Freezingflames7 - FreezingFlames

In which Harry is a powerful darling, and Tom is an obsessed and smitten psycho, just how we like him.

My submission for Riddle Fest 2023 🖤

Not to mention the fact that Israel sniped another journalist, and gunned down their OWN HOSTAGES who were holding a white flag.

Another Al Jazeera journalist had lost over 20 members of his family today. Mo'men Al Sharafi had lost his mother, father, siblings, nieces and nephews who were all taking refuge in Jabalya refugee camp in Gaza and were targeted by Israeli shelling that destroyed the whole block.

He was asked why was his family in such a dangerous area in Northern Gaza, and he explained that his family had to move five times already and that his father, an 87 year old man, refused to be forced to leave his home again, stating that he didn't want to repeat the what was done to him during the Nakba.

This is just heartbreaking.

can we please get a snippet of the Grindelwald!Harry AU?? Maybe Gellert tracks Harry down and like wants to apologize for being absent but Harry’s like you’re not my dad!! And Gellerts like o.O my son hates me so much that he won’t even acknowledge me.

orrr something about exactly WHY everyone thinks Harry’s Gellert son

Or literally anything. I’m obsessed

This is the first thing that popped into my mind 😂

——————————

“I’m sorry - what?”

Albus took a calming sip of his tea, humming in appreciation at the pleasant taste, before placing it back on the saucer and looking at the young man across from him. There was nothing of Gellert in him, not in looks or personality or even in the flavour of magic that emanated from him; and it only solidified the suspicion in his mind that this was not the long-lost son of his old friend.

Certainly, Gellert never would have allowed such a…gobsmacked look to cross his face.

Amusement bubbled merrily in his gut at the expression on Harry, though. This was a man that had never learned or never cared to mask his emotions before, and it was refreshing to witness someone so unashamed or concerned over how he was perceived.

Albus had been spending far too much time around politicians lately.

“I said that for someone rumoured to be Gellert Grindelwald’s son, you were remarkably easy to find.”

Harry’s eyes - a brilliant, lovely green - suddenly narrowed and sharpened. He still did not resemble Gellert, but the abrupt shrewdness of his gaze was as dangerous as it was compelling. Albus hid his smile behind the rim of his cup.

“Grindelwald.” It wasn’t even a question, just a flat repetition.

“Oh yes,” Albus said, more jovial than the situation perhaps warranted. “The wizarding world is positively abuzz with news of your existence. It’s quite a scandal.”

“But I’m not Grindelwald’s kid,” Harry replied, with such aggressive honesty that it made a well of fondness appear in Albus’ chest. Truly, it seemed he had stumbled across a wonderful gem of a human being. Even just this brief conversation told him all he needed to know about young Harry’s character.

He took another sip, waiting deliberately to see where this would go.

Harry inhaled, his lips already opening to say more - when he just stopped and huffed. His eyes pierced Albus, and some weary amusement snuck on the other’s face. “And you know that,” Harry said, rolling his eyes and sighing. “You just wanted to see how I’d react.”

Marvellous! Not only a sincere man, but one with a clever mind. There was a temper there, Albus had been able to tell that after Harry’s initial response to his arrival - the bright burst of anger in his eyes when he first saw Albus, the way the green darkened, his jaw clenched and his fingers twitched - but it was tempered by such an overwhelming blanket of kindness and good humour.

He should get out of the office more often.

Vitae Redux, Chapter 19: The Goblet

Bartemius lifted his head, meeting the Dark Lord’s eyes. Lord Voldemort ripped into his mind without hesitation, gleeful at his servant’s eager acceptance of his presence, passing through snippets of memory, images of the two boys he sought swirling around him. Holding hands in the hallways, smiling at each other over meals in the Great Hall, hidden in an alcove, kissing. Vile, disgusting – Lord Voldemort had never deigned to kiss someone, not when it gave him none of the pleasure he could seduce or force out of others. He flew away from these memories, seeking the one Bartemius had offered.

“… a bit mad, isn’t he?”

Harry Potter and ‘Tom Riddle’ were leaving their Defence Against the Dark Arts class, unaware of the man who shadowed them and hand in hand once more. Voldemort snarled at the sight.

“Yes,” the taller boy sighed, “it certainly seems so. All those years of fighting Dark witches and wizards must have addled his brains. Still, I find it gratifying to know that you can throw off the Imperius Curse – even an accomplished Occlumens can find it difficult to resist the suggestions placed in their mind by the caster. I have to wonder about Dumbledore’s decision to hire him, however.”

“Do you think it’s because –" Harry broke off and glanced around furtively before sliding seamlessly into Parseltongue. “Because Dumbledore suspects Voldemort is coming back?”

‘Tom’ frowned. “You may very well be right, darling,” he replied, stroking his free hand against Harry’s face. “I know for a fact that the headmaster has spies who once were loyal to Voldemort – surely they’ve alerted him to the fact that their Marks are darkening once more. A smart move, all things considered, to employ one of the most feared Aurors of his day.”

“So we’re safe then,” Harry concluded. “As long as we’re at Hogwarts, Voldemort can’t get to us.”

“Darling, I trust your safety with Dumbledore as much as I trust him not to kill me on the spot if he ever worked out who and what I am,” ‘Tom’ replied. “Which is to say, not at all. Now come, we’re late for lunch.”

Lord Voldemort withdrew from Bartemius’ mind, the effort having exhausted him but giving him the information he needed. Harry Potter was indeed a Parselmouth, and furthermore, it seemed he understood the nature of ‘Tom’s’ existence and somehow didn’t mind. How very interesting. Lord Voldemort’s plan had been to kill the boy, of course, but plans were always subject to change.

“You have a new objective, Bartemius,” he said, easing his fragile body back into the armchair. “You will continue as you have thus, ensuring the boy’s success in the Triwizard Tournament. However, I wish for you to also assess Harry Potter’s aptitude and attitude towards the Dark Arts. I wish to know if he can be turned.”

Gimme more

the last days of sparta | tom/harry | sneak preview!

Summary:

Harry beats Tom to the “Heir of Slytherin” title.

Tom is pissed as hell. Also maybe kind of horny, which is a problem, since if the Peverell brat really is an Heir, then that means they’re related.

Eh, incest. Who cares?

AHAHAHA HOLY SHIT SORRY THAT’S NOT THE REAL SUMMARY. THIS IS:

A new student is sorted into Slytherin in Tom’s sixth year. The mysterious Hericus “Harry” Peverell is a boy full of contradictions: he’s a Pureblood, but he says he was raised by Muggles; he’s wealthy, but he acts like he was starved as a child; he’s as slender as a thistle that could be blown away by the wind, but his magic is so oppressively powerful that it darkens the air like a thundercloud; he opposes everything Salazar stood for, but claims he’s the Heir of Slytherin.

Worst of all, he stole that title from Tom.

Now, Tom has to decide whether he feels so robbed by Harry that he has to murder him post-haste, or whether an alliance would be the better tactical alternative.

Tom has made alliances with other people he’s hated before. Surely this shouldn’t be too difficult.

…It is.

Or: Watch Harry cheerfully take over Slytherin while Tom boils with jealousy... and lust.

->

Notes:

This happens in Tom’s sixth year, shortly before the discovers the Chamber of Secrets, but after he murders the Riddles.

Harry is posing as a descendant of Cadmus Peverell here, not Ignotus Peverell; Cadmus spawned the Gaunts (including Tom), and Ignotus the Potters (including Harry). Harry just switches ancestors because it suits his cover story better.

->

Preview:

Hogwarts rarely, if ever, admitted students mid-year. So when Tom heard from a mildly intoxicated Slughorn at a Slug Club party that Hogwarts would soon be getting a new student, he conducted his customary intelligence-gathering. He plied Slughorn with cherry wine and flattery until Slughorn spilled that the newcomer was a Peverell.

“After generations!” Slughorn sniffled, misty-eyed, as though he were speaking of his own long-lost kin. “A genuine Peverell! A distant relation of Salazar himself, perhaps? I do wonder where he’s been hiding…”

Indeed. Where had he been hiding?

Everything about it rubbed Tom the wrong way. His magic whispered to him that something was off, something was uncanny, something was wrong… and Tom had learned to trust that whisper, because it always preceded—by minutes, or even hours—the landing of a bomb. It was an instinct he’d honed under threat of death, packed body-to-sweaty-body with weeping, pissing, vomiting children in bomb shelters that reeked of refuse and fear.

Tom had washed himself clean of that filth. Would keep washing himself clean of that filth, and the last task he had to complete to show his housemates that he was clean—that he was Pure—was to prove himself the Heir of Slytherin.

He knew what he was. He felt it in his veins, in his brain, the serpent-slither of his thoughts. It was his heritage; his calling; his destiny. All he needed was to find the Chamber, as he was confident he would do this year, and it would all be his: power, prestige, immortality. He thrummed with excitement at the great discovery awaiting him. A historic discovery. One day, he would be written about in the history books: a conquerer, a victor. One day, one day.

Little did he expect it would all be stolen from him, just that quick.

He had blood on his hands already. He was a killer. A predator. Predators took; they didn’t get stolen from. The very notion was absurd. Why else had he sharpened his claws, his fangs, on the murders of the Riddles, if he was only to become prey himself?

Peverell didn’t look like much of a predator.

Tom saw him for the first time on a Tuesday evening, during dinner in the Great Hall, about two weeks after the Slug Club party at which Tom had learned of his existence.

Headmaster Dippet rose from his chair at the teachers’ table and announced that Hericus Peverell, an unfortunate victim of Grindelwald’s war, would be joining the sixth-year cohort. He said nothing of Peverell’s background, but it was heavily implied that Peverell’s parents were no more—meaning that Peverell was now a Lord at the tender age of sixteen.

Tom watched covertly as an oddly tense Professor Dumbledore led Peverell to the sorting stool. Even odder was Peverell himself: he was short, messy-haired and not well-groomed at all, his features plain and peasant-like except for his bright, curious green eyes. He somehow reminded Tom of a kitten that would never be able to resist a ball of yarn.

There wasn’t a single stately or dignified thing about him, other than his rich, luxurious robes, the traditional Hogwarts black shimmering with layers of intricate, high-quality, expensive wards and charms. Robes clearly customised at the The Armoury, Diagon Alley’s premium shop for protective clothing. It was the one sensible, proper-looking thing about him. Everything else about him resembled a skinny street urchin, not a Lord of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

It remained to be seen whether this Peverell was of Ignotus’s more Gryffindor-tending side, or Cadmus’s more Slytherin-tending lineage—a direct line of succession from Salazar Slytherin himself. Tom wasn’t perturbed by that, however, knowing that he was the Heir of this generation. The Peverell boy might have a fine name, but without Parseltongue, he was nothing.

Then, Dumbledore placed the Sorting Hat on Peverell’s disheveled head.

Tom’s pulse ratcheted up a beat.

Every Slytherin was on high alert, though few showed it: Orion Black was gazing dreamily into the middle distance, as he was wont to do; Walburga Black was knitting a lace doily, of all things, with perfect precision and seemingly unshakeable focus; Lissia Avery was slicing her meatloaf with the attentiveness she always devoted to handling knives and all bladed weapons; Livius Lestrange had his nose in a book on magical ornithology; and Marcellus Mulciber was had the tip of his quill between his teeth as he glowered down at his Potions homework. Only the younger years were unrefined enough to stare, to whisper.

The Gryffindor table was more openly fascinated, nudging each other with their elbows and gossiping loud enough for snatches of their conversations to drift over to Tom: “Ignotus’s descendant, y’think?” “Imagine having the Invisibility Cloak in our House. The pranks we could get up to…” “The Cloak isn’t real, stupid! It’s a fairytale.” “But what if it isn’t?”

TO BE CONTINUED.

relent

Harry gaped as he watched Ron disapparate, his heart shuddering and squeezing tight in his chest. The actual audacity. The fucking cheek of Ron.

Harry stood in the middle of the Forest of Dean, mouth agape, as Hermione quietly began to cry. Every molecule in Harry's body burned and his vision blurs; it's not until he feels the hot splash of tears against his cheeks that he realised he had begun to cry silently as well.

Hermione's fingers threaded through Harry's and he held her hand tightly. It seems like it's just going to be the two of them.

It is fine. They can do this.

They’ll have to.

"I guess it'll just be us against Vol – " Harry began sourly before Hermione's hand squeezed tightly.

"Don't say his name, Harry," Hermione whispered. "I don't know why, I can't explain it – but just, don't say his name."

Harry sealed his lips in a tight line, frowning, as they looked at the spot Ron had once stood.

— — — —

"Do you remember, Harry," Hermione began pensively, rolling her wand in her hand, "When Dean Thomas nearly ran into us in the forest?"

Harry looked up from his spot near the fire, pulling himself from his dark thoughts. His chest still ached from where Hermione had cut the locket off his flesh the night before, the searing oval scar shiny and tingling.

“I do," Harry answered at last. He tossed the sealed Golden Snitch between his hands, finger pads gliding over the engraved gold. He used to play with his wand this way, before – before it was splintered into shards. The wound of losing his wand sears hotter than the locket scar, than Nagini's venom-less bite.

"Remember when Dirk said... That he thought you'd run off?" Hermione continued slowly. “Abandoned the wizarding world?”

Harry was too tired to bristle at her carefully chosen words, too exhausted to get annoyed at her slowly leading questions.

After the last twenty-four-hour's events, Harry would very much prefer to not go into the subject of eavesdropping on Thomas and Dirk, as the immediate nasty row that occurred following said eavesdropping had resulted in Ron leaving. Abandoning them in the Forest of Dean.

That's a subject both Harry and Hermione are too raw to broach, despite all of the time that had since passed.

Ron’s cold laughter echoed in Harry’s head. 'I get it. You choose him.'

Harry sighed and nodded.

"I think... I think maybe Dirk had a point," Hermione whispered, brown eyes glazed as she stared into the inky forest.

Harry's head jerked up at that, mouth dropping open. "What are you suggesting?" Harry asked through a rushed exhale, shocked.

Hermione did not look at Harry as she laced her fingers together and gripped until her knuckles grew white. From her seated position on the log across from the fire, Harry could see the dark bags under her eyes, the sallow dip of her cheeks.

They've been in the forest too long, lost as to what their next step should be. They’re starving, scared. Barely no longer children in a world that is too dark and cold.

"It's a zero sum game, Harry,” Hermione said slowly. “The muggles are war driven. As are the wizards. Once the muggles discover the threat You-Know-Who poses, they'll deploy their armies. They'll attack. And the wizards will fight back just as hard. Muggle weapons are stronger than any single spell, but magic will disrupt their systems. It'll be a standstill and yet they'll just keep fighting," Hermione whispered, lips pale from cold and fear. "The wizards and the muggles will treat you as nothing other than a threat."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked, words heatless. He genuinely didn't understand her point.

"You're... You're a horcrux, Harry," Hermione answered so quietly he barely heard her over the sound of the crackling fire.

Harry's heart froze for a timeless moment and then it near exploded in his chest, beating with the frantic tempo of a startled rabbit.

"How do you – what are you – " He began to stammer, horrified, before Hermione quickly continued.

"It's just a theory," Hermione said sharply, voice growing louder as she began to rally her resolve. "But please, just think about it – the connection you have with him, your ability to speak Parseltongue, Dumbledore's insistence that it has to be you to fight him. I think Dumbledore knew, that he's been raising you to fight Him to the death. That you won't survive this war."

Harry felt something shift inside him, like a cog sliding into gear. The idea fit too well; within a moment, Harry could see it all through the eyes of the new perspective. The Parseltongue, the mood swings he feels and unintentionally acts upon, the dreams.

In his mind’s eye, Harry sees the strange way Dumbledore introduced the horcruxes to him, carefully and gently, leading Harry down a path to knowledge.

"I have to die," Harry whispered weakly. It feels true, like everything Harry has ever been taught, like everything Harry has ever known has suddenly accumulated in this single, morbid epiphany. "I am going to die."

The Snitch breaks open in his hand.

Harry jolts, surprised, and in his shock he drops the small thing on the ground. At his feet, a gold ring with a cracked black rock falls out of the snitch.

Harry looked up at Hermione and was startled by the look of icy anger on her face.

"He charmed it to open when you accepted your death," Hermione stated blankly, appalled. She stood abruptly and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger.

Harry knew this look – she was attempting to console two opposing thoughts in her head, cognitive dissonance burning her logical mind to the ground. "Dumbledore knew you had to die. He knew. And he made it so that you could only inherit the ring once you accepted it."

A feeling of complete, overwhelming betrayal stabbed through Harry's heart. Was that... Was that all Harry had been to Dumbledore? A martyr to a cause? A weapon, his grand Chosen One?

For the Greater Good.

"We have no help. Ron is long gone. We led Vo-ugh, You-Know-Who to discovering the identity of the thief," Harry hissed quietly, reeling, "We're being hunted. I have no wand and no idea where to look for the next horcrux – well, we know where at least two horcruxes are," he said, waving at himself and to the tent where the locket had been stashed. Harry released a barely-human noise disguised as a brittle laugh, a sound he'd never made before. It was high pitched and weak, bursting through his throat without warning. "Hermione," Harry said, turning to his best friend. "I – I'm going to have to die."

Hermione looked as if he had physically slapped her. "No. No, that's not going to happen," she protested vehemently.

"But it is," Harry answered dully, sitting down at the fire. "There's no other way."

Just as Harry said those words, something strange shifted inside of himself. Something oddly feral and desperate, an idea borne from a creature backed into a corner.

"We'll figure something out," Hermione promised solemnly.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, mind whirling with the new idea, breathless. "Yeah we will."

— — — —

That night, after Harry finished his lookout shift and was tucked into his chilly cot, he thought of the people who had supported him over the years. He thought of the names that well wishers carved into his dead family home's miserable epitaph in Godric's Hollow. He thinks of Remus' quiet support and Sirius' wild grin. He thinks of Hermione and Luna and Ginny and Neville and Ron –

The memory of Ron sours the growing feeling of happiness in Harry's heart. Harry thinks of Ron's betrayal, his best friend's cruel words and demanding that Harry do something. As if Harry was supposed to know it all, as if he were failing them. Harry thinks on the fury Ron had expressed that Harry had no plan. Harry then thinks of Sirius' glazed eyes, when he called Harry James. He thinks of Remus disappearing from his life after Sirius' death, of Dumbledore avoiding Harry in fifth year, scared he'd see Voldemort lurking in Harry's eyes. Of Dumbledore hiding secrets from him, that Harry is a horcrux, even after he promised no more secrets. Harry thinks of the Dursleys, being left at their doorstep. Of the teachers who saw his skinny body and bruises and never said a word.

Harry got out of bed and relieved Hermione of her post. She was so dead on her feet that she nodded off immediately.

Harry lifted her wand and strengthened the spells around the camp-site, makes sure no one would ever be able to find it from the outside. He laid Hermione's wand at her side and slipped off into the night, passing through the camp wards. He turned back to where he knows is a warmly-glowing hearth, a spacious tent, his best friend – but all he sees is dark vacant forest. Harry turned his back on his closest friend and walked deep into the Forest of Dean.

Only when Harry had walked far enough to feel confident Hermione wouldn’t be caught in the cross-hairs, Harry parted his lips and whispered, “Voldemort.”

— — — —

The capture was swift and merciless. Harry was taken to Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire and Harry can only feel relief that Draco Malfoy isn't there to laugh in his face, though the cold look of darkening glee on Lucius Malfoy's face raises the hairs on Harry's neck.

They ask him questions, try to make him speak. All Harry lets himself say is, "Voldemort."

They grow tired of shooing away summoned Snatchers when the tabooed name calls them over and over, and they stop asking him questions eventually. The cruciatus hurts, yes, but it does not make Harry speak.

After, Harry sits in the dank dungeons of Malfoy Manor, fingers pressing against the thick fabric of his battered coat hems. They've searched him for weapons and only found a golden snitch. That had been taken from him, yes, but the ring on his finger wasn’t. Harry wondered why – does it have something to do with how their eyes skate over it, unseeing? Can the ring hide itself from others?

Harry didn’t know but he struggled to care.

— — — —

Harry's scar has always been a better Voldemort detector than any Sneak-O-Scope, than any seer ability or omen. Harry flinched as his scar sears and he looked up through his eyelashes from his dozing spot, seated against the wall in the dank dungeon.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort whispered from the other side of iron ore bars.

"Voldemort," Harry greeted him quietly, eyes flicking down. He has no interest in testing how long his terrible Occlumency wards would last against the greatest mind reader of the millennia.

"Have you come to surrender?" Voldemort mocked, his terrible voice burning shudders of disgust down Harry's spine.

"Never," Harry replied with defiance he does not feel, tilting his head back against stone and glancing up at Voldemort with wry amusement.

"You are pathetic," Voldemort snarled.

"That only reflects poorly on you," Harry countered, laughing.

Voldemort hissed, low and dangerous, and he raised his wand to Harry’s chest.

Harry closed his eyes, the magic burning so luminescent at the end of Voldemort's wand, so bright, that Harry can see it through his closed eyelids – soft relief echoing in his mind, it's over its done he can rest now –

The wand lowered. Harry opened his eyes in surprise. He's... Alive.

"Relief," Voldemort said abruptly, head tilting eerily in a mockery of a human behaviour. "Why do you feel... Relief?"

Harry closed his eyes once more. "Because I know without a shadow of doubt that if you try to kill me, you'll just fail again. And again. And again. Like every other time. In fact, I'm safest when you try to kill me," Harry jibed back, unsure why Voldemort has stopped. But Harry found himself unwilling to play games with the monster. The quickest way to return to course is to insult Voldemort.

For the first time in Harry's life, the monster does not let his wounded ego get in the way of thought.

"You want me to kill you," Voldemort said. There is a strange quality in his voice, contemplation perhaps. "You, Harry Potter, are many things, but you are not a coward. You would only willingly come to me for one reason: self sacrifice." Voldemort spat the words as if they burned his thin lips as he spoke them.

Harry jolted, surprised, eyes opening as the words hissed to him grew near. Harry flinched back in horror as he realised Voldemort was right there, directly in front of him not two feet away, crouched and boring his hellfire red eyes into Harry's wide, blown pupils. Voldemort had melted through the bars of Harry's cell silently, a ghost with no presence.

'What is your secret, Harry Potter?' Voldemort hissed.

'Not everything is a conspiracy,' Harry replied sharply, his running mouth barely audible over the sound of his thundering heart in his ears.

'Nagini was correct – you can speak Parseltongue,' Voldemort whispered, his vertical pupils dilating, 'But you are no Slytherin ancestor.'

Harry felt his heart freeze in his chest, terror race through his blood – did he figure out – could Voldemort know he is a –

There's a rough, jagged glass-shard scrape of Voldemort's mind brushing against Harry's own and it catches his thoughts, brutally sharp in its cruelty, diving deep into Harry’s mind with reckless need to understand.

'It cannot be,' Voldemort breathed, red eyes flaring bright, reptilian pupils lost in sea of fire.

Before Harry can respond, can attack, Voldemort strikes out, presses his fingers against Harry’s forehead, pain searing burning agony, and all Harry knows darkness.

So, as you know, or don't, an employee got fired from Starbucks and they posted all the recipes online =)

part 1

I’ve been reading a lot of Tomarry fanfiction.

There isn’t enough Tom raises Harry Au out there