Zenith White As Frost
By: ShinigamiForever
Warnings: AU. Slash. Oddity. Go us odd people.
Disclaimer: Yes, I am JK Rowling! All bow to my superior disillusionment!
A/N: So Pansy was going to be before Tom, but I guess I wanted to explain Tom Riddle first and how he fits into this story. Perfect-Dark01 nearly bit off my head when I told her what I had in store for him. What color are his eyes, really? I made them violet.
Part the Second: Nostalgia Is Irritating
He hated- he could not stress this enough- he hated formal dinners. Hated them like he hated giggling girls and that piece of broccoli that was always got stuck in between your front teeth. But that was besides the point. The point was- and Tom Riddle was good at making points- he hated flatterers. Butt kissers. Politicians. Whatever. He hated them.
That would partially explain why he was gritting his teeth as he ate. It wasn't because the food was badly cooked or anything. On the contrary, the food was very good. Better than usual because of the company they had over. As if they didn't have company every day. But special company this time. Delegates from other realms.
Which meant a formal dinner. Which meant fancy clothes. Which meant manners. Which meant having to play the perfect little host. Which meant girls. And that was exactly what he hated the most about them. The girls. That was the other part of why he was gritting his teeth as he ate.
Girls who tried too hard to be pretty. Coquettish girls who wore dresses so big that they resembled balls of lace and satin. Flirty girls who powdered themselves so white Tom always felt like they looked sick. Drab and bland girls who giggled every five seconds and sipped their tea and gossiped, expecting him to be oh so flattered to be in their company.
Well, the truth was, he despised them. They could all stay in their own manors and rot there with their tea and curled pinkies. What he really liked was a girl who could run and wore boyish robes. A girl who could rampage across the manor with him and terrorize the house elves. A girl who talked about interesting things, like poetry and archery and philosophy. Things like that. But of course, a girl like that would be a freak of a nature. The only girl he knew that was remotely like that was Hermione Granger, who was bookish, but at least interesting, and she never- heaven forbid- wore big poofy dresses.
At least, being the heir of the throne, his family hadn't chosen him a fiancee. Yet, anyway. Woe be to the girl that ever got married to him, he thought dryly.
Finally sick of the diplomatic politeness, he excused himself abruptly from the table, causing his father, Lord Voldemort VI, to give him a disapproving look and his mother, Isabella, to chat nervously with the stricken girls.
"He's just in an irritable mood, that dear Tommy," came the cooing voice of his mother.
He _hated_ being called Tommy.
"Yes, it's just an off day for Thomas," his father chimed in, causing all the diplomats to hurriedly say, "Why yes, of course, we understand perfectly." Yes, let us kiss your butt and gloss over all the mistakes, all the while holding a handful of swords behind our back to stab you when the time comes around.
See Father, your son would be a wonderful king. He'll probably murder all the diplomats first, but the world will definitely be better off for it.
And he hated being called Thomas too.
How he wished Harry was still here. Harry was a lot more composed than he was and a lot more even tempered than he was. He was also a perceptive boy, that Harry. He always knew exactly when Tom was losing it and would always do something to turn the topic away from the Riddle heir. Harry was all smooth and polite and right, he always knew what to do. Harry would have made the perfect king.
Tom, on the other hand, was more competitive than Harry. More aggressive, with bluntness and a lack of tact. He often thought he and Harry were switched at birth. Harry would have been the perfect king; Tom would have been the perfect general.
Alas, it was not meant to be, Tom thought to himself, affecting a melodramatic flourish. Perhaps it would work out in the end. He walked into his room, shutting the door behind him.
Perhaps it would work out. Because wasn't that the way stories went? Everything always went well in the end. And Tom had just the right amount of faith in fairy tales. Just because he almost lived in one. Castle (manor, to be exact), servants (house elves?), prestige, a realm that would be his, and-
Oh, that's right, no princess. Well, here was his problem. There were no queers in fairy tales.
Flopping himself on his bed and flipping the hair out of his eyes, he lay with one hand over his forehead and the other across his chest. The glass wind chimes above his bed reflected violet eyes and dark shiny black hair, all contrasts of feminine beauty and young gawkiness. He looked like his body was too long for himself. Like he was growing into himself.
It was a strange look.
Stop it, he thought, turning his head. His eyes landed on a picture of Harry, smiling and posing self-consciously for the camera.
Harry.
When a house elf came in two hours later, unaware that its young master was inside, Tom threw his book at it. The book landed with a satisfying 'thunk' against the elf's head, causing it to squeak and run away quickly.
He was in a bad mood the rest of the day.
A/N: Ah yes, the relationship between Tom and Harry. As my friend once said, he hates, he hates, he hates, but he likes Harry.
By: ShinigamiForever
Warnings: AU. Slash. Oddity. Go us odd people.
Disclaimer: Yes, I am JK Rowling! All bow to my superior disillusionment!
A/N: So Pansy was going to be before Tom, but I guess I wanted to explain Tom Riddle first and how he fits into this story. Perfect-Dark01 nearly bit off my head when I told her what I had in store for him. What color are his eyes, really? I made them violet.
Part the Second: Nostalgia Is Irritating
He hated- he could not stress this enough- he hated formal dinners. Hated them like he hated giggling girls and that piece of broccoli that was always got stuck in between your front teeth. But that was besides the point. The point was- and Tom Riddle was good at making points- he hated flatterers. Butt kissers. Politicians. Whatever. He hated them.
That would partially explain why he was gritting his teeth as he ate. It wasn't because the food was badly cooked or anything. On the contrary, the food was very good. Better than usual because of the company they had over. As if they didn't have company every day. But special company this time. Delegates from other realms.
Which meant a formal dinner. Which meant fancy clothes. Which meant manners. Which meant having to play the perfect little host. Which meant girls. And that was exactly what he hated the most about them. The girls. That was the other part of why he was gritting his teeth as he ate.
Girls who tried too hard to be pretty. Coquettish girls who wore dresses so big that they resembled balls of lace and satin. Flirty girls who powdered themselves so white Tom always felt like they looked sick. Drab and bland girls who giggled every five seconds and sipped their tea and gossiped, expecting him to be oh so flattered to be in their company.
Well, the truth was, he despised them. They could all stay in their own manors and rot there with their tea and curled pinkies. What he really liked was a girl who could run and wore boyish robes. A girl who could rampage across the manor with him and terrorize the house elves. A girl who talked about interesting things, like poetry and archery and philosophy. Things like that. But of course, a girl like that would be a freak of a nature. The only girl he knew that was remotely like that was Hermione Granger, who was bookish, but at least interesting, and she never- heaven forbid- wore big poofy dresses.
At least, being the heir of the throne, his family hadn't chosen him a fiancee. Yet, anyway. Woe be to the girl that ever got married to him, he thought dryly.
Finally sick of the diplomatic politeness, he excused himself abruptly from the table, causing his father, Lord Voldemort VI, to give him a disapproving look and his mother, Isabella, to chat nervously with the stricken girls.
"He's just in an irritable mood, that dear Tommy," came the cooing voice of his mother.
He _hated_ being called Tommy.
"Yes, it's just an off day for Thomas," his father chimed in, causing all the diplomats to hurriedly say, "Why yes, of course, we understand perfectly." Yes, let us kiss your butt and gloss over all the mistakes, all the while holding a handful of swords behind our back to stab you when the time comes around.
See Father, your son would be a wonderful king. He'll probably murder all the diplomats first, but the world will definitely be better off for it.
And he hated being called Thomas too.
How he wished Harry was still here. Harry was a lot more composed than he was and a lot more even tempered than he was. He was also a perceptive boy, that Harry. He always knew exactly when Tom was losing it and would always do something to turn the topic away from the Riddle heir. Harry was all smooth and polite and right, he always knew what to do. Harry would have made the perfect king.
Tom, on the other hand, was more competitive than Harry. More aggressive, with bluntness and a lack of tact. He often thought he and Harry were switched at birth. Harry would have been the perfect king; Tom would have been the perfect general.
Alas, it was not meant to be, Tom thought to himself, affecting a melodramatic flourish. Perhaps it would work out in the end. He walked into his room, shutting the door behind him.
Perhaps it would work out. Because wasn't that the way stories went? Everything always went well in the end. And Tom had just the right amount of faith in fairy tales. Just because he almost lived in one. Castle (manor, to be exact), servants (house elves?), prestige, a realm that would be his, and-
Oh, that's right, no princess. Well, here was his problem. There were no queers in fairy tales.
Flopping himself on his bed and flipping the hair out of his eyes, he lay with one hand over his forehead and the other across his chest. The glass wind chimes above his bed reflected violet eyes and dark shiny black hair, all contrasts of feminine beauty and young gawkiness. He looked like his body was too long for himself. Like he was growing into himself.
It was a strange look.
Stop it, he thought, turning his head. His eyes landed on a picture of Harry, smiling and posing self-consciously for the camera.
Harry.
When a house elf came in two hours later, unaware that its young master was inside, Tom threw his book at it. The book landed with a satisfying 'thunk' against the elf's head, causing it to squeak and run away quickly.
He was in a bad mood the rest of the day.
A/N: Ah yes, the relationship between Tom and Harry. As my friend once said, he hates, he hates, he hates, but he likes Harry.