy. Tom would've murdered his boss before running around to someone else's whims.
I think he didn't take a position in the ministry for this exact reason. He's prideful and ambitious and he wanted a position that'll give him more freedom and control.
Tom loves being in control, all his childhood was in a state of lacking — both in food, belongings, clothes, and mostly control. Tom had very little he could control about his life and we see him seek to exert control, not only on his own life, but on others.
but Voldemort first approached Professor Dippet and asked whether he could remain at Hogwarts as a teacher.” “He wanted to stay here? Why?” asked Harry, more amazed still. “I believe he had several reasons, though he confided none of them to Professor Dippet,” said Dumbledore. “Firstly, and very importantly, Voldemort was, I believe, more attached to this school than he has ever been to a person. Hogwarts was where he had been happiest; the first and only place he had felt at home.” Harry felt slightly uncomfortable at these words, for this was exactly how he felt about Hogwarts too.
(Half-Blood Prince, page 431)
Tom's first choice was to be a professor. I think Dumbledore is pretty spot-on on the first reason why Tom wanted to stay at Hogwarts. I already mentioned in my previous post, how Tom loves Hogwarts. Hogwarts is the only place he ever called home. He loved it so much that he attached his soul to items representing the school (the founders' artifacts).
And Harry is right to feel the way he does. Tom is similar to him in this regard.
The other two reasons Dumbledore gives in this scene for Tom's desire to become a teacher are:
2. Tom wants to unravel the mysteries of the ancient magic of Hogwarts that he hasn't resolved yet.
3. As a recruiting ground for future Death Eaters.
I think the second idea has some merit. Tom is definitely an academic, as I mentioned in my previous posts. He'd want to study and learn everything about magic and Hogwarts and would only be satisfied once he knew everything. I think his love of academics and magic is another major reason for his desire to teach. Dumbledore doesn't mention it, but Tom loves magic, as in just magic. It's what made him special, what gave him power and control when he had none. It's what garnered him pride and attention. His magical academic accomplishments are something Tom takes great pride in. "magic is might" in his words, after all.
The third one I believe is completely false. We have nothing but Dumbledore's words to support the existence of the Knights of Walpurgis (proto-Death Eaters followers of Tom when he was in school). We know Tom had people he considered friends and who he (diary Tom) says already called him by the title Voldemort, but we don't really have any other information about them and if there was an actual organization.
Also, from how uninvolved Voldemort was in both wars I find it hard to believe he'd bother applying for a job to raise an army. He didn't take over the ministry when he did have an army, so I don't think this is something he was actually after, at least not at this time. He didn't really make an effort to create an army for himself in these years after graduation, because he could have, even working at Borgin and Burkes, and yet he didn't. Which means this wasn't one of his goals here.
Customer Service
“So Voldemort went off to Borgin and Burkes, and all the staff who had admired him said what a waste it was, a brilliant young wizard like that, working in a shop. However, Voldemort was no mere assistant. Polite and handsome and clever, he was soon given particular jobs of the type that only exist in a place like Borgin and Burkes, which specializes, as you know, Harry, in objects with unusual and powerful properties. Voldemort was sent to persuade people to part with their treasures for sale by the partners, and he was, by all accounts, unusually gifted at doing this.”
(Half-Blood Prince, pages 432-433 )
So, not being able to secure the teaching position Tom goes to Borgin and Burkes. Now, I think Dumbledore isn't accurate on why Tom chose to work there.
First, I mentioned why he turned down the ministry positions, Tom isn't interested in being low on the ministry ladder and climbing it slowly. Dumbledore mentions himself how Tom wasn't a mare assistant. He was in touch with powerful clients and had access to priceless magical books and artifacts he probably found fascinating. I bet all the time he wasn't with clients he was studying the magic he could in the shop and the things in its collection.
This position gave him a lot of freedom in who he talked to and how he got these treasures. His boss clearly didn't care as long as there were results, which is something I think Tom would like, having complete control over his life and work. It's the kind of job that would give him plenty of time to pursue his own studies should he wish to do so as well.
I don't think Tom suffered in this job. I called it Customer Service mostly as a joke, I don't believe Tom often worked retail behind the counter at the shop. Dumbledore mentions he mostly procured treasures (and also studied them, in my opinion) rather than handle the customers at the shop. I think Tom enjoyed it well enough, I don't think he'd have remained there 10 years otherwise.
These 10 years at Borgin and Burkes ended with him going to Hepzibah Smith and I want to talk about this scene a bit:
She opened the lid. Harry edged forward a little to get a better view and saw what looked like a small golden cup with two finely wrought handles. “I wonder whether you know what it is, Tom? Pick it up, have a good look!” whispered Hepzibah, and Voldemort stretched out a long-fingered hand and lifted the cup by one handle out of its snug silken wrappings. Harry thought he saw a red gleam in his dark eyes. His greedy expression was curiously mirrored on Hepzibah’s face, except that her tiny eyes were fixed upon Voldemort’s handsome features.
...
She hooked the cup back off Voldemort’s long forefinger and restored it gently to its box, too intent upon settling it carefully back into position to notice the shadow that crossed Voldemort’s face as the cup was taken away.
(Half-Blood Prince, page 436)
As I mentioned in the past Tom is sentimental, and there is nothing he is more sentimental about than Hogwarts and his family legacy. The first place he called home and something he thought he could be proud of. Both signs of his magic — what always made him special. His sentimentality is very tied in with his ego.
This is Hufflepuff's cup, a remnant from a Hogwarts founder. It's rare, special, and magical and is a symbol of home for Tom, and so he wants it. And Tom likes getting what he wants when he wants it.
She slid back the fine filigree clasp and flipped open the box. There upon the smooth crimson velvet lay a heavy golden locket. Voldemort reached out his hand, without invitation this time, and held it up to the light, staring at it. “Slytherin’s mark,” he said quietly, as the light played upon an ornate, serpentine S. “That’s right!” said Hepzibah, delighted, apparently, at the sight of Voldemort gazing at her locket, transfixed. “I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, but I couldn’t let it pass, not a real treasure like that, had to have it for my collection. Burke bought it, apparently, from a ragged-looking woman who seemed to have stolen it, but had no idea of its true value —” There was no mistaking it this time: Voldemort’s eyes flashed scarlet at the words, and Harry saw his knuckles whiten on the locket’s chain.
(Half-Blood Prince, page 437)
With the locket, Tom's reaction is even more obvious. It makes sense, it's not just a symbol of home, but of the family legacy he should've been able to be proud of and yet, couldn't.
You see, Tom and his family is an interesting dynamic. Like, how he feels about them is interesting.
When he found out who his family was he went to look for them. I don't think Tom searched out his relatives to kill them. Harry describes him being disappointed in the state of the Gaunt house and Morfin:
“You speak it?” “Yes, I speak it,” said Riddle. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Harry could not help but feel a resentful admiration for Voldemort’s complete lack of fear. His face merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment. “Where is Marvolo?” he asked. “Dead,” said the other. “Died years ago, didn’t he?” Riddle frowned.
(Half-Blood Prince, page 364)
I think, back then, when he was 16, Tom had hoped he'd find a family and a legacy. He only attacked Morfin after he learned his father left his mother when she was pregnant and that no one wanted him. I think he had hope back then, and it was squashed completely.
The thing is, up to that point, he probably took great pride in speaking Parseltongue and being the Heir of Slytherin at Hogwarts. Then he met Morfin and all that pride turned to shame, emberessement, and burning hatred. But the pride, the sentimentality towards a legacy that could've been remained.
By the time we see him with Hepzibah Smith, Tom has complicated feelings about Slytherin's legacy. It's something that won him friends and favors in Slytherin's house, it symbolized how special and powerful he was. But he was also ashamed and disappointed in them, the way none of them seemed to really love him and they all abandoned him. I think he blamed his mother for not surviving. After all, he was sure she couldn't have been the witch between his parents because of how weak she was, because of how she died.
I just find this dichotomy, of Tom wearing her legacy — Slytherin's legacy — proudly as part of the identity he fashioned for himself but being ashamed of the weakness of all his relatives fascinating.
Even in the above scene with the locket, the way he is so desperate to keep hold of it at the age of 29-30 shows this dichotomy. His desperation for a family and a connection he never had, he is still desperate to feel connected to his legacy, even when he hates all of his relatives.
“Hepzibah Smith died two days after that little scene,” said Dumbledore, resuming his seat and indicating that Harry should do the same. “Hokey the house-elf was convicted by the Ministry of poisoning her mistress’s evening cocoa by accident.” “No way!” said Harry angrily. “I see we are of one mind,” said Dumbledore. “Certainly, there are many similarities between this death and that of the Riddles. In both cases, somebody else took the blame, someone who had a clear memory of having caused the death —” “Hokey confessed?” “She remembered putting something in her mistress’s cocoa that turned out not to be sugar, but a lethal and little-known poison,” said Dumbledore. “It was concluded that she had not meant to do it, but being old and confused —”
(Half-Blood Prince, page 438)
But before they [Hepzibah’s family] were sure beyond doubt that the cup and the locket were both gone, the assistant who had worked at Borgin and Burkes, the young man who had visited Hepzibah so regularly and charmed her so well, had resigned his post and vanished. His superiors had no idea where he had gone; they were as surprised as anyone at his disappearance. And that was the last that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very long time
(Half-Blood Prince, page 439)
Then, he kills Hepzibah and steals the locket and the cup. The cup was made into a Horcrux using Hepzibah’s death and we know he took it with him (along with the locket) when he went traveling the world for the next 10 years. This is important because, in this next section, I want to note something important I noticed regarding Tom's Horcruxes — or more specifically their hiding locations.
Tom's World Tour
Ten years separates Hokey’s memory and this one, ten years during which we can only guess at what Lord Voldemort was doing. . . .” Harry got to his feet once more as Dumbledore emptied the last memory into the Pensieve. “Whose memory is it?” he asked. “Mine,” said Dumbledore.
(Half-Blood Prince, page 440)
Like Dumbledore says, we have little to no information regarding these 10 years of Voldemort's life I like to refer to as his world tour. All we know from this period in his life is that he made 2 new Horcruxes — the locket and the diadem.
To the Dark Lord, I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more. R.A.B.
(Half-Blood Prince, page 609)
We know he killed a "muggle tramp" to create the locket Horcrux at some point between 1956 and 1966 in an unknown location outside Britain.
“And . . . and the diadem?” “It remained where I had hidden it when I heard the Baron blundering through the forest toward me. Concealed inside a hollow tree.” “A hollow tree?” repeated Harry. “What tree? Where was this?” “A forest in Albania. A lonely place I thought was far beyond my mother’s reach.” “Albania,” repeated Harry. Sense was emerging miraculously from confusion, and now he understood why she was telling him what she had denied Dumbledore and Flitwick. “You’ve already told someone this story, haven’t you? Another student?” She closed her eyes and nodded. “I had . . . no idea. . . . He was . . . flattering. He seemed to . . . to understand . . . to sympathize . . . . ”
(Deathly Hollows, page 522)
The second is the diadem that was made into a Horcrux in a forest in Albania by killing an "Albanian Pheasant" at an unknown time between 1956 and 1966.
What I wanted to note about these Horcruxes and his world tour is actually quite simple. We know from Deathly Hollows all of Voldemort's Horcruxes were hidden in Britain, that's why Harry, Ron, and Hermione could track them down as they did.
"So?" you might be asking.
Well, I just described Voldemort having five Horcruxes (diary, ring, cup, locket, diadem) with him, on his person, when he traveled the world. He made the last two abroad, and the others weren't hidden yet since he didn't meet Lucious Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange to give them the diary and cup yet and he was described wearing the Gaunt ring. So, get this, Tom travels the world, outside Britain, including an Albanian forest where Ravenclaw's diadem remained hidden for centuries without anyone locating it, and he thought, the best place to hide his Horcruxes was in relatively accessible places in Britain that are way less well hidden? Places other people know of and could go to?
No, I'm not convinced.
This is just so weird to me, I mean, he could've made the Diadem Horcrux and then left it where he found it, and no one would've been able to track it down. But no, instead he brought it back to Britain to place it at Hogwarts.
Why?
Well, he is sentimental, about Hogwarts and Britain as a whole. Think about where he hid his Horcruxes:
The Diary - was given to Lucious, the son of Abraxas Malfoy who went to school with Tom. Tom was probably fond enough of Abraxes to hand Lucious the diary, although without telling him what it was.
The Ring - he hid in the Gaunt Shack, in the place his mother grew up, the last place his magical relatives lived. With all his shame and disappointment in them, he still felt a desire for what they represented.
The Cup - he gave to Bellatrix Lestrange to hide. I think he did care about Bellatrix, she seemed to know what the cup was, that it held his soul, and when she died:
Bellatrix’s gloating smile froze, her eyes began to bulge: For the tiniest space of time she knew what had happened, and then she toppled, and the watching crowd roared, and Voldemort screamed
(Deathly Hollows, page 621)
Voldemort clearly cares about her, we see he reacts emotionally to her death in a way he doesn't react to most other deaths.
The Locket - he placed in a cave dedicated to his own magical might. A place he made into an undead experiment, with protections of his design and a potion he invented. And where did he place this cave of wonders? In the same cave he scared two children from the orphanage with his magic. This is a place dedicated to what made him special, what made him better (in his mind).
The Diadem - He placed it at Hogwarts, the first and only place he ever thought of as a home.
Then he didn't really hide Harry or Nagini.
But all these locations reek of sentimentality and emotional attachment, even fondness to people. This is the main reason I call bull on Dumbledore's statement of Tom being incapable of love. I think he is capable of it, it's just very rare for him. He doesn't trust easily and keeps everyone at a distance (even Bellatrix who doesn't know he's a half-blood), so of course he doesn't have anyone close. But it's not that he never wanted a connection. He did, was actually quite desperate for it.
The other thing that's curious about all these hiding locations is that they are all accessible. Not necessarily easy to get to, but the trio showed it was possible to reach all of them. And that's a bizarre choice, because, why wouldn't he drop a Horcrux down the marina trench? Why wouldn't he leave the Diadem where it hadn't been found in centuries?
Because he doesn't want them to be impossible to find.
Tom is smart. He's one of the best students to ever make their way through Hogwarts. I'm sure if he wanted to make his Horcruxes inaccessible, he could have. After all, he made up the spells protecting the locket in the cave, he could've made a ward that wouldn't let anyone but him inside, but no, he made the cave a game. Something solvable, it isn't easy, but it is possible.
This tells me that one of Dumbledore's assumptions about Tom is wrong at its core. Tom didn't want to die when he started making Horcruxes, but I don't think he intended to live forever. Someone who wants to live forever wouldn't make it this easy to access their failsafe to immortality, they would drop the Horcrux down the Mariana Trench, or hide it in a vault under wards that no one could access, not even themselves. But that isn't what Tom did.
Conclusions
Tom is incredibly sentimental and is capable of feeling love and attachment to places, people, and ideas. He does, he loves magic and Hogwarts. He has complicated feelings regarding his family and Slytherin's legacy and he cares about Bellatrix (and Nagini).
He wanted to teach not to raise an army to start a war, but because he truly is an academic who loves magic.
He had no interest in working at the ministry as that would limit his freedom and control. He is prideful and ambitious and isn't willing to be at the bottom of the ladder.
And most interestingly, he never actually wanted to live forever. He just wanted to ensure he'd live as long as he wanted to, but not forever.
29 notes · View notes
brekkers-cane · 2 months
Text
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.
43 notes · View notes
lurveinn · 3 months
Text
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 (?)
27 notes · View notes
ihsnamih · 6 months
Text
Tumblr media
30 notes · View notes
lavendarhearts · 8 months
Text
"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.
41 notes · View notes
hp-shippy-prompts · 8 months
Text
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?
55 notes · View notes