Summary: Tom Riddle, one of the century's most powerful Magus prodigies, claims he doesn't need a Fighter. And he doesn't; Bestia-type Fighter Harry Potter just happens to be a convenience when he picks him up. Drabble Series!
Warnings: Slash, AU, ~1k word count drabbles, fighting (possible blood mention)
Pairings: TMR/HP (Tom Marvolo Riddle / Harry Potter), EVENTUALLY: [[past LE/JP (Lily Evans / James Potter), past LE/SS (Lily Evans / Severus Snape), -maybe- SB/RL (Sirius Black / Remus Lupin)]]
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, obviously. Characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
Harry awoke to the sound of rustling bedding, his keen ears picking up the slightest sound and awakening him. There was something else, too, that disturbed his rest—an ugly scent that tickled his nose, tasting almost like dried tears and sweat. There was no hint of actual tears, of course; it was just that—that smell!
It was the smell of distress.
The warrior took a peek at the bed, where he saw Tom, eyes squeezed shut, thrashing about as if he were having a nightmare. It was a restless sleep, a sleep that would bring no good, Harry knew. He had never seen the Magus have a nightmare or anything close to it—usually Tom was a very calm, light sleeper—so the scene gave him a little shock before he managed to catch up with his brain.
Slowly, he rose from his nest upon the ground and moved over to the side of the bed. He hesitated upon trying touch to wake him. A restless night would still be a restless night if woken up, and that wasn't good at all. Tom needed sleep, and sleep would not come easily nor lightly if Harry were to wake him from whatever horrid dream he was having.
No. Harry simply needed the dream to disappear, or at least turn for the better.
Then, with great care, the warrior sat down upon the mattress and lightly tugged the blanket so that it was no longer twisted with Tom's legs, all the while humming the medley of the forest he grew up in. It was the calming sound of the water, the light and airy chirps of the birds, the rustling of the leaves, the beautiful serenity of it all that he needed right now. Tom would sleep, preferably without hurting himself somehow.
Cautiously he shifted to his cougar form, the added weight sinking in the bed. He crept slowly towards Tom's body, being very careful not to wake the man. Upon feeling the warmth, the Magus seemed hesitant whether or not to crawl closer or shy away, his face still scrunched up and the stench of distress still clinging to him. Harry decided he didn't want that either.
Tom's smell was naturally quite clean, a great difference from the sweet smell of a female or gentleman, but that had never bothered Harry before. He preferred it this way—it almost was like a clean ocean with the wind bringing in waves and waves of powerful magic, fresh and turbulent all at the same time. Tom's scent was so different from his personality that it always had kept Harry on his toes, never knowing what to expect.
So the smell of distress, of anxiety, of nervousness, of something almost like fear definitely did not belong on Tom.
A rumble made its way out from Harry's chest, a comforting purr of beast and guardian. It did its job excellently, as the Magus relaxed and settled his movements, allowing the cougar to come closer and eventually act as some sort of pillow. Harry new very well how nice it felt to have warm fur beneath him, an animal curled about to help him sleep. His friends in the forest had done it often while he was little, protecting him from all of his fears for the beauty of the night.
Tom would sleep well.
A while later, Harry found himself wondering what would become of them. What would become of this quest. The oracle—Luna?—had been so insistent about her warnings, so confident that they would come to pass, and yet… What they were implying was ridiculous.
He was here to help Tom. Help the Magus, because of the incident in the woods that had been partly his fault. And Harry then wondered if that had not happened, if the Sorcerer's Stone had not activated, would the story still be the same? Would the oracle still see the same things? Would he, his tribe's only Bestia-type Fighter, still find this Magus and travel with him?
Would there have been a chance then, for him, to finally find one he could call his own?
His instincts never lied. Tom, as he was now, was not his destined.
The oracle spoke of change. Harry wondered if that change would affect that. He wondered how Tom would react to his being a Fighter. He wondered about a lot of things.
And then it seemed like he was the one having had the restless night, instead of the man right beside him. Harry's thoughts kept him awake, for he could not for the life of him give them up. Would Tom hate him? Would he accept him? Would the changes be good or bad from there? Would this blasted quest ever be completed, or were they fated for a horrible ending?
Would he die young, as the tribe elder had told him?
But wasn't this the crux of the matter—this concept of change? How much indeed did it change things! Like a chain reaction, like a river's flow when meeting boulders or dams, how one slight breeze could change the world! His mother had told him once before, that this change was necessary, and though he understood now, Harry could not help but think of a world without change.
Without change, his mother would never have died. His father would never have died. They would've been able to live as a family, with the godfather he had never met, with the affectionate warmth of another parental figure he had never met, with the grandfather he had never met nor known, perhaps even with his own Magus! He would never have been forced to understand separation, or the fact that he was an outsider within his own tribe.
He was different, but not hated or loved. They were indifferent to his presence—as long as he was useful, that would be fine. The elders might hold some affection for him, but without the link of his parents—
What life would he have led, without change?
Harry rose from his position beside Tom, moving to pull the blankets over the man with his teeth. Once that was done, he gracefully leapt to the floor, slinking back to his nest and curling before returning to his human form. The warmth of his own blankets were gone—long taken away by the natural cold of the night.
A restless night's sleep was a bad sleep.
But he couldn't help himself anyways, for without change, nothing could be stopped.
Word Count: 1089
Word Prompt: Restless