Freezingflames7 - FreezingFlames

This is going to be a graphics archive masterpost for Terrible, But Great in the effort to preserve these images. Whenever I use images linked to discord, it's always seems to be a problem.

Let's first start with some stunning fanart from the glorious Izhar. I'll both link to his post as well as his account. Please go follow and show him some love for his STUNNING artwork.

Link to his Terrible, But Great fanart post.

Izhar's artwork:

Next, I'm going to archive pictures of heights for many of the characters in TBG.

I'll update this later when other things are added.

Happy anniversary, VII

I cannot believe it's been a whole year since I posted VII. I wrote and posted it at a pretty dark time for me, and figured it'd be a weird little oneshot that some people might like but would ultimately just kind of. exist.

That is not what happened. I'm still overwhelmed by the response it got. To the folks who loved it and left such wonderful comments, you will never know how much that mattered to me -- and still matters to me. And to everyone who has shared their love for the sequel or helped build that world with me, thank you all so, so much. It's been so fun and such a thrill to see your reactions and your support for my codependent trauma buddies.

I was really hoping to have a new chapter of A long, hard road to post today, but the brain is just not braining right now. Fingers crossed for March 19 (the anniversary of ALHR)!

If you haven't read VII/ALHR, you can read them here: Your legs give way, you hit the ground

I cursed my readers with this snippet, so now Tumblr gets cursed too. (If you haven't read any of it yet, this is not indicative of the fic whatsoever):

Maybe-canon-but-probably-not omake: Because no one has any chill whatsoever “Okay, so you think it’s romantic that he would, like, literally sew you two together if he could. We’re going to ignore how weird that is for the moment.” “Ronald…” “But mate, he’s a giant, skeletal snake-man. You can’t honestly say you find him attractive.” Harry mutters something under his breath that sounds a little too much like, “Oh, can’t I?” for his friends’ tastes. “Is this some problematic holdover of your infatuation with the diary horcrux?” Hermione asks as Harry sputters and turns bright red. “No!” he shouts. And, after a suspicious delay, “And I wasn’t ‘infatuated’ with the diary!” Ron and Hermione both give him a look at that. Traitors. “Psychologists would fight to the death for the chance to sort through all your issues, Harry.” “Sy-ko-wha?” “Good to know if I ever decide to hold gladiatorial contests,” Harry says dryly. The topic of conversation dies out for a couple minutes before Ron turns back to Harry and looks him dead in the eye. “So, given the chance – you would bang the snake-man?” Hermione puts her head in her hands and regrets several life choices. Harry sighs. “Like a screen door in a hurricane.” Ron chokes on air.  “Harry!” “He asked!”

—

Harry: As a general rule, I try not to make fun of scared little orphan boys who grew up during the height of two world wars. But due to EVIL, Voldemort is an exception, and him going around hissing at shit all over Hogwarts to try and find the Chamber of Secrets will always be funny to me.

What the fuck

Black and white and colored. I've included a little fic below. It's my first attempt at tomarry or harrymort.

Temporus Secare

Summary: When Harry accidentally travels to the past, he takes up the alias Henry Dursley, parading as a squib employed at an enchanted machinery shop. There he keeps himself out of trouble and stays in the shadows, all while working on a device that will take him home. Sometimes he struggles with the pureblood patrons but Harry is quick to apologize and nothing comes of it in the end. A year into his struggle, and he's completed the necklace. But when an unexpected visitor appears, someone that's been watching from the shadows, Harry has no choice other than to fight and irrevocably change the future.

The peat and dirt below Harry chilled his knee, bringing frost to his skin. All of this…. His chest heaved, fatigue from the day baring down on him in chains. Laboured breaths fogged the air. He felt hopeless, desolate.

Happiness was elusive. A thing that could never be tangible, leaving it to slip through his fingers. He’d had it back home, back years—decades—into the future. Picturing nights at the Burrow or evenings at Grimmauld place surrounded by Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys came easily and accompanied by infinite warmth. Yet now, all that happiness—love and family—was gone.

All of this…. Harry’s fist tightened. He ground his shoe down. The tissue beneath gave until he felt the harsh grind of bone. The man under him grunted, his eyes glinting dangerously in the dark of night.

‘You already have me at your mercy, Dursley. I did not take you for a man of violence,’ the other said.

Black hair that mirrored the surrounding night, pale skin, and eyes akin to blood reflected. On his face, flaunted smug satisfaction. Harry felt anger rise, noxious and acidic. The man beneath was human—enough to make his hand twitch with the killing curse—and yet not. A wax doll with no heart. A monster that had split his soul thrice. He wanted to purge this vile man. Rid the world of him, if only to prevent what was to come. But killing him wouldn’t accomplish anything. It couldn’t bring Harry back home, and Voldemort would rise again.

Harry looked away. On his neck, the iridescent gemstone dimmed to a dull grey. The luminosity, the pathway, lost. Above, the moonlight shone red like Voldemort’s eyes. He shut away the sight, taking in the dead silence of winter’s end.

All of this…for nothing.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

Harry had planned everything, had his movements down to a bulleted list that would make Hermione proud. There were rules. Stay quiet. Don’t involve yourself in raids, attacks, murders. Anything brash, Gryffindor, could change the timeline irrevocably. Past that, find a way home. And he did. Not through Albus Dumbledore, not through the Ministry and the unspeakables, but through the author of an informative research parchment on time travel and time rifts.

Evan Nerian Prewett had been integral in the development of the Temporus Secare. A time turner of sort. One that, rather than turning time backward, created a rift to an exact point in the future. A fickle device that could posit multiple realities but only allowed passage to one through a series of rituals, star alignments, and lunar cycles.And there was but one future that Harry was interested in.

‘An interesting necklace. Prewett holds a rather brilliant mind. A pity he’s been diagnosed with a terminal ailment,’ Voldemort continued.

Something sick roiled in Harry’s stomach. Prewett lying on the bed at St. Mungo’s, there to stay as his illness progressed, flashed in his mind. The man had little more than weeks left, but he’d poured all the effort he could into helping Harry get here.

Harry ground his heel into Voldemort’s shoulder. ‘Shut it,’ Harry hissed, still not meeting the other’s eyes.

‘Touchy,’ Voldemort said.

What a bastard. But Harry didn’t snap back. Silence sunk back in as he scrambled to think. Options. Plans. He could play it by ear. It wasn’t far from the usual, after all. They’d ended up improvising time and time again, as things had tended to go awry. This wasn’t any different. Harry took a calming breath. He could Obliviate him and—

‘I’m guessing that rather dull colour it has transitioned to isn’t what you’re looking for,’ Voldemort continued.

Harry bit his lip.

‘Thought not,’ he said.

Harry could hear the sly smile in his tone. Resentment prompted him. He dug his wand into Voldemort’s chest, sneering down.

‘One more word and I’ll split you sternum to hip,’ Harry spat.

‘Promises, promises. However, if you were going to kill me, I imagine you’d have done it earlier,’ Voldemort smiled, cruel and manic.

‘Who’d have thought the quiet, bumbling clerk at Le Voile was such a cold-hearted sadist? So clumsy in the store, but here you’ve bested me. Did you have fun hiding in plain sight? Did you enjoy acting as if you were nothing but a worthless squib, catering to the most arrogant of purebloods?’

His wand dug into the other’s chest, the tip sparking noxious green flecks across clothing.

Harry didn’t hate working for Le Voile. It was a tiny establishment, quaint and filled with magic. The owner—a Soul Seer—had taken up the obscure business of attaching the departed souls of familiars to mechanical bodies. The work performed was worth it. But there was some truth to what Voldemort said. Harry hated working the counters, being subjected to scrutiny day in and day out. He’d tuck his magic tight to his chest, smothering his power so it couldn’t stretch, breathe. Dimming it day after day. But the small shop checked off his list. A business that didn’t exist in the future, that wasn’t in Knockturn Alley, and that was niche enough that few customers stopped in.

‘The fire in your eyes speaks for itself. But you certainly fooled Malfoy. Grovelling with your head to the floor, murmuring apologies in that obedient tone. A talented actor. I wonder, is Henry Dursley even your real name?’

Harry flinched at the accusation.

‘Such an accomplished liar. Possibly even better than I, but the cracks are there. Bowing like you’ve been cowed since birth, but you fight like you have been fighting all your life. I do love that undaunted bravery. However, I must say the sight of your submission was quite...enticing. How I’d love to see it, you, kneeling between my knees.’ Voldemort smirk turned salacious.

Harry reeled back. His stomach turned and twisted. What the fuck?

‘D-do you ever shut up, you psycho?’ Harry cursed his stutter, cheeks both pinking and paling at the thought.

Voldemort laughed. It was loud, not nearly as high and shrill as he knew from before. Harry blinked, stunned. Then, as fast as a snake, Voldemort struck.

A red curse spelled from his wand. Rouge rolled over Harry’s skin. He felt his muscles tense. Immobile from the stunner, Voldemort flipped them round. His tall, lean body loomed over Harry. The expression on his face was obscured by the night’s shadow. Light from the moon lay hidden behind clouds.

Harry cursed and writhed but was bound from inside his mind.

A hand, much too cold to be human, hovered over his brow, touching his scar and sliding to his cheek. Dabbling in dark magic had already made its mark. Red eyes glinted in the dark of his face. They looked hungry, ravenous. Harry would’ve shivered if not for the binds that held him.

‘You’re an enigma, Henry,’ Voldemort said almost playfully. ‘To others, you seem to be nothing but a pebble in a river of gold, but I can see it. I’ve known since the moment your eyes met mine. Your value, your power. It calls out to me as if an old friend. I feel it’s warmth, it’s raw strength, and I know you can’t be anything further from ordinary.’

His thumb trailed down Harry’s face and to the hollow of his neck. Sharp nails cut against the buttons of Harry’s shirt, tearing it open and allowing in the cold. Gooseflesh rose on his skin, either from the winter air or Voldemort’s icy touch. Harry couldn’t tell. But the hand continued on its path, sloping over his collar and to his chest. Trepidation filled him with a terror he’d never felt.

What was Voldemort doing? Why was his hand on Harry’s chest?

Its slow drag came to a pause above his heart. On his core.

Harry’s body resisted the cold of Voldemort’s touch. It felt stomach-churning, disgusting, yet at the same time, Harry felt oversensitive, vulnerable to its lazy movements. But then, something sparked. A magic unlike his own reached through the tips of those fingers to Harry’s core and caught fire.

The air escaped his lungs, everything coming into picture. Colours flared to life, bright and vibrant. Sounds heightened, sharp and full. Harry could feel the trickle of sweat drip down his nape. He could hear the ragged breaths of Voldemort above him. Senses heightened to overstimulation. It was too much and too little at the same time. Pain and pleasure. A wholeness to Harry’s soul that he didn’t know he was missing settled in. His finger twitched.

The stunning spell was coming loose.

Voldemort moaned to the sensation. Above Harry, the man’s eyes were blown in arousal. Harry’s breathing caught. The moon shone through the clouds, illuminating them. Red painted Voldemort’s face in a flush, melting waxy features to something much too human.

Harry shivered, trying to move, but was still bound by magic.

Voldemort laughed again. This time low and deep, a strange sort of mania rolling with every hitched chuckle. He leaned into Harry’s space; face much too close for comfort. Hot breaths ghosted Harry’s cheek. The hand on his chest rose to his nape. Fingers toyed with the chain of the artefact, teasing it forward.

‘What a precious thing. One that I almost let slip by,’ Voldemort whispered.

Then tugged.

The chain snapped. Links broke. Golden rings rained down in the dark. Voldemort rose from him. He held the item—Harry’s only way home—and inspected it. Would he take it, steal it away? No. Harry wouldn’t let him. This was something much too dangerous to let fall into Voldemort’s hands.

‘Ut te ad mundum,’ he read the words carved into metal.

To take you to your world. The golden bands around the greyed gem glinted. Harry’s heart pounded. His wrist twitched. The magic binding on him loosened further.

Voldemort took one look at Harry, rose his wand. But not towards him, and spelled.

‘Deletrius.’

His yew wand pointed to the device. The Temporus Secare shown one last flaxen gleam before it turned to dust, the gem falling inert to the ground.

Harry howled. A raw scream tore from his chest as magic flared from his core. A scorching wind rose and tossed Voldemort off him. He stood. Voldemort grunted from the burns on his hands. Harry towered over him once more. His wand aimed at the other’s chest, heel digging into his clavicle.

‘Why? Why did you destroy it!?’ Harry demanded.

Voldemort smiled, that manic expression still on his face despite his palms—red and blistered from burns.

‘I won’t let something of such value slip past my grasp,’ Voldemort said.

Harry stared at him in confusion. Valuable? He’d destroyed the device. It wasn’t a vanishing charm or a displacement spell.

‘What are you talking about? You destroyed the necklace. You aren’t making any sense,’ Harry said.

‘Yes. A steep price. But it’s worth nothing in compare to you.’

His brows furrowed. He observed the blood red that tracked his every move, twitch, and the dark glint of his eyes that seemed to look with… with....

The burned, blistered hand snaked out to grab his ankle. Fingernails dug into his flesh.

‘ “You.” You’re referring to me?’ Harry said in a breathy voice, like it had been punched out of him.

‘Yes,’ Voldemort said, his voice sibilant as if speaking parseltongue. ‘I’m drawn to you. I won’t let you go.’

Harry’s heart dropped. His hopes trickled away—sand between his fingers. Eyes that darkened with obsession bore into him.

‘My magic sings to yours. My soul longs for you.’ Such horrible promise lingered in the air. ‘Your mine as much as I’m yours.’

And Harry knew he was never going home.

"Do I know you?" Harry asked the cloaked man in front of him.

The stranger looked down on him, his eyes narrowed, and it made Harry shiver in fear. His mind was telling him to run as fast as he could, but his heart told him to stay.

"Apparently not.”

“Oh… It’s just… you feel familiar to me,” Harry said, scratching the back of his neck. “Like I’ve known you all my life.”

“I can assure you. You mean nothing to me.” The stranger’s face twisted, almost in pure hatred.

Harry frowned. It’s obvious he’s telling the truth… and yet it didn’t feel like that for Harry. “I think a part of me loved you. Whoever I was before. I don’t remember anything. But I do know that you were special to me.” He smiled at the stranger. “I guess it’s better this way, isn’t it?”

The stranger paused. If he was shocked by the confession, he didn’t show it. 

Harry took the opportunity to walk away, fearing he made the man upset.

“Even without your memories, your presence still affects me, Harry.” He chanted a spell and waved his hand. Harry’s body was frozen. He had no control of his limbs. 

“I thought I meant nothing to you!” Harry shouted, voice full of panic.

“I thought so, too,” he said coldly, then knocked Harry out.

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.

As you should

Tom: If you like me, raise your hand.

Harry: And if we don’t like you?

Tom: Raise your standards.