Disclaimer: Harry Potter (sadly) doesn't belong to me in any way.
Warning: M for slash (HP/TMRLV), Post-GoF, slightly insane and definitely dark Harry
"Normal dialogue"
*Parseltongue*
'Thoughts'
NOTE: I'm abandoning this fic.
I know, I know, some of you had messaged me before, asking about the status of WISC, and I had replied with a sure 'Oh no, it's merely on hold. It's not abandoned.' Buuut, guess what? Now the hold is off (haha is that even an expression?). Anyway, I apologize for not ending something I had started. This chapter is the final one, and I'm including in it all the left-over scenes in my draft. Forgive the disjointed flow!
6 August, 1995 - 12 Grimmauld Place, London
'Great Merlin, she's still talking. Does she even breathe?'
Harry made a silent promise then not to annoy Tom with his random ramblings anymore. If he sounded half - hell, even just a quarter - as ear-splittingly irritating as Hermione Granger did at the moment, he could only be surprised that Tom hasn't killed him off yet.
"-but we couldn't tell you anything, Dumbledore made us swear we wouldn't, oh, we've got so much to tell you, and you've got things to tell us–"
Really, talk about unstoppable.
"-they can't expel you, they just can't, there's - Harry? Is - is there dirt on my face?"
"Hmm?" Harry hummed, taking a beat to re-focus on the conversation. He inwardly berated himself for staring too intently while outwardly forcing a smile on his face. "Er, yeah, just right," he guided Hermione's hand to the corner of her mouth, "there."
'With the amount of nonsense that she spouts, it really is a surprise she doesn't have actual dirt pouring out of her mouth,' whispered a voice in Harry's head - a voice that, he might add, sounded a lot like Tom.
'Great,' Harry thought tiredly. This was supposed to be a vacation away from the Dark Lord, and-
'I am great, aren't I.'
now he was hosting imagined conversations inside his head, with his personal representation of the very man he was avoiding.
Before he could come to terms with his newly-acquired overactive mental dialogue, there was another voice - but this time an actual, real voice outside the confines of his imagination - and Ron appeared, and Harry was being hugged-
And then Fred and George apparated in front of him-
And Hermione was talking again-
And so was the Tom in Harry's head-
And everything was just so much more chaotic than normal, everyone was expecting answers -
Right.
Harry figured that if he wasn't insane yet, then he definitely would be by the time the night ended.
It was going to be a looong summer.
'Those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges?' said Madam Bones's booming voice.
Harry's head jerked upwards. There were hands in the air, many of them … he tried to count, but before he could finish, Madam Bones had said, 'And those in favour of conviction?'
Fudge raised his hand; so did half a dozen others, including the witch on his right and the heavily-moustached wizard and the frizzy-haired witch in the second row.
Fudge glanced around at them all, looking as though there was something large stuck in his throat, then lowered his own hand. He took two deep breaths and said, in a voice distorted by suppressed rage, 'Very well, very well … cleared of all charges.'
1 September, 1995 - Hogwarts Castle, Somewhere in Scotland
Harry had just stepped into the Great Hall when he felt, rather than saw, something off with the students.
It took him a moment to place exactly what it was, but once he did, he wondered why no one had remedied or even noticed it yet.
Instead of the the booming sounds of laughter and chatter that had been a constant in every Start-of-Term Feast Harry had ever attended, a more subdued, buzzing air hung over the house tables. Students were huddled together, whispering wildly among themselves and occasionally sneaking glances - ones that they probably deemed subtle but really weren't - at the Professors' platform.
'Ah,' Harry thought with sudden realization, fighting off a smirk. What with the Wizengamot hearing and living with so many people over the summer, he had almost forgotten about that. If the plans had proceeded smoothly...
Harry followed the students' line of sight, the corners of his mouth trembling with suppressed laughter, and -
He almost stumbled on his feet.
Sitting there on the seat reserved for the Defense Professor, was an albino man. A very calm and composed and not-at-all-like-he-was-being-examined-by-every-student-in-the-Great-Hall albino man. With ridiculously light hair that would cower even the patented Malfoy platinum, he practically stuck out like a sore thumb - even more so since Hagrid wasn't present. He was currently speaking with Snape, who seemed (Could Harry's eyes be mistaken?) less grumpy than usual. He looked positively pleased, even! Harry suddenly couldn't decide then which sight the students really were gawking at.
"Mate?"
Ron's voice pierced his thoughts, and Harry realized that he had stopped walking. Some of the attention had now shifted on him, and he could feel the stares quickly increasing. He bowed his head down and tried to ignore the prickling on the back of his neck as he jogged along the central aisle to catch up with the others. He moved to sit between Hermione and Ron, but he hadn't fully settled on the bench yet when Hermione sharply nudged his side.
"Who's that?" she softly asked, her eyes on the staff table.
Now that Harry was closer to the platform, he was finally able to have a proper look at the new teacher.
The man looked tall, even when seated. He had the delicate features of Nobility - cheekbones, thin lips and all that jazz - and he could very well be a Pureblood Lord, judging by the fine quality of his robes. He cut a striking figure, that was for certain. Although, Harry had to admit that the most striking thing about this man were his eyes. Even the distance couldn't the fact that they were red as wine - exactly the same shade of -
"Doesn't he look like You-Know-Who?" Ron said in an unsuccessfully quiet voice.
Everyone nearby seemed to tilt their head a bit in their direction to wait for Harry's answer.
"You mean," Harry replied in a comical whisper, "minus the hair - not to mention the nose?" He paused, exaggeratedly pointing at those specific parts of his face. "Yeah, you've got a Dark Lord."
A smattering of snickers resounded, and someone down the table whistled.
"I wouldn't mind joining the Dark Side if he was You-Know-Who," a female voice far up Harry's right said.
"Neither would I."
"Nor I," said another voice, male this time.
"Are you for real?"
Before anyone could know whether they were "for real" or not, Professor McGonagall entered the Great Hall with a long line of nervous-looking first-years behind her. She placed the Sorting Hat on a stool in front of the staff table and that year's new students hurried along in front of the platform.
All the noise and chatter slowly faded away.
As the Sorting Hat started singing and proceeded to command all the others' attention, Harry snuck another glance at the new professor. Green eyes narrowed when they were met with smug red. The new professor didn't maintain the eye contact for long, but as Harry watched him take a drink, he couldn't help but suspect that the older man was hiding a smirk behind the goblet.
As soon as the dinner had ended, Harry excused himself from his Housemates, then got to work. With the help of the Marauder's Map and his Invisibility Cloak, he easily followed the new professor along the halls of Hogwarts. He stared at the seemingly inconspicuous pair of feet in the map representing the very man he was shadowing, and Harry found himself wanting to scream in frustration at the name underneath it: 'Thomas Magine'.
'I can't believe this,' Harry thought, fuming.
For the lack of a better course of action, he focused on not losing sight of the figure ahead. He waited for them to be out of anyone's way, and as soon as Professor Magine reached a deserted corridor, Harry closed in on him.
*Why are you here?* he lowly hissed, still invisible.
Magine stopped in his tracks and turned towards the source of the sound. For a few seconds, he was still, as if he merely heard a strange sound and was curious to know where it had come from. He looked quite innocent - until he smirked. Harry then simply knew that his suspicions were spot-on.
*I was bored,* Magine, no - Tom hissed in reply.
Harry immediately erected every privacy ward he could muster, every disillusionment charm. After all the wandwork, he removed his cloak and glared at the older man.
"Thomas Magine," Harry loudly enunciated. "Magine!"
"I missed you, too, darling," the red-eyed man drawled.
Harry ignored him and continued, "Enigma - is that the best you can do? What the fuck is it with you and anagrams?"
Tom shrugged lightly. "I'm hiding in plain sight. Dumbledore wouldn't expect suspicious Professor Thomas 'Tom' Magine to be... well, me, would he?"
Harry tugged at his hair. "You know, for someone who hates the name Tom, you use it an awful lot."
Tom arched a brow. "Really," he drawled. "And who, pray tell, told you I hated my name?"
Like a flame abruptly snuffed, Harry halted in his tirade.
Who did tell him?
The answer came to him in a snap, and he groaned. "Dumbledore."
Tom simply waved a hand, as if saying 'There you go.'
"But," Harry piped up, immediately curious, "why would you drop your birth name if you didn't hate it?"
"'The Dark Lord Tom' doesn't exactly strike terror into the hearts of everyone, Harry," Tom said as he rolled his eyes.
Harry was about to retort when Tom leaned close.
"Besides," he whispered next to his ear. "Would you scream 'Voldemort' in bed? 'Tom' rolls off the tongue much more smoothly. Don't you think so, Mr. Potter?"
EXTRAS:
#1
Riddle Manor (Chapter 8.5)
"Hey, Tom?"
"Hmm?"
"I'm bored."
"Hmm."
"I want to play a game."
Tom looked up from the book on his lap and stared dully at the boy lounging on the couch opposite his. It was sunny and they were in the manor's parlor for a change.
"Alright," Tom said after what seemed like a moment of careful deliberation. He knitted his brows, then snapped his fingers. "Let's play 'How long can Harry Potter shut his goddamn mouth?'"
Tom pointedly stared at him for a second, daring him to protest. Stoirm rolled his eyes but didn't say anything - which seemed to satisfy Tom. He returned to practically burying his nose into the book he was previously so fixated with, effectively vanishing behind it.
For a moment, only the ticking of the clock and the rustling of paper could be heard.
For a moment, that is.
"Not for long, apparently," Stoirm answered, grinning.
Tom put his book down.
"Why don't you just pick a book and read in peace?" he asked in exasperation, waving a hand vaguely at the direction of the library.
Stoirm clucked his tongue in contemplation. "I don't feel like reading at the moment."
"Then let me have my peace."
The other boy gasped and held a hand to his chest. "The Dark Lord, asking for peace? I must be dreaming."
Tom arched his brow. "Because all the Dark Lord cares for is world domination and unnecessary bloodshed."
Stoirm laughed. "You forgot Dumbledore on a stake."
"Ah, of course. And the Boy-Who-Lived on his knees, kissing my feet."
Stoirm's brows disappeared behind his fringe. He had to purse his lips to stop them from curling up in amusement.'Ooh, you've dug your own grave,' he thought gleefully.
"We can do that anytime, you know," he suggested innocently with a shrug.
Tom swung his legs down the couch and faced Stoirm fully. Without a word, he put his left foot on top of the coffee table between them. Then he leaned back on his seat and crossed his arms, eyebrow raised, as if asking "Well, what are you waiting for?"
Stoirm looked taken aback and Tom watched as a pink tinge spread on the boy's cheeks. It would seem that even after all his 'sexual advances' on Tom, he was still a child - which Tom found oddly amusing.
He could end this game now, if he wanted, but he found himself still enjoying keeping Stoirm on his toes.
He would end the game - not now, but perhaps soon.
Tom put his foot down and returned to his book.
Stoirm's head jerked up.
"What, scared that things could get heaty?"
Tom snorted. "Snakes enjoy the heat. I can't say the same about lions."
"Good thing there are no lions here, then."
"Of course," Tom said, not looking up from the text.
"And I can kiss your feet."
"Of course you can. Now stop sulking."
"I'm not sulking, you patronizing bastard."
"Of course you aren't."
"Ohgoddamnit-"
"Where are you going?"
"I'm getting a book," Stoirm said through gritted teeth as he marched away in the direction of the library.
Tom went back to his book and enjoyed the silence.
-o-
#2
(NOTE: This scene should take place in the supposedly not-so-far-off future, when Tom and Harry are finally on more... personal terms.
WARNING: A tiny splash of lemon dashed with shame - coming right up)
Gryffindor-Slytherin Match - Gryffindor Quidditch Locker Room
"I've been hearing stories, Mr Potter."
"Dare I ask which ones?"
"Hmmm..." Tom hummed, so close that Harry could feel the vibrations in his chest. "One particular story stuck with me... Something... Involving... a snitch..." he whispered, marking every pause with a nip at the column of Harry's throat.
"Blimey," Harry muttered, distracted. He was finding it hard to focus on anything else besides the sharp tang of spicy aftershave. Nevertheless, he tried to gather his wits and form at least one coherent sentence. "Are they still talking about that?" his last word came out as a gasp as Tom licked the line of his jaw.
"The grapevine tells me... that you nearly swallowed one?"
"Tom," Harry said sharply, head suddenly clear again, "if you are going where I think you're going with this, I'll-"
"You'll what?"
Harry had to stop talking when he felt cold metal touch his lips. His stomach tightened at once - whether in irritation or excitement, he wasn't quite sure.
"Come on, Mr Potter. Tell me what you'd do," Tom purred, tracing the golden snitch along the curve of his lower lip. Harry made a move to shove Tom off, but Tom easily caught both his wrists with his free hand and slammed them on the wall right above his head. Still, Harry was unwilling to back down. He attempted to stomp on Tom's foot, but the taller wizard just pressed his leg against his own to keep him in place. All that Tom did without so much as lifting the snitch a hairsbreadth off his lips.
"Stay still," Tom ordered, eyes almost sparkling.
Harry moved his face away but the fingers holding the snitch to his lips slid to grip his jaw in place. The tiny gold sphere was still there - in fact, it was pressed even firmer against the seam of his lips by Tom's index finger.
"This might possibly be the longest time you've shut up in my presence."
"I suppose all those Death Eater meetings were merely fragments of my imagination," Harry said through gritted teeth. "Has your age finally caught up with you and made you senile, my Lord?" Tom used the opportunity to drive the snitch inside his mouth but only found the gold sphere clashing with teeth.
"Say 'Ah.'"
"Fuck off, you sick bastard."
Tom's eyes flashed.
"I'll take this as a challenge, then."
Tom tugged hard at the neck of his sweater and, without warning, bit down at the exposed skin of his shoulder.
It fucking hurt.
Harry knew he was bleeding, and there was just no fucking no way that he wouldn't catch rabies, because it was clear that Tom was a fucking rabid animal, and it was all so stupid, and he was like a dam about to burst-
It just really fucking hurt.
But Harry would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it just a tiny bit. Or maybe a lot, judging by the familiar fluttering feeling in his gut and the faint stirring in his pants. He might have moaned, he wasn't sure, but the next thing he knew, the snitch was in his mouth, and Tom's hand was covering his mouth, preventing him from spitting the snitch out.
"Very good," Tom purred, looking very pleased indeed.
'Just like a fucking cat,' Harry vehemently thought.
"Since you love games so much, I have one for you," Tom explained. "The rules are simple. When you're done preparing that snitch, I'm going to put it inside you."
Tom's intense gaze left no room for misinterpretation. Harry would have gulped then, if not for the fear of choking on the ball of metal in his mouth.
"Now, here's the fun part," Tom added, suggesting that maybe what he was going to say next wasn't so fun at all. "If you, the Gryffindor seeker, manages to catch the snitch in play during the match, even with this minor inconvenience... I'll do anything you want for a day."
Harry stopped breathing. His feelings on the matter must have bled through, because Tom laughed.
"Don't get excited just yet," he commented. "Because, if Gryffindor loses, then you'll do everything I want for a day. Deal?" Tom asked as he finally lifted his hand off Harry's mouth.
Harry spit the snitch on his hand, then arched a brow at Tom.
"Well?" he intoned dully. "Should I put it in myself, or would you care to do the honors?"
Tom smiled slowly, then dutifully leaned closer.
NOTE: At this point we have Tom and Harry at advantageous positions in Hogwarts; Tom could finally poison/teach impressionable young minds, and Harry, well, could continue doing what he had been doing before.
Sooo, this fic was my first one (as you could probably gather, judging by the utter inexperience practically bleeding from the very words gaah). WISC was mostly a sandbox for me to play in, not an actual project, and I seriously had no idea where the whole thing would lead.
As for the ending, just... imagine a big, fluffy happy ending wherein "Lord Voldemort" disappears and a new influential political figure (Thomas Magine) rises in the Ministry with Harry as his friend/partner/endorser/whateveryouwant.
IMAGINATION IS KEY.
Okay, I'm out.
Thank youuu~
