Tomarry / Harrymort One Shots

Equal

-Female!harry, Arranged Marriage, Pre-relationship,

"Wow. I must be going insane. Maybe I do need to be strapped down at the Janus Thickey ward. Because what you're saying makes zero sense to me," Harry exclaimes after ten minutes of uncomfortable silence. The man before her just smiles amicably, taking a sip of his tea. Merlin help us all; he really isn't kidding. That was really in the clause. Harry sighs; her hair is going to turn white by the end of this meeting.

"Oh, it's not me who's insane, then. It's you. Quite understandable, considering what you had done to your own soul." A clink echoes in the otherwise empty room as the dark lord put his cup down, rather forcefully. He narrows his eyes at her, before saying, "I do sincerely hope that your lack of care at addressing these secrets of mine is because of the obvious absence of unwanted parties and not because of your thoughtlessness."

"How sweet. Nobody's ever given me such kind compliments," Harry retorts, the words coming out as a hiss in her irritation. "And from the man who wants my hand in marriage, oh my. Cut the bullshit, Voldemort. What do you really want?"

"Destruction, death and mayhem."

Harry lifts her eyebrows, "That's more like it. You wouldn't be you, otherwise." Leaning back in her armchair, she observes the room they were in. Ostentatious decorations, from expensive looking marble statues to delicate looking glass chandeliers, the room screames pure-blooded wealth and power, yet the owners of these riches bow low to a penniless half-blood.

Oh, the irony. She knows Voldemort found this hilarious. And so does she, but she ain't going to be the one to tell him that.

"So, you will stop this war if I agree to marry you?" Harry puts on a brave mask and asks. Her knuckles are turning white from grasping the parchment in her hand.

Voldemort smirks, sipping his tea as if Harry's whole life turning upside-down is not a concerning matter. And it probably isn't. To him, in the past at least, Harry was just an annoying pest that couldn't lay down and die.

And now that he has discovered the existence of his horcrux, a fragment of his evil and foul soul torn by himself on that fateful night —a fucking soul piece, really Tom?— , in her fucking forehead, Harry's role upgraded from an annoying pest that must die to an annoying pest that gives him too many headaches but mustn't die by any means.

Wonderful.

Oh so fucking wonderful.

He's literally proposing to her right now.

Well, what can she say? He is a Dark Lord after all. That means he's a clever and overdramatic weirdo at best and a ruthless, dramatic, egoistical genocidal maniac at worst. What do you expect? He literally put his soul in a diary. He's a dramatic bitch with powers.

Not that Harry is going to call the man who could literally kill everyone in the world dramatic bitch to his face. She's reckless and foolish, but not stupid.

"You're correct, my dearest Harry." Voldemort replies, that annoying little smirk still adorning his pretty face. Harry would very much like to throw a punch thank you very much.

Yes, he is currently in an aged-up thirty something years old Tom Riddle's face. Yes, he aged like fine wine. He is god-damningly handsome and Harry is desperately in need of therapeutic shouting at the gods above. They are responsible for this.

Because one should not be both evil and handsome. That's a rule and should be written in the handbook that they give to aspiring future dark lords. And it's really unfair since he could have seduced everyone to his side with just his face. Luckily, he thought being a snake-faced monster is a better way to conquer his way through Britain.