Tomarry One Shots

I'm sorry, don't leave me (I want you here with me)

Summary: Tom thinks that he has found his lover, his life-mate. It's a Fae with green eyes, black hair, and the most ethereal being to exist. But he doesn't know that Fae only stick around for so long.

Ship: HarryPotterxTomRiddle

All credit goes to justageneralbadidea on Ao3

----------------

Laughter, roaring like a great waterfall and tinkling like the most delicate of wind chimes, spilled from the lips of perhaps the most ethereal creature Tom has ever been graced with seeing.

His ears rang with the noise, his gaze unmoveable, and Tom felt as though he was bewitched. He swayed in his spot, a great beast unfurling in his chest and opening its maw with need–want–musthave and Tom felt faint.

The laughter rolled in the air around him, echoing from all sides, and Tom spun around. His eyes searched, his heart searched, his soul searched and— There!

It was a creature, dashing through the trees, and Tom's legs were moving of their own accord. He weaves through the trees, leaps over rocks and fallen branches, and he runs until his lungs burn and his legs are on fire. And even then, he continues to run.

As he chases him, so close yet so far, his mind commits his vision to memory.

Skin gold in the sun, silver in the darkness—

—hair as dark as a raven's wing—

—short, slender, but so flexible—

—red lips like blood when he turned his head back—

—eyes so green Tom thought he was staring at jewels.

The elusive figure dances in front of him, winding around trees and bushes with a grace and ease that spoke of so much familiarity. He cannot be human, Tom thinks as he turns corners with a dancer's grace, moving in a way humans can only dream of.

Tom wants his so bad that it rises inside of him like a hunger pang, harsh and blooming throughout his entire body, and his chase is futile. He runs and runs and runs—Tom chases so long that the moon illuminates the forest floor, his legs almost buckling beneath him their lack of strength is so apparent, and his vision is blacked out by flitting spots from lack of oxygen.

And his ears ring with a laugh, roaring like the greatest waterfall and tinkling like the most delicate of windchimes.

It takes Tom 7 months to catch the elusive little minx.

His mother, even on her deathbed, seemed to notice Tom's lack of presence around the house. She gripped his hand with her thin, skeletal hands, and told him not to get caught in his obsession like she did with his father.

Muggles will never take kindly to our kind, his mother rasped, her pupils slitting like a snake's for a single moment in reminder of their race. Tom only chuckled and kissed her forehead, telling her that there was no need for worry.

He doubts his little minx is human.

Every day, at nightfall, he runs through the forest, listening and smelling and tasting the air, for any sight of the elusive minx that caught his heart.

Tom finds him in a meadow, spinning among the tall, flowing grass that swishes around him as if they are dancing alongside him. He crouches among the grass, slowly creeping forward until he can see every detail.

Delicate features—a slightly upturned nose, long black hair ruffled and messy, pointy ears, long black lashes that brush soft, high cheekbones, and plump lips the color of blood. Tom only wants to see the jewels hide under the lids of his eyes, the gorgeous color that takes his breath away and even captivates the air so that it does not return to him.