Title: That's All He Wrote

Summary: Harry is a writer, and things, well, they don't always play out the way he wants them to, both in real life and in the worlds he manages to create. / Or in which Harry is a stay-at-home dad and writes, Ginny travels with a gun in her bag, Hermione doubles as an annoying publisher and friend, and Tommy Riddle is just the name of a storybook character. / Modern AU. / No magic.

AN: YES, I know I should be working in Hello, but I had a writer's block that I needed to unclog. (ALSO: If the Next Gen's ages are wrong, well... it's an AU. Deal.)

Is this going to be a chapter fic? Yes. Will it be finished? It almost is. But is there a guaranteed finish?

...

Enjoy.


Harry is the worst writer he has ever had the misfortune to meet.

Even worse, his kids are the ones who inspire him.

James, the ever persistent eight-year-old, demands a story every single night. Now with his six-year-old brother trailing behind him and Lily hot on their heels, the risk of a riot skyrocketed, though secretly, Harry doesn't mind. (He just thinks about Lily, and if she'll chase after her father's old tales like her brothers did.)

But without much money from an army pension and a tight budget, they've never really gone out to buy books.

So Harry wrote. Being a stay-at-home dad, he had the time.

His first one was horrible, with numerous grammatical errors and inconsistent character values. But, he pulls through, and soon his children want more.

The tales of Thomas 'Tommy' Riddle are legends in his household. If he could pull off making a world for his three children, why can't he just expand his audience?

Good writers with good novels are hard to come by, Harry thinks one day after a cheap class he signed up for, and even harder to compete with.


"Luna's gotten an appointment with Gilderoy Lockheart." Harry bemoaned one day before sinking into the head chair of the kitchen table (-the varnished wood gives off a clean gleam that catches Tommy's eye-) and sulking. "You know, that bestselling author? Hermione got her in. If Luna's lucky, Gilderoy might refer her to a big publishing company."

"Good for Luna." Ginny stated, pouring the hot liquid into the mug next to his right hand.

The teabag's old from the use of two nights before, but Harry didn't protest. Instead, he began to stir the liquid with his spoon. (Which needs washing- he used that spoon earlier today to spread peanut butter on his toast [Since when did he turn so American?]) "I love Luna, but honestly, it's- it's-"

"It's Luna?" Ginny asked, raising an eyebrow and sighing. She pulled the chair at his right and stole a sip of hot tea before she sat. "And?"

Harry took a tired gulp of tea. It tastes more of peanut butter and orange flavored water, but it would do. "It's not my fault every idea's been used and reused."

"Harry, you don't have to become a serious writer." Ginny shrugged and gave him a look- it's the one she gives him whenever he's beginning to spiral into self-pity mode. "And if you really want to give Hermione something of yours to publish, just write one of your stories from the war. Or, one of the stories you tell James and Al."

"Gin," Harry sighed, closing his eyes and running two very frustrated hands into his hair. Because whatever she's thinking, it won't work. Good novels aren't just stories about some outdated war hero or tyrannosaurus rexes or whatever. Good stories- those are hard to come by these days.

"Why don't you send the manuscripts of the Tommy Riddle series?"

Though the said series was what inspired him to write, the Tommy Riddle series was a private thing. It also didn't help that most publishers preferred dystopian, young adult novels. (At least, according to pixiespieandpizza's blog.)

In response, Harry sent her a look mixed of Ginny, I love you, but please stop, and We've talked about this before.

Ginny huffed before rising, taking his steaming mug with him. "You'll be able to work some magic, alright? Don't stress about it." She said, like she always does. Then she exited into the hallway, leaving Harry to tug his hair once and groan in exhaustion.


It's a Monday.

The kids are all at school, save for Lily, who was pretending to be a hybrid of a pirate-princess-fairy. At the moment, she was occupied with feeding Hedwig, James's stuffed owl. (Harry didn't have the heart to tell his elder son to let go of his childhood toy, so he just let Lily kidnap the poor owl for the day.)

Harry sat in the desk, which resided. at the far corner of the living room.

Though he could see his daughter well from this particular right angle, he always feels like he's back in school whenever he sits here- always determined to keep to the back of Professor Snape's class, determined not to meet the chemistry teacher's stinking eye.

The feeling of a small hand tugging his pajama pants doesn't help his mood.

Lily's brown eyes glowed at him. "Are you making a Tommy story?"

After the boys had patiently mentored their sister (read: shoved into a room for hours until she was brain-washed to become another fan) of the Tommy Riddle series, she had been constantly begging for more.

At Harry's lack of response, she tugged harder. "Daddy?"

Harry shook himself from another early morning daze. "Sorry, love- yes?"

"Are you making a Tommy story?"

"Love, Daddy's working." He states, taking off his glasses to rub his eye's briefly.

"But Tommy Riddle's awesome."

Yet another word she had learned from the boys, aside from 'Cretaceous' and 'archaeologist.' Between the influence his son had made and Dinosaur Train, their household is turning more American. "Love," he repeated, "Daddy's working."

"Awesome." She echoed from her past sentence, and if it was possible her eyes glowed even more with the same ethereal light.

"Lily."

"Daddy."

A sigh. Harry closed his eyes and placed a palm over them, massaging his temples with his thumb and middle finger. The round frames sit beside the mouse, silent.

Opening his eyes, he saw a small blur of auburn. He wasn't sure if it's due to the lack of glasses or the fact that he's been editing several of his failed manuscripts. (When he speaks of several, it's more like two. Or one and a half. Or maybe just a half. Alright, the dystopian, young adult novel he's been working on has barely 10,000 words, but he can't say he feels 'inspired' to continue it.) "Maybe, love."

"Daddy." She continues to press. At the sight of Theodore's purple pools, Tommy-

Shut up, Harry thinks to the Tommy Riddle train of thought before focusing on his daughter. "Probably, kiddo." But before her lip can even think about curling into a pout, he relents: "Yes, of course."

Temporarily appeased, the pirate-princess-fairy hybrid headed back to Hedwig, who was starting to look rather lonely by the teacups.

Harry turned back to the screen, black from the lack of usage. He swivels his mouse a few times before Microsoft Word popped back up, the last page of the YA manuscript staring back at him challengingly.

He gave it another glare before opening up a blank document. Maybe it would be better if he wrote one more Tommy Riddle story- it might get rid of his writer's block.

By the time lunch arrives, the second Tommy Riddle story he had started today was 20,000 words and only halfway done.

Looking back at his oldest Tommy Riddle stories, Harry realized that Tommy could use more than two chapters to reach his goal. In fact, if Harry did it right, he could probably meld two or three of Tommy's stories into one arching novel.

Hm. Interesting.


"The snake hissed back at him. 'You pathetic creature.'

Tommy shrugged. 'You're the one who's less than a foot long.'"

"A foot?" Albus asked, bursting into laughter and raising his foot, just to show his wiggling toes. The blanket covering all four of them (Ginny was making tea,) drapes the younger boy's leg before sliding down with a near-silent poof. "Ew!"

"A foot's a measurement in America," James tried to explain, slowly pronouncing the word measurement, as if he were speaking to a dog. "Right, Dad?"

"Yes!" Harry said, ruffling his hair and bringing him close. There's barely any room left on the couch, so James' practically sits in his lap. "You're pretty smart."

"So am I!"

"Me too!"

Harry grinned, watching his family interact with each other. Maybe this Tommy Riddle thing wasn't such a bad idea after all.


tbc.


AN: I have several prewritten chapters, so I'll probably post soon. (I should ration them, but haha, since when can I?)