Chips and Nightmares.
Tom Riddle stood at the edge of the treeline, staring.
This was not what he expected.
Harry Potter—cold, detached, predatory Harry—was sitting comfortably on the shoulders of a creature that should not exist, casually eating chips as though he weren’t being carried by something out of a nightmare.
Teeth, as Harry called it, moved with unnatural grace despite its long, spindly limbs. It had no eyes, only a gaping maw of sharp teeth, yet it navigated the clearing effortlessly, carrying Harry as though it had been doing so for years.
Harry didn’t even glance at Tom.
“You could have written ahead,” he said, taking another bite of his chip.
Tom stepped forward, watching the strange sight before him. “And missed this?” His voice was cool, calculating. “I think not.”
Teeth halted. Its faceless head tilted slightly, like it was sniffing the air, before it made a low, chittering noise. Tom had seen many things in his life, but watching this tall, unsettling creature *purr* was not something he had anticipated.
And Harry—unfazed, indifferent—just reached a hand down and scratched behind its head as though it were nothing more than a particularly large cat.
Tom almost wanted to laugh. Almost.
Instead, he crossed his arms, regarding Harry carefully. “Are you going to come down, or have you resigned yourself to a life as some sort of spoiled pet?”
Harry finally looked at him then, those sharp green eyes assessing him, as though he were trying to decide if Tom’s presence was worth acknowledging. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, then gestured vaguely with the bag of chips.
“I’m comfortable.”
Tom let out a breath, tilting his head. “Of course you are.”
This—whatever this was—was absurd. But then again, everything about Harry Potter was absurd.
And for some reason, Tom couldn’t look away.