Freezingflames7 - FreezingFlames

wolf & bunny: a love story

MERRY CHRISTMAS

Harry Potter is incapable of looking mid he is very very pretty no matter what. same goes for voldemort like he is always ridiculously beautiful and I am 100% indisputably correct

Tom: I can't love anyone more than I love myself.

Harry, exists: ...

Tom: What a relief that the Horcrux in you is a convenient loophole.

tom, at 3am: harry wake up

harry: *sighs*

tom: harry please wake up.

harry: no

tom: harry

harry: what!

tom: would you love me if I was a worm?

harry: I would feed you to Hedwig

tom: :(

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.

so gorgeous

Mermaid AU where Tom makes people drown for fun, but Harry is not affected by his singing. Since Tom won't accept defeat and Harry has stuff to do, they both think the other is annoying.

(But deep down they're fascinated).

can we please get a snippet of the Grindelwald!Harry AU?? Maybe Gellert tracks Harry down and like wants to apologize for being absent but Harry’s like you’re not my dad!! And Gellerts like o.O my son hates me so much that he won’t even acknowledge me.

orrr something about exactly WHY everyone thinks Harry’s Gellert son

Or literally anything. I’m obsessed

This is the first thing that popped into my mind 😂

——————————

“I’m sorry - what?”

Albus took a calming sip of his tea, humming in appreciation at the pleasant taste, before placing it back on the saucer and looking at the young man across from him. There was nothing of Gellert in him, not in looks or personality or even in the flavour of magic that emanated from him; and it only solidified the suspicion in his mind that this was not the long-lost son of his old friend.

Certainly, Gellert never would have allowed such a…gobsmacked look to cross his face.

Amusement bubbled merrily in his gut at the expression on Harry, though. This was a man that had never learned or never cared to mask his emotions before, and it was refreshing to witness someone so unashamed or concerned over how he was perceived.

Albus had been spending far too much time around politicians lately.

“I said that for someone rumoured to be Gellert Grindelwald’s son, you were remarkably easy to find.”

Harry’s eyes - a brilliant, lovely green - suddenly narrowed and sharpened. He still did not resemble Gellert, but the abrupt shrewdness of his gaze was as dangerous as it was compelling. Albus hid his smile behind the rim of his cup.

“Grindelwald.” It wasn’t even a question, just a flat repetition.

“Oh yes,” Albus said, more jovial than the situation perhaps warranted. “The wizarding world is positively abuzz with news of your existence. It’s quite a scandal.”

“But I’m not Grindelwald’s kid,” Harry replied, with such aggressive honesty that it made a well of fondness appear in Albus’ chest. Truly, it seemed he had stumbled across a wonderful gem of a human being. Even just this brief conversation told him all he needed to know about young Harry’s character.

He took another sip, waiting deliberately to see where this would go.

Harry inhaled, his lips already opening to say more - when he just stopped and huffed. His eyes pierced Albus, and some weary amusement snuck on the other’s face. “And you know that,” Harry said, rolling his eyes and sighing. “You just wanted to see how I’d react.”

Marvellous! Not only a sincere man, but one with a clever mind. There was a temper there, Albus had been able to tell that after Harry’s initial response to his arrival - the bright burst of anger in his eyes when he first saw Albus, the way the green darkened, his jaw clenched and his fingers twitched - but it was tempered by such an overwhelming blanket of kindness and good humour.

He should get out of the office more often.

YES YES YES YES

WIP Last Line Tag Game

Tagged by @leafiloaf . Leafi, thank you so much for the tag! 😭 Sending love 💖💖💕💕 Look, when my favourite Harrymort artist tags me for the wip game it doesn't matter that I did the tag game, I’m doing it again!

Rules: Share 7 (or more) lines of a WIP you've been working on.

I wrote a little one-shot of our boy Harry fainting in the forest in Deathly Hallows and waking up. Without his shirt? Where could his shirt have gone? 🤔

Let Harry tell you one thing. He's a bloody good escape artist. Just because his shirt got discarded and his torso is currently exposed to the cold air of the hall won’t stop him from running headfirst to the exit, wherever the exit is — something Harry’s starting to worry about right now.  The burning, long fading mark in the middle of his chest the locket left behind throbbed dully, like its own heartbeat. All the hairs on his arms were up, rising in response to the biting cold, followed by goose bumps spreading along the skin. His empty fingers trembled. There was no wand. Someone took his wand. No weapon. Running bare-chested. Many strange things happened to Harry over these seven years, but this one definitely takes the cake.

At least he still had his trousers, glasses, socks and trainers. The girls and guys at Hogwarts would kill to see this, Harry was sure. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. A warning.  Mid-step, a cloth wrapped around Harry's ankles and wrists, lifting his feet off the floor. Harry pushed his entire body forward, lunging in the opposite direction in an attempt to rip the fabric off of his limbs.  The cloth was unbroken. More cloths snapped around him, like lunging snakes. Two more wrapped around his forearms, one wrapped around his chest, another around his waist, wrapping around his thigh, two more around his knees, and one around his neck. They all snapped tight, and Harry groaned as they squeezed, strangulating his bones with the powerful pressure. The only cloth that didn't squeeze him was the one around his neck, acting more like a rope than a handcuff. The cloths were like scarves. They extended outward, to the source. The ones around him slowly spun Harry around, almost gently, mindful not to break him. Harry followed the path of the cloths, and found they were connected to a robe. No. They were a part of the robe. Coming out of the robe like hidden serpents. His breath stopped in his lungs, caught in his throat in horror at the sight of the hooded, tall figure ten feet away from him. No. No, Harry was supposed to be dead… No… No, no, no, no… Harry felt the beat of his heart, and realized that he was very much not dead. He was alive. He was alive, and it was the most heart-wrenching realization to have in this moment. Harry was alive. And the cloth holding him captive came from Lord Voldemort, who prowled toward Harry slowly, like a slithering python approaching his captured prey. Harry glared at the hooded Dark Lord. 

Voldemort looked at him silently, his ivory face cast in shadow, his red eyes glowing like rubies. He tilted his head like a curious snake. A slow smile curled his mouth

“Going somewhere, my dear Horcrux?”

Harry's breath hitched, his eyes stretching in horror.

No.

No no no no no —

Voldemort reached forward. A skeletal hand cupped Harry’s cheek gently, tenderly holding his face.

Harry wasn't even done panicking before the red eyes enveloped his sight, and darkness swallowed him.