Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What were they but mere mortals made to sin?

He asked himself this as the world spun. People wove past each other, the corridor wide enough for dozens upon dozens to push and slide against each other. Fleeting gazes were made to other students that they would never meet again. Some would wonder if those whose skin they’d brushed against may have been their soulmate or destined enemy. Questions were left unanswered as they passed—and the world continues to spin. 

Amongst the crowd of students that think of ‘what if’s, ‘maybe’s, and the such, there goes a young man destined for greatness and doom. He weaves through his peers, moving differently compared to others. But unlike those around him, there is this burning flame that craves for those possibilities—paths that have been opened to him. With each path, he gazes down the road, squints his eyes and sees the first few obstacles and rewards that he may go through.

He sees three paths, three possibilities if he were to think. But he can’t see them clearly, they are merely there, covered in a mass of fog… However, Fate watches over the paths she has created for him with a cruel smile, awaiting whatever decision he may make. Her little one would go in with nothing but the surface of his struggles and the vague explanations of what he was destined for. 

One path is of a road filled with impossible obstacles and a meaningless reward of defeat and humiliation. Cruel, destructive, and painful. All his trials and mistakes were all for naught as he is defeated by an enemy Fate wove into existence for him.

Another is an easy road to victory, but it is tasteless—too easy, too boring. He achieves victory, but his glory does not last. He is not etched into history like that of his failures and pain, and she grins as the possibility of him choosing such a path eats at him.

For the third path she’s given him, a hand will hold his. Cold and callused as they may be, the little mortal shall have a companion that will lead him to the future where he is immortalised in the way Death would not come to hunt him. She grins, knowing that the mortal will not be able to resist the allure of glory and immortality that is offered in the third path. But such a path is confusing—especially when the companion that is meant to guide him only provides riddles the same as his own name. 

The mortal’s future is woven into three, just as Fate is born into three.

One path is of death and pain, one path is of meaningless glory and the erosion of time, one path is filled with wretched humanity but rewarded with the immortalisation of his memory. 

Those that lived under the gazes of Fate, Life, and Death were foolish to think that when one of the three smiles upon you, fortune lay waiting down the road of their destiny. Such a lie that a madman spread that even those outside of humanity believed such foolish things. Perhaps that madman was one of Fate’s dear envoys, one of her harbingers that she had blessed with the sight of a single future that was foretold. 

Fate’s smile was a mere curse that awaited those of great yet dangerous destinies. An omen of her undying interest on an unfortunate one that walks the earth. As she smiles, she holds threads in one hand, scissors in the other. With every decision a knot is formed on to the string, a significant event that signifies what awaits at the end of the road. 

Admittedly, Fate had her favourites. She had those that were given a choice—a blessing, if not a curse, depending on what your options were. Not all options are fortunate. Some are like finding gold in pures stone, some are like diving into hell and being damned for an eternity. Fate’s smile signified favour, her favour that has led many to insanity, to greatness, to destruction, to happiness. Everyone had an ending… Some were simply favoured enough to be able to choose.

Even so… Tha favouritism remains as she offers three paths to this mortal…

“Now… what will you choose…”

To go through destruction yet to be remembered.

To succeed in your life yet become a fleeting memory of human history…

Or the most difficult path… to lower yourself to someone else and allow your name to become immortal.

Tom Marvolo wanted three things.

One ; He wanted power beyond human understanding. Power that will put him above all. He wanted to be the closest thing there is to god and lord over those that were supposed to be beneath him. He wanted the world in the palm of his hands and everyone following his will… He thought of puppets, he thought of chess, he kept thinking of a game that he was destined to win.

Two ; Tom wanted to be immortal. He wanted to live on forever, to be etched into history that even erosion could not remove him from the earth. The mere thought of remaining forever, be it to be physically immortal or to be remembered forever—he wanted immortality.

Three ; and it is almost unattainable…at the moment, that is. He wants an equal, he wants someone who was strong enough to stand by his side to rule the world… or perhaps he wanted someone who could teach him how to be powerful, someone who could lead him through the path of glory and immortality. Not many were destined to a fate of greatness like him, not everyone was going to be as powerful as him.

But Tom Marvolo Riddle has already found someone.

“Hyperion…”

In Greek mythology, Hyperion was the titan of Heavenly Light. One of Gaia and Ouranus’ sons and the father of the dawn, sun, and moon. Heavenly Light , he focuses on as the one before him emits anything but light. The glow of the floating flame simply made those eerie eyes much more frightening.

He only catches a glimpse of that green, before the one he wishes to be his equal turns away to gaze up at the wretched moon. Tom reminds himself that the moon controls one of the most dangerous things in the earth—the ocean. He remembers, and then wonders if the other boy yearns to have the same power the moon has over the tides. But Tom knows he wouldn’t need it. Not when ghosts follow to his whims, not when the castle takes him to wherever he wants, not when whatever he wants is somehow given to him…

His breath hitches as those same eyes finally meet him. It’s like his voice is clogged in his throat, his heart pounding in his chest. Silently, he begins to pray . Tom, by no means, was religious. He never believed in god, he never believed in angels, he never believed in heaven. But he believed in demons, he believed in hell, he believed in the afterlife that was proven to him by the mere existence of ghosts. He prays to the Lady Fate that Hyperion curses and thanks. He prays, and thanks her for letting him live in a world where Hyperion existed…

“Peverell…” He whispers softly, hands inevitably fidgeting as he looks upon the one that he begs Fate to make his equal.

Hyperion Peverell sits at the ledge of the astronomy tower, unafraid that he may fall, unafraid that he may die… Because this was the unkillable, undying Hyperion Peverell. 

Tom does not know how, but Hyperion will live no matter what. 

“It’s past curfew…” Tom sighs, tilting his head as he steps through the door, promptly choosing to close it rather than keep it open for the teachers to find. 

Hyperion merely offers that haunting laugh of his. It’s cold and cruel, yet for him… it’s this melody that appears in his dreams from time to time, haunting him like a siren’s song until he’s moving closer and closer to Hyperion until they’re inches away. 

Desperately, he wants to cup Hyperion’s face and pull him close. He wants to kiss this young man like he was oxygen. He wants but cannot.

“When have I followed that rule?” Hyperion hums, tilting his head as he leant his head against the wall. Dark hair swoops over viridian hues, and ever so carefully, he can see the flash of the killing curse whenever he looks into those eyes. It’s almost terrifying, but he's a greedy person who wants what he wants. “The moon’s nice today. Reminds me of my lovely Luna.”

“Your little sister?” Tom asks.

He’s heard Hyperion mention a Luna, a Hermione, a Ron for the three years they've known each other. He claims that they’re his siblings. But from what he’s known, Hermione and Ron were a couple… From his own understanding, none of them shared blood. They were siblings but from the same parents. Orphans, if he could assume some of them were, found family with each other. Something that Tom did not have. 

“Pretty and bright; just like her.” Hyperion sighs, a foot dangling from the tower. 

Tom shudders, hurriedly casting a warming charm over him and his robes. But his gaze turns to Hyperion, who does not even shudder from the cold.

“Should I dock some points from you?” He asks yet again, leaning against the wall close to him. 

“I suppose… but will you?” Hyperion smiles that wretched smile of his. It’s both good and bad. Tom has only seen him smile a handful of times—genuinely smile that is. It’s usually a malicious smile. “You sure you’re gonna scold me, Riddle?”

“Hyperion.” There’s a warning tone in his voice, but he knows it’s too soft to take effect. Damn Hyperion.

“Come on… I’ll tell you a story.” Hyperion shifts on his seat, making some space for Tom. Reluctantly, he sits beside Hyperion but does so facing the opposite direction. He’s not like Hyperion who dangles his feet off the tower. “There were three—”

“The deathly hallows again?” 

He’s heard this story countless times from Hyperion. The boy adored the story, admitting that it was his family’s history. Since their fifth year and to the present of their seventh year, Hyperion adored telling him that story. Admittedly, Tom grew tired of it at times, but he loves the sound of Hyperion's voice.

“Tsk! Hush and let me finish.” Hyperion snapped, pouting and Tom wanted to kiss him all over again.

By the Fates, one must control him because Tom was sure he did not have this much self control when it came to Hyperion. It was difficult to resist the one he begs the Fates to make his equal. He wants Hyperion by his side, working together with him as they rule over the world. He wants that, begs for it every other night as he sleeps and dreams of Hyperion holding his hand. That’s the closest thing he can imagine to touching Hyperion, who avoided everyone's touch, who wore gloves to avoid touching people.

“There were three, and there are always three, sometimes four, sometimes seven… Somewhere between those three numbers—see! It’s always three.” Hyperion laughs, and Tom can see a faint grin on his face. It’s nice to see the usually dead-faced Hyperion smile. “Okay, there were three beings in the sky. The sun, the moon, the star.”

“The sun is a star too, though?”

“Tom.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

Hyperion hums, satisfied with Tom’s immediate obedience. It’s strange for Tom, who does not follow anyone’s orders, unless it was the rules he had to follow to get house points. Still, he was not one to happily accept orders, but seeing Hyperion’s satisfaction had him shutting his mouth immediately.

“So! The sun, the moon, and the stars. They were friends. Destined to face the universe with nothing but themselves. The sun and moon chased each other, they always, always … chased each other… Until an eclipse finally happened. However, the star watched them run around like idiots and did so happily. The star would push the moon to the sun, push the sun to the moon. Essentially, they were the cause of the eclipse.” 

Hyperion kicked his feet as he hummed and leant closer to Tom.

“While the sun and moon may be together, the star was left alone in space… The two remained, and the star died. Stars, as you may know, die. They experience the death throes of a supernova… but there are instances where a star is reborn and lives again.” He sucks in a breath, humming as he sighed.

“But the star is no longer the same… they are born, die, and live again, but they are not the same as what they once were. The sun and moon no longer recognise that star. To them, the star that was once their friend is merely a stranger amongst a sea of countless stars.” Hyperion sighs yet again, and Tom… faintly, does he feel Hyperion’s magic float around and try to comfort him. “In the end… the star is forced to move on as a new person.”

Hyperion smiles, resting his head on Tom’s shoulder.

“The end.”

The story was… not the usual stories that Hyperion spoke of. It did not have ghosts, blood, murder, and magic in them. There was no moral to the story, but then again…

“Not every story has a lesson… but it’s still a story.” Hyperion whispers. And dear god can Tom recognise that exhaustion from his voice. 

“Are you tired?”

“Somewhat…”

Tom closes his eyes, leaning his head against Hyperion’s head. He knows. He knows what Hyperion means, yet he cannot understand it himself. 

Hyperion was tired of living.

Without looking, their hands intertwine.

A dream, Tom immediately thinks when he feels that cold skin touch him. He sucked in a breath, unable to deny that this was more than he’d dreamed of. Hyperion despised it when he was touched, despised it when he touched someone. Most days, Hyperion wore gloves, and every day, Tom found reason to try and remove those gloves to simply hold his hand. And now…

It was cold… like he always imagined it to be. Hyperion’s hands were more callused than he expected them to be. Scarred and… fidgety. 

As he held Hyperion’s hands, he felt them tremble, untwine with his and run over his fingers, before holding his hand again. It was a cycle, and Tom reveled in it as he closed his eyes and just… relaxed.

“Do you believe in Fate?” Hyperion suddenly asked.

“What?”

“I mean… the entity Fate. Moira, the three fates.” Hyperion explained, turning around to face the same direction as Tom.

“I suppose. Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, right?”

“Yeah!”

Tom runs his fingers through Hyperion’s hair as the others keep on rambling about the Fates. He vividly remembers how Hyperion often spoke of the Fates like they were gods. Suppose they were a kind of god, but they were the closest thing to a real god to what Tom thought. But the reverence in which Hyperion speaks of them is always accompanied by fear.

“So… Clotho is the spinner of the threads. She’s in charge of creating life. Lachesis is the allotter of the threads. In short, she’s the one who chooses how long a living being lives… and lastly, Atropos. The unturning. She cuts the threads once their timer ends.” 

Hyperion sighs—and loathe it does Tom hate that look of melancholy and reverence in his face. It’s painful and he wants it to be directed to him. He wants that reverence to be towards him and no one else. He wants, and wants, and wants… but cannot have. As if the Fates kept refusing him what he wants—what he needs . 

“Atropos is… the Fate that is strongly connected to the Peverell’s. She governs over death, just as Clotho governs over life. But all three control the two.” Once again, Hyperion adjusts their hands again.

He sighs softly, feeling the way Hyperion traces a symbol on his palm and wraps a hand around his wrist. The Deathly Hallow , he recognizes the triangle, the circle, and the line.

“Did the Fates really curse you?” He can’t help but chew at his lip when that fluffy and silky hair touches his fingers. He loves running his fingers through Hyperion’s hair. He wants to do it everyday, for the rest of his life…

“Yes…”

They sit there, basking in the moonlight. No one needed to know how they sat in the Astronomy tower, the clock nearing midnight as they held hands and spoke in whispers as if afraid that the moon would spread their secrets to the rest of the world. No one ever needed to know.

But the stars and the moon would. They watched as they sat there together.

But Fate would know. She would know and smile at the good choice that Tom made. He’s made his choice, and just as Hyperion says, Lachesis will choose how long his thread will be, and within that thread, every trial he will go through will come into being.

In Tom’s fifth year, a strange boy suddenly appeared.

Dippet started the year with his usual welcoming speech and warnings, but then something strange happened after the sorting. The headmaster looked enthusiastic, ecstatic even as he announced the arrival of a fifth year student that has transferred to Hogwarts.

That was the day Hyperion Peverell entered his life. With jet black hair and viridian eyes that were unmatched by any emerald that could be salvaged from the earth. The boy was rather lithe and scrawny, quiet most of the time as he sat on the stool with a blank expression that unnerved people. They all assumed that the reason he was so quiet was due to the deaths of his family and friends—something they discovered after Abraxas started investigating.

Hyperion Peverell was British by blood, but they had learnt that the Peverells moved… a lot. The Peverells were somewhat nomadic, always moving, never staying in one place for too long. Hyperion was one of the last Peverells that were still alive. If one could say he was alive. The boy walked like he was dead.

The boy sat on the stool, quiet. It took the hat seven minutes exactly for Peverell to be sorted. Seven minutes until the hat finally screamed: RAVENCLAW and left the ravens to cheer and screech for a new little birdie. Peverell had looked tired, sighing before his gaze landed on the viridian dressed students. Those green eyes scanned through the Slytherins for a while until they landed on Tom. Peverell’s gaze lingered, before he effortlessly strutted towards the Ravenclaws.

The following days after that were just as uneventful.

Peverell was quiet and didn’t like to mingle. Aside from that, he was a good student, superb at certain subjects like Runes, Defense against the dark arts and History of Magic. He was good at certain subjects and liked to keep to himself. Although the boy spoke to certain people and was… friends —as much as Tom troubled to understand—with certain people. Strangely enough, the boy was friends with Druella Rosier, Lucretia Black, and a strange boy in Ravenclaw named Callum Ollivander. He stuck to Ollivander the most. 

The first time Tom met Peverell, it was late in October and the library was a good place to linger. In the cusps of his research on immortality, he came across the strange boy, somehow able to access the restricted section. He was strange, silent as his pale fingers glided over forbidden and dark books that Tom had set his eyes on. Peverell didn’t even flinch at him.

“Hello.” He had said, voice soft and melodious in the way that made it feel as if time had stopped. 

Green, pretty green as he noted. His eyes were crystalline in a way he could not fathom. The Blacks had silver eyes that resembled genuine silver, but Peverell had abyssal eyes that were like emeralds. 

“Looking for this?” He asked, waving a book in front of him—the very book he had been looking for. Horcruxes, Soul Magic , and much darker magics. Peverell flipped the book open, landing on a random page. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Tom to follow him. He was hostile, yet he was ever so curious.

Peverell didn’t seem to be scared of being attacked from behind, nor was he cautious. He just kept walking and going through the book, with Tom trailing behind him. It was peculiar as many would never dare to taunt nor insult Tom in such a way. Yet Peverell moved without a care and simply kept flipping through pages until he landed on a page he liked.

“ Horcruxes …” Peverell hummed, “Herpo the Foul was from Greece, born more than a thousand years ago. He bred one of the first Basilisks. He was a parselmouth outside of the Slytherin bloodline, one of the first…” He went on, not stopping as he spoke of things that Tom was sure was not in the book.

He’s read it before and there was no such mention of Herpo the Foul ’s past and achievements. How Peverell knew… he did not know—

“Fun fact!” Peverell finally stopped, turning towards him with this dead look of his that makes Tom falter and pause. And then he smiled. It was cruel, cold, malicious—and it was genuine, as Tom will realise in the future. “My ancestor, Esmeray Peverell, slaughtered him. She found his horcrux and destroyed it with the very Basilisk he bred. A little warning if you decide to make a horcrux—they can be destroyed by fiendfyre and Basilisk venom.”

“And what makes you think I want to create a Horcrux?”

“I never said I did.” Peverell tilted his head, finally turning on his heel again and outstretched his arm, the book in his hand and offered it to Tom. He finally notices the gloves that the Ravenclaw wore. “I simply offered some facts with the possibility of such a thing lingering in the air. Fate gives people different paths, many possibilities. Callum agrees that every decision creates a different future.”

Hesitantly, he accepted the book and stared at Peverell. How strange. Really, the boy was strange—beyond strange really if one were to consider Peverell’s oddities. 

“You’re strange.” 

He did not expect for himself to admit that.

“Can you tell me more…” He paused. What did he want to know? What more was he looking for? Horcruxes. “On Horcruxes, I mean. Tell me… what other warnings must I heed when creating a horcrux.”

Peverell turned to him with surprise, clearly not expecting him to ask that. But once again there is a smile on his face.

“Next time… maybe.”

And Tom will learn in the near future that ‘maybe’ was something Peverell liked to say.

Peverell is always strange, Tom firmly believes that. Even when the boy lazily flies over his head, spitting out facts he was unaware of. Some of them were useless nonsense, others were information that should not be said in public. But Peverell kept spewing on with his madness, providing Tom with an oasis of information… Oddly enough, nothing was asked of him in return. Peverell simply gave him the information as if they were feeble and useless, easy to throw away at a moment's notice. 

Tom learns that Peverell has an extensive amount of knowledge when it comes to various kinds of magic, specifically soul and death magic. Well, that is to be expected considering he is a Peverell. 

The wind blows against Peverell's hair as he hangs off his broom, uncaring that he will fall and injure himself. He just dangles from the magical piece of wood and kicks his feet as he goes up and down in circles. Viridian eyes shine under the light, those same eyes finally look at him. 

Peverell flies above him, gracefully soaring through the heavens, while Tom sits on the grass under the shade of a tree. They stare at each other for a moment…

And like an angel descending from heaven, Peverell's feet finally touch solid ground. The Ravenclaw is nowhere near intimidated as he saunters towards him and plops on the space beside Tom. He hugs his broom tight, staring at the sky before looking back at Tom again. 

“My friend, Oliver, once had me and the rest of our quidditch team fly under a storm.” Peverell hums softly, caressing the handle of his broom with an almost longing look. “Flying under a clear sky is nice.”

“I didn't take you to be a fan of quidditch.” Tom flips through his book, finding the texts fascinating… but not as fascinating as the strange boy who sits beside him and mutters the strangest of things. One moment he's being academic and mysterious, the next, he's reminiscing about a past Tom does not know. He wants to know at times, other times he doesn't want to figure it out. 

“Oh, I love quidditch. It was my life… but I don't really have the energy to play it anymore.” He takes out his wand, it's only for a moment as he slaps the magical conduit on his palm. Tom watches, eyes going wide for a fraction of a second. What the hell was Peverell doing?

“Stop that!” Tom hisses, frowning as he lightly slaps the other's hand. 

“Don't worry. My magic just acts up sometimes.”

“How does that work? You're acting like a muggle.” He sneers, but Peverell just huffs and hands Tom his wand. He will never understand the boy. 

He knows Peverell is careless. He knows that the boy does his own thing most of the time, but giving Tom his wand? Though he was incredulous at Peverell's actions, the other's wand feels just right in his hands. His magic thrums as it easily resonates with the wand. It feels like his own wand and he turns to Peverell with wide and confused eyes. What was happening? 

“My magic's too rampant. Doesn't like limiting itself to a catalyst.” Peverell murmurs, snapping his fingers as sparks spew forth like a lighter. He keeps on doing it, sparks flying around until flames burst from his palm. 

Awe, pure absolute awe as he watched this effortless display of wandless magic. He looks at the wand in his hands, wondering if it is incompatible with Peverell. But he's seen Peverell's weird magic with that very wand. Maybe Peverell was being honest. Maybe the other had magic that preferred to be free and untethered to a conduit like a wand. It was… strange. 

But Peverell has always been strange. 

“Fun fact—” Ah yes, one of Peverell's many fun facts. “When I got my wand from Ollivander, the weird old man said that it had a brother.”

Tom froze, his grip on Peverell's wand tightening. 

“My wand's made of holly and has a Phoenix feather core. He said that the brother of my wand had the same core.”

Without a second thought, he took out his own wand. Yew, phoenix feather core, thirteen and a half inches. It looks nothing like Peverell's wand but they feel the same. He feels an undeniable warmth from them and he can't help but suck in a breath. 

Their eyes meet and…

Peverell smiles. It's real. More genuine than he's ever seen. 

“Seems like I finally found you.”

And the two wands thrum, as if acknowledging Peverell's words. For years, Tom had felt his wand thrum and vibrate like it was looking for something. Perhaps that was Peverell. Perhaps that's why he felt so… alike to Peverell yet so different. 

Fate—as Peverell and Ollivander have revered and feared for so long… Perhaps the Lady Fate was real… and she's just given him a soulmate.

Tom does not know when Peverell became Hyperion , but he knows that it happened somewhere between the first time they met and the day summer started. As the months of their fifth year bleed into their sixth year, Tom finds himself calling Hyperion by his first name.

“Ha-A-rry-!” Hyperion pronounces with a small glare, insisting that he call him that for the nth time. “Why won’t you call me that?”

“You are named Hyperion but you want me to call you such a plebian nickname?” Tom asks, confused that such a nickname was what Hyperion preferred. 

The Ravenclaw crosses his arms over his chest, huffing like a tantruming child. Even so, Hyperion continues to have this air of nonchalance and mystery to him… even with the way he acts. Hyperion sighs, crossing his leg over the other with an irritated look. Even when he was irritated, the boy still looked eerily ethereal.

“Callum, Ella, and Tia like to call me that.” 

“I’m not one of your little friends.” Tom sighs, crossing his arms as he stares at the viridian-eyed Ravenclaw. At this time, he’d be sitting with his inner circle, but—loathe it as he may—Hyperion’s company was more welcomed than the chattery of his inner circle. He did not want to hear his subordinate’s excited exclamations of their vacations. Unlike them, Hyperion preferred philosophical conversations or meaningless debates on magical theory.

However, he did not expect for Hyperion to whine and complain about a nickname.

Tom refused to call him Harry. It was such a simple name, unbefitting of someone like Hyperion. Besides, he would rather swallow his own bile than refer to Hyperion as something all of his friends called. It would have been an honour but it wasn’t reserved for him. It was for all of Hyperion’s friends—and Tom was surprisingly considered to be his friend.

Hyperion sighed, “What a pity that neither of us are of age yet… I would have whisked you away from that crappy orphanage to my manor by now.” 

Tom froze, his breath hitching as he stared at Hyperion.

The nonchalance and the carelessness of his tone did not compare to the weight of his words. It made him feel delusional as Hyperion just sat back and watched the scenery out the window fly by. Had the bastard said that to throw him off? No. Hyperion was blunt, deceitful at times, yes, but he was blunt and brutally honest most of the time. It would be impossible to make out his words as false.

“What?”

“Hm?”

That damned smile. Tom knows Hyperion’s smiles were fake, the majority of them were. This one was a fake as well… And yet—yet he wanted to see it be genuine. He wanted to see an actual smile from Hyperion. 

“Would you really?” Tom asks, ashamed at his own hesitance before he sucks in a breath and stares into those emerald hues. He wants Hyperion to look at him and only him. “Would you really take me to your manor if you could? Whisk me away, as you said.”

For a moment, that fakeness of his smiles falters… then he grins and Tom just knows it’s real. 

“What am I? You’re prince charming?”

You are the light in my world of darkness, he thinks to himself as Hyperion laughs softly. He imagines Hyperion arriving at Wool's orphanage, offering Tom his hand and willingly taking him away from that hellhole. If the Fate Ollivander and Hyperion have spoken of is real, then he thanks her for putting Hyperion in his life. He was thankful —surprisingly so—that he has been given some sort of light. Heavenly light, if one were to be more specific. 

Perhaps that also plays a part in why he refuses to call Hyperion nothing but his name. Because Hyperion is his heavenly light.

Everything about Hyperion was heavenly and hellish. Sometimes, the bastard was a demon who spoke in riddles, mocking him by saying that it is only appropriate because of Tom’s surname. Other times, Hyperion would bless him with invaluable information that fueled his studies in the dark arts. Of course, whenever it is about Horcruxes, Hyperion merely gives warnings and offers the drawbacks and negative side effects of splitting your soul. 

Hyperion sighs just as he finishes laughing, “Well… I suppose I would. I am… fond of you. You are a person of interest and a fascination of mine. It would be a shame to keep you in that wretched place. I’m sure you’re tired of it.” He waved it off, rolling his eyes before looking Tom in the eye.

Tom could drown in that viridian abyss.

“Well… I suppose I can invite you to my manor on yule this year. You’d be seventeen by then, right?”

Tom nodded.

Staying at Hyperion’s manor… Like himself, Hyperion was an orphan. He has bluntly stated—multiple times—that he lives alone with no one but his house elf and creepy black cat. That would simply mean they would be alone… just the two of them and no one else. 

“I suppose that’d be good for us.” Tom chuckles, a smile gracing his lips as he leans closer to Hyperion. He reaches forward, brushing a few strands of hair off Hyperion's face. 

Contrary to what he expected for the other to do, Hyperion did not flinch. He simply smiled and closed his eyes as Tom tucked his hair behind his ear. 

“Then, try not to forget. I most likely will, so do remind me before Christmas break.” Hyperion smirks, leaning back and tilting his head. Tom can almost touch his cheek, but Hyperion pulls away, taunting him. His gloves hand wrap around Tom's wrist, tightening for a second. “I don’t always remember some things, ‘kay?”

“You swear?” He narrowed his eyes, pressing his hand on the plush seat, practically caging Hyperion. The other didn’t seem hostile at all, borderline lazy even. “If you refuse me once the time comes… there will be consequences.”

As if incredulous to his threats, Hyperion laughs once again. Tom loves it. He adores it and wants to bottle it up and get drunk on it every night. Hyperion was ethereal in a way that made him Tom's undeniable equal. The boy was heaven and hell born into a person and placed upon Tom's path to chase to the ends of the earth. Something he wanted and something he'd do anything to attain. Hyperion Peverell was just that for him.

Hyperion doesn't touch him, his hand hovers over Tom's cheek as if to mock him that he would never willingly touch Tom. It's not audible, but Hyperion whispers and grins. “Don't worry. I may forget but I will whisk you away at some point in time.”

Take me away… he silently begs and hopes Fate will hear his prayers and let this boy be his guardian angel. He wants— needs —for Hyperion to take him away from the world that has broken him down and forced him to build himself back up. He wants Hyperion to take him away, so that Tom may take over the world with Hyperion by his side. He wants Hyperion to sit on his lap as he sits upon a throne made for him.

He wants and wants and craves, but god , he cannot have him. 

When Christmas break nears, Tom finds himself in the chamber of secrets, face to face with the boy who he has claimed as his equal, his soulmate. Truly, they were meant for each other as he hears the melodious hisses come from Hyperion's mouth. His heart pounds against his chest, watching the Ravenclaw converse with the basilisk and caress her scales, as if she wasn't a deadly beast that could kill you with her gaze. But Tom has come to learn that, unlike himself, Hyperion does not fear death. He thinks it's because the other is a Peverell, a part of him thinks it's something else. 

“She's beautiful.” Hyperion whispers, the parseltongue slipping from between his lips ever so perfectly. The basilisk responds to his touch well, nuzzling her head into his hand like a large kitten. “I should have come here sooner.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” He frowns, striding closer and closer to Hyperion. The water splashes loudly and he can't help the way his chest tightens and his heart aches. Hyperion was not a liar for the most part, but he kept his secrets… perhaps he had thought that Hyperion would be more… open with him. 

“Why didn't you tell me?” He asks again, but this time—and as much as he despised it—he sounded desperate. Hyperion was his heavenly light and he refused to believe that the other would keep him in the dark. 

He tries to take Hyperion's wrist—Tom hates the gloves that he wears—and pulls him closer. The Basilisk seems to sense the tension between them, quietly slithering away as it leaves them to their privacy and solace. Tom, no matter how upset he was, almost melts when those emerald eyes look into his. His breath hitches, heart pounding and without another coherent thought, he presses the palm of Hyperion's hand—the glove, that is. He hates the fabric that covers Hyperion's skin, he hates it… he wants Hyperion to touch him with his bare hands, caress every inch of Tom's body. He wants and cannot have.

“You never asked.” Hyperion chuckles, the little hiss of his voice sending shivers down Tom's spine. Hyperion cups his cheek, bringing them closer and closer until the strange boy pulls away. 

But Tom refuses to let him pull away. He brings Hyperion closer, wrapping an arm around Hyperion's waist as he pressed the other's hand to his chest. He wants for Hyperion to feel the way his heart pounds against his chest, to make Hyperion understand… 

“You… what have you done to me?”

“Nothing.”

He can't help the disappointment that creeps into him. It was true. Hyperion had done nothing, yet for him, Tom came undone. 

“If Fate is real—”

“She most certainly is.”

“—then she has gifted you to me.”

A moment of silence rings between them. It's deafening. 

Hyperion just looks him in the eye and hummed, waiting to see what else Tom will say. But that was what the heir of Slytherin firmly believed. 

If Moira was real then she has given him Hyperion. Why else would he suddenly meet the boy? Why else would Hyperion suddenly appear before him like some angel that fell from heaven just to taunt and guide him to a world filled with light and darkness. Tom did not like the light, he preferred the dark, always. 

But his beloved was heavenly light that he would gladly bask under. 

“Stay by my side.” Loathe it as he must, Tom Riddle begs. He does not beg, he does not please, but for Hyperion Peverell, he will. He will kiss those gloved hands over and over again, until Hyperion graces him with the honour of kissing his bare hands at last. He will do so with the reverence of a believer to a god. 

Tom is not religious. But had Hyperion been a god he'd be the most faithful of all believers. 

Closing his eyes, he places Hyperion's hand against his cheek, nuzzling against it. The silence is deafening and he fears that Hyperion will head the way his heart pounds against his chest. He fears that the sound will echo through the chamber and he will be mocked and taunted for it. But no such thing comes. 

Instead, Hyperion caresses his cheek with gloved hands and Tom is forced to open his eyes. 

Once again, he is blessed with one of Hyperion's rare smiles. 

“As you've said… Fate has put me in your path.” He whispers, their lips just inches apart. Desperately, Tom wants to lean forward and kiss those lips. Be it tender or rough, he wants to simply have those lips against his. “So I won't be going anywhere soon.”

On his eighteenth birthday, Tom finds himself blessed at last. Blessed and given something that he has desperately craved for for the past three years. Again and again, he prays and thanks Fate in his mind for such a gift. Tom is not a religious man, but he would be damned to not thank the invisible entity that his beloved light has come to look upon as an almighty entity that controls the world. 

Hyperion is not religious, he knows this. His beloved did not resemble a believer. Hyperion spoke of a truth that dangles above their heads. Fate was real and if the seers like the Ollivanders we're not enough truth, then Tom did not know. He did not care. 

On his eighteenth birthday, as the previous year withers away and bleeds into a new one, he finds the one he has chased after in his arms. 

Hyperion's lips were softer than he expected. He was gentle to Tom in a way that takes his breath away.

Tom is desperate, clinging to Hyperion as they lie on Tom's bed and kiss as the clock passes midnight. His birthday gift, as Hyperion has stated numerous times. The year before, Hyperion had gifted him valuable books and a grand tour of his manor. The year before that, Hyperion had simply greeted him and handed him yet another book. But this year… it was different.

“Happy birthday, Tom.” Hyperion had said in the language only they could understand. 

The rest of house Slytherin were not fazed when the Ravenclaw had managed to enter their common room without an issue. They've grown used to Tom frequently bringing the boy into their common room and no one dared to oppose Tom. Of course, some were delighted as Hyperion had a fair share of friends in Slytherin, like Druella Rosier and Lucretia Black for instance. 

Like usual, Hyperion was invited into Tom's room. They talked and talked, until the clock struck midnight and Hyperion greeted him. The next thing Tom knew Hyperion was placing a locket around his chest. 

His eyes went wide when he saw what it was. 

“Slytherin's locket…” He whispered, staring at the 'S' intricately engraved into the locker. His eyes snapped towards Hyperion, who hummed and lounged on his bed. 

The sight was something to behold and without even thinking, Tom had latched on to Hyperion and found himself kissing him. Hyperion didn't stop him. 

The two of them let it happen as their hands roamed their bodies, kissing and touching wherever they could reach. Finally, finally did Tom have the chance to properly touch his beloved. He finally had the chance to kiss his beloved. The locker hung from his neck, it wasn't as heavy as he expected. Perhaps it was because Hyperion had been the one to place it there. He doesn't know and doesn't care as his hands squeezed Hyperion's hips. The way Hyperion pressed against his hands, allowing for Tom to caress that amazing waist of his.

His mind was muddled by what he assumes is lust and love as they kissed and touched and did more. It was addictive in ways that he could not describe. His tongue effortlessly slipped into Hyperion’s mouth as the other boy simply allowed him to do it. Hyperion did not fight him, but neither did Tom force him to do anything. Again, he finds everything strange. 

He’s eighteen. He’s eighteen and it reminds him of his mortality. But it doesn’t matter. Not really. In that single moment, all Tom wanted was Hyperion. He wanted and craved and finally— finally did Fate decide him worthy enough to have this boy as his own.

For the years they’ve known each other, Tom will never stop saying that Hyperion was the angel and devil formed into one person. Hyperion was heaven and hell personified, an angel that gracefully fell from heaven and into Tom’s arms. Blasphemous as it may be to compare Hyperion to an angel, it poses a question to who is worthy enough to be called an angel? Hyperion Peverell . The undying Hyperion Peverell. 

His beloved kisses him sweetly as Tom grinds against him. It was sinful, so very sinful that Tom firmly believes that this part of Hyperion carries the hell in him. But who was he to call his hellish angel the devil? Eventually, his thoughts fog and all that’s in his mind is Hyperion and Hyperion alone.

“I love you.” He whispers such forbidden words that he never dreams to say.

But Hyperion Peverell was a blessed gift from Fate that has made Tom melt and drown in nothing but heavenly light. He wants and wants, and finally has him.

Silently, he begs that his heart will not shatter, that his beloved shall whisper those words back to him. Hyperion holds his face, stares into his eyes and he practically crumbles under that gaze. He chases after Hyperion’s lips, but cheekily does his strange boy keep him at bay. Hyperion grins, before placing a chaste kiss on his lips that leaves him hungry and wanting.

Shamefully, he practically whines when Hyperion pulls away.

“I love you too.”

And there is nothing stopping Tom Riddle from taking Hyperion Peverell as his own. Saliva was exchanged and their bodies grinded against each other. Tom’s hands did not know where to go, but eventually, he’s stripping Hyperion of his shirt, pulling away for air. He looks down at the ethereal sight before him. 

Hyperion Peverell—red faced, panting, with his shirt open and slipping from his shoulders. Those pretty green eyes look up at him with a mix of adoration and amusement and he shudders, his lips immediately latching on to Hyperion’s neck. He kissed, sucked, bit—leaving marks that he would ensure would remain.

Hyperion Peverell was his at last .

“Fuck,” he cursed as Hyperion’s hand finally goes lower and lower and lower… until it’s rubbing against his clothed cock. He feels like a fool put into a trance as Hyperion giggles and pushes him down to the bed. “I love you… my heavenly light.”

“And I you.” He whispers back…

Tom sighs in content, grounding Hyperion on his cock as they kiss and groan into each other’s mouths. It didn’t matter that the rest of Slytherin could hear them. It didn’t matter that Tom was reduced into a mess of lust and love as he and his beloved became one. He didn’t care, so long as Hyperion was in his arms and whispering his usual nonsense into his ear, he didn’t care.

“I love you…” He says a third time.

“I love you too…” Hyperion replies a third time.

Tom knows many things, but he knows that Fate will keep them together… 

As Hyperion said: There are always three .

Tom Marvolo Riddle had three things.

One ; He had power that many craved for. He had the impeccable talent, skill, and power that could help him rule over the world. He had it and yet his plans were postponed as his entire being crumbles upon the touch of a single person.

Two ; He was immortal in a way that allowed him to be powerful and content. His happiness—as he’s come to realise—is a requirement for the successful life he wanted. His name immortalised and will be forever remembered like Merlin, Morgana, and Nicholas Flamel. All because of one person.

Three ; Tom Marvolo Riddle had an equal. He had someone that stood by his side as he held the world in his hands. But there are times when one can fall to their knees for their equal. Tom Riddle was a ruthless man. His hands may be stained by blood but someone remained to hold it.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had three things. And yet for his own makeshift immortality and power, the most precious of it all was the heavenly light that Fate gifted him.

Fate knew many things and she knew that he made the right choice. She looks upon the content mortal that has made himself great. It is a wonderful sight to behold as one of her little chosen ones finds a life of happiness rather than ruin.

She glances towards Death , who looks down at the boy she has set on Tom Riddle’s path. Admittedly, Fate takes joy in Death’s annoyances and protective behaviour for their little master. A tiny grin tugs at her lips as she watches the mortals dance together, their threads of fate tightly woven together.

Salvation—that is what Fate has given to Tom Riddle. Hyperion Peverell—or should she call the boy Harry Potter? She merely laughs, finding it amusing that the boy once destined to be Tom Riddle’s ruin became his salvation. Oh well. Fate was an almighty being but oftentimes she had her whims. Perhaps she simply wanted a story that told of one's destiny changing and soon changing anothers. 

“Don’t sulk.” She tells Death who mumbles incoherently. “That little master of yours seems happy with him. Was it not you who told me to give him happiness?”

“I did not expect for that happiness to be in the form of that broken soul.”

“Ah… but what is Harry Potter other than a soul eroded by time?” She grins, offering her hand to Death. “Come now, old friend. If we watch for too long, perhaps they shall be cursed with misfortune.” Her teasing words send a shiver down Death’s spine, causing the entity of the end to hurriedly look away from their master.

“As much as I hate that one over there,” Death points a bony finger towards Tom, “You have intertwined their souls. I beg of you, allow my master to have his happiness.”

“Oh hush! They’ll be happy in this life, so long as neither of them makes any choices that will lead them to a path of misery.” Fate huffs, smiling in satisfaction as Death finally takes her hand.

Yes … she will leave little Harry and Tom alone for now, 

Chapter Text

Humans were fickle beings that answered to their whims, their desires. Typically, they succumbed to their wishes, blinding themselves to witness the brilliance of their own desires finally fulfilled. Ever so foolishly, they remained blind just to keep those gifts. Even as a knife struck them right at their hearts, they stayed blind to the terrors of the world to drown themselves in bliss. 

Ignorance is bliss; that he could absolutely agree on. 

Humans chose to be blind to feel that bliss. Ignorance allows you to be shielded from the horrors of the world, to be coddled. But that always had a drawback. Ignorance may be bliss but it was lethal. Foolishness — naivety got you killed. Being so stupid as to believe that the world is simply good, that being good allows you to live peacefully. Those were lies spewed onto him and spilled into his ears like water flowing down his face. 

Fate designed for Harry Potter to be a hero. A boy born to fulfil the destiny of a sacrificial lamb presented to her, to fulfil her prophecy that was given to a foolish seer. He was raised to be a hero, the typical hero rising from abuse and torture to present themselves as a righteous being who dared not to seek revenge. Harry Potter was trained, raised, and turned into a pig for slaughter by the very end. Practically  bred to the role of hero and martyr to ungrateful people who would transform into wolves ready to pounce. 

The sacrificial lamb presented to the dark god whose life it was tethered too. 

The exhaustion of his constant endeavour to be better quickly devoured him whole. There was not a single voice that whispered upon his mind. Flowery kindness turned into venom the moment it passed through his ears. He would have vomited if not for the moments of silence he succumbed to every single night. It was a deafening kind of silence that practically made his vision go white as he stared at the dreary ceiling of his room in Grimmauld Place. 

Friends; they were comforting people who were like mercies given to him by Fate. What was he to do but weep in their arms and beg for more time? He could do nothing but hold them close and pray every night to Fate that he would not part from them too soon. Suppose she pitied him and gave him a little more time. Though small and almost useless, he cherished those few years after the war as he fell into darkness. 

Oxygen was extracted from his lungs, the silence getting louder and louder. 

Grimmauld Place was a ghost house at this point. With Portraits that screeched and yelled and cried every single night. With a house elf that snarled, growled, and bared its teeth at those who were not masters of the house. There lived no one but the dead in the house. The ancestral home of the Blacks was crumbling as it's family dwindled and died, the bloodline ending with it's treacherous son by the hands of it's mad daughter. Monstrosities were born from this House and monstrosities died in it. 

Orion Black crumbled from what others thought to be an illness, beneath such lies was the poison his wife dosed his tea with. Walburga Black died with nothing but a senile elf as her companion, knowing that the rest of her family would drag her down to hell. Their sons died. Sirius who fell through the veil with his honour and the memory of James etched into his mind. Regulus who's fury and vengeance lead him to a dark cave, a locket to destroy, and the dead dragging him down into a cave. Bellatrix who was petrified and turned into nothing but dust for her hubris and bloodthirst. 

He remembered every member of this wretched house that had died. That blasted tapestry of monsters named after the stars fashioning themselves as beings closer to celestials than humans. They were disfigured from the horrors of their blood mixing and muddling and all he could do was remember how this House that was once so prestigious was reduced to nothing but ashes. 

Surely, the bloody house was cursed. 

So Kreacher quietly entered his master's room, eyes dull and quiet as the shackles he bore for house Black slowly cracked. His master lied in the bed, eyes opened yet devoid of life. The house elf offered a small mercy to his master and his friends, gently closing Harry Potter's eyes. 

There were always three. 

There were three Fates: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. 

Clotho, the spinner of threads. Lachesis, the allotter of the threads. And lastly, Atropos, the unturning. 

He's known the touch of every single Fate, succumbing to them as his thread is weaved, tied, tugged, and eventually snapped. But they were cruel mistresses that weaved a second thread that tied to his soul, tying it with the dead string that was once his life. 

Perhaps, as much as he loathed it, Harry Potter indeed was a lamb. But not meant for sacrifice. No. He would never accept that all his life was meant for was to be thrown to the pyre by those he burned for to protect. 

Harry Potter was a lamb and Death was his shepherd. The Fates were the ones who cut off his wool and threaded into what he would become. 

Harry Potter was many things, but to the entities that wove themselves into his life, he was the sheep they tended to. 

“RAVENCLAW!” The hat yelled out, chuckling softly once the boy who sat beneath it sighed in exasperation. His choices were blue and green and it was safer for him to be in blue. 

The gist was simple. 

He was Hyperion Peverell — the victim of a Dark Lord. His parents were killed, his adoptive siblings were killed, and he barely survived. Hogwarts his only shelter by this time, struggling to even live properly with the trauma still fresh on him. Dippet was kind and caring, but like his successor, he was a hesitant fool who believed offering Hogwarts as a safe place during the summer was a wrong move. 

He felt the magic swirl around him, transforming his plain black uniform to have hints of blue and bronze. It was a deep contrast to his red and gold get up in the past, but then again, that part of him was already dead. Fate willed it thus and he was born from that death. A phoenix — he could have said but he was nothing of the such. Maybe an inferius was the better term to use in describing him. 

“You will do well in the house of wisdom,” the hat whispered as he walked away. His eyes lingered upon it, shifting towards those clad in viridian. His eyes find their target, a moment their eyes did meet before looking away. 

The rest of Ravenclaw happily embraced their new bird, cooing and questioning him like madmen and women. They were stupendously curious to the point a horrible migraine manifested. Perhaps that blasted reporter from his past was a Ravenclaw in truth though she was sorted into the house of snakes. 

Slipping between the horrendously noisy students, he sat himself beside a quiet boy with familiar pale hair. Their eyes met and he froze, already knowing who owned those pretty silver eyes that were fogged by some sort of mist. A grin etched itself across his face, strained and tired as the boy accommodated his presence. 

“Callum Ollivander.” The boy, Callum, said with an eerie smile, offering his hand. 

He took that hand quietly, his gloves cold as they pressed against Callum's palm. “Hyperion Peverell.”

“Is that so?” 

“It is now.” 

Callum laughed, a melodious noise that Hyperion recognized in an instant. A distant memory, reminiscent to the sweetest of his friends, an angel compared to him who descended into hell. 

“You are an interesting addition to this time.” Callum hummed, carefully nitpicking his food just as Hyperion did the same. They quickly settled into a quiet atmosphere, contradicting the constant chatter of the Ravenclaws surrounding them. “Did you not think of the devastation of my relative? I suppose you did, but then again, I heard your future was a particularly wretched one.”

Hyperion barely listened but he picked it up quickly. He sliced through a steak that was served, eyes dulled as the juices spilled onto his plate. Licking his lips, he glanced at Callum, who peacefully ate his own dinner. 

“The sacrificial lamb,” Callum hummed and Hyperion froze. 

His smile stretched, taking a bite of his steak in such an animalistic way that he was surprised his new housemates didn't notice. But Callum didn't. The damn bastard. They've only met and Hyperion was tempted to sink his fork into the boy's neck. 

But Callum Ollivander glanced at him and their eyes met. Neither looked away as they chewed on their food. Tauntingly, Callum grinned and took a bite of his dinner. The steak tasted atrocious by then and his appetite dwindled as he grinned his fork tightly. He gulped down his food, eyes narrowing on the plate as he finished quickly. The transition was difficult and with the addition of a particularly mischievous seer, he found himself stuck between a rock and a hard place. 

“Welcome to 1942.”

He wanted to vomit. 

The first time Harry Potter met Tom Riddle, he was twelve, tired, and being threatened by the very boy. The chamber of secrets had been a cold and unwelcoming place that he had avoided since then. Tom Riddle was a memory he wanted to erase from the moment that same man died by his own hand. 

The first time Hyperion Peverell met Tom Riddle, he was ‘fifteen’. It was in the library. A deliberate meeting that he hosted himself. 

The librarian was a lonely thing who sulked in her corner. With some visits and polite conversation, Hyperion had entertained the old witch long enough to get a pass to the restricted section. He's learned enough from his enemies to know how to use charm to get what he wants. If using Riddle's tactics meant getting what he wanted then he had no trouble doing so. He'd rather the outcome was preferred from the very beginning. 

Hyperion knew Tom Riddle intimately. Of course, that was given. For sixteen years, he had housed Tom Riddle's soul, unknowingly feeding it with his magic, protecting it, keeping it alive, and finding some morbid comfort in the horcrux that once rested within his own person. He knew what Tom Riddle liked, what he wanted. Greed was like his mistress, clawing at him, tempting him. And Hyperion understood this in a horrid way that made him know what to do. 

His cool fingers wove through the dusty books, grimacing at the filthy and unkempt of the restricted section. 

First things first… He had to understand Tom Riddle from his actions to his mentality. That was enough for him after years of being made to practically study who Tom Riddle was and what made him up. It was only logical for him to choose logic over the transience of emotions that lead people to ruin. However, emotions were a vital point of his plan. 

If Tom Riddle could not feel love due to the love potion used to conceive him, then Hyperion must find a way to make him think he feels love. 

Riddle liked rare things. He was a collector at best, considering how he had hunted down every single artefact owned by the Hogwarts founders (excluding the sword). Rarity was a vital point of his scheme to inevitably change the future through Riddle himself. And what was rarer than a person who could speak to the dead and look into your soul? Hyperion didn't need to be able to look into a person's soul. He just needed to make Riddle think he could. Which would be easy as he finally found that specific book. 

He opened the pages, almost frantic to find the right one. With a finger pressed to the ink etched into the parchment, he grinned viciously. Horcrux. It wrote, including the histories of its creator. How strange of those fools to think that some wretched parselmouth was the original creator of the Horcrux. Herpo the foul merely utilised the Horcruxes in such a way that the original users — necromancers — would never dare. 

Soul vessels were common amongst particularly powerful necromancers. Traversing through the lands of death was risky. It was a place where your soul was tempted to abandon your body, settle upon its final resting place in Mortem’s lands. Soul vessels — Horcruxes, as Herpo stupidly named them — were objects that held small fragments of the soul; the tethers to the mortal realm. They were not meant as a method of immortality. It was a method used to keep someone bound to the earth, to keep necromancers from going mad in the lands of death and succumbing to the temptations of Mortem, falling to their deaths before their fated ends. 

Well… that wouldn't be too relevant for dear Tom. 

Subtle footsteps resonated, causing him to stare at the book with a fascination that people would not understand. He closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath and willed magic into his eyes. They were already uniquely green, but with enough magic, with enough power — they'd seem horribly magical. 

“Looking for this?” He asked, trying not to seem condescending or cruel. But thankfully, it came out soft and curious, as if he hadn't lured Riddle here himself. Flipping the book open again, it thankfully opened to the very specific page about Horcruxes. 

Walking away from Riddle, he could hear subtle footsteps following. Now, he didn't expect it to be so easy, but really?

The carrot and stick method was the initial plan, but really? Was Riddle initially this gullible? Hopefully no. 

Hyperion, for all his resentment and vengeful nature, wanted a challenge. 

He'd fashion this little snake into the perfect puppet for the future he wanted. 

Becoming friends with Tom Riddle was easy. Well, it was as easy for Hyperion. Others would have most likely been scared to death if they were in his position, but he had ensured to play duality method. Easily slipping from false smiles joined by strange facts, to mysterious whispering of magic and souls. Alternating between the two kept Tom interested, kept him entertained. 

The best way to keep a master manipulator in line was to make them think they were in control. 

Carrot and stick. 

The carrot was knowledge, something Tom craved and was desperate to have. Whispering to him about strange facts that aligned to magical history and the origin of some spells. Even strange stories that he created himself, analogies that would have him thinking whether they were mere metaphors or truth. He'd be disoriented from those before Hyperion would spring up arcane knowledge of magic that no one else should know. 

It was easy to ensnare Tom with it. He was deep enough in Hyperion's trap that subtle hints of possessiveness leaked into his actions when it came to Hyperion. 

“Peverell…” Riddle called, brown eyes fixated upon him. The two had entered the great hall together, as usual after their budding acquaintanceship.  

“Yes, Riddle?” He smiled, tilting his head as he tried to avoid the obviously piercing gaze that went through them. 

Dumbledore was being antsy as usual. 

Riddle narrowed his eyes, sighing softly. It's been two months since they first met and Riddle seemed to have softened — or as soft as Riddle could get. It seems like the little snake was under the impression that Hyperion did have some seer-like capabilities and saw a successful future within him. The delusional idiot. 

He spoke of Fate — the entity; Moira — as many times as possible and correlated it to the two of them. Tom was a man of logic and wouldn't typically believe in divination, though it was still a branch of magic. But as he said, it was magic. Tom believed enough. 

And that was all it took for Hyperion. 

Make him believe. Make him think that they were fated. But then again — Hyperion wouldn't be lying about that. They really were fated.

“Come, we have much to discuss.” Riddle hummed, wrapping an arm around Hyperion's waist and pulled him towards the table of green. 

Hyperion smiled, trying not to be bitter.

It felt like his fourth year all over again. Young, unprepared, stupid. Facing the horrors of the Triwizard tournament, dragons fly chasing him, fighting merfolk, and then having to deal with a maze of monsters and mysteries. Being guided into Slytherin felt exactly the same as to when he had walked into the maze. 

Thankfully, Druella and Lucretia were welcoming of him, while the rest of the Slytherins were either nonchalant or suspicious. Nevertheless, they dared not to oppose Tom and adjusted accordingly, giving Hyperion some space to sit beside Tom. 

“I suppose you are acquainted with some of us.” Riddle gestured to Lucretia and Druella’s direction. Though the two were well mannered young ladies, the brightness of their smiles were almost infectious. 

“Hi Tia, hi Ella.” Hyperion greeted, expression lighting up. 

The two girls waved back but were nudged by their friends, forced to pull back their facades. Typical Slytherins and their need to hide behind false smiles and masks that ruined their true selves. Was Tom Riddle the same? Or was his cruelty the truth?

“About ancient runes…” Tom trailed off, picking up some food. He wasn't a picky eater, that is to be expected. 

Orphans ruined by war and abuse were never meant to be picky. Hyperion understood this as he grabbed whatever was closest, humming a gentle tune. He could not deny the similarities between them. Fate forbade that they were to be different. How could Hyperion launch himself into the past and tangle himself in a prophecy with him if they were not? Those similarities were the reason why he didn't change so much while housing Riddle's soul. 

A Horcrux was capable of influencing those around them. Depending on who's soul formed the horcrux, their initial personalities leaked into the person that was holding the horcrux. The paranoia, the cruelty, the overall anger was everything Riddle's  soul carried and they leaked into the holder. Ron and Ginny were victims of those effects. 

But what of Harry? What of the boy who carried the bloody horcrux for almost twenty years and remained unaffected? Outside of the leaks of mental connection, his personality was unaffected. Harry remained Harry. What did that say about him? Tom Riddle and Harry Potter were similar enough for their souls to not influence each other. 

“Well!” He grinned knowing what nonsense to say this time. “Depending on what you draw runes with, their power and capacity varies. If you draw them with ink, it's gonna be rather mediocre. Carve runes then they'll last longer.”

“Peverell…” Riddle sighed yet again. 

Hyperion grinned. Nonsense before the more interesting facts. He leaned closer, practically ignoring Tom's personal space, but the other boy didn't seem to mind. Good.

“Use blood then it'll last for a lifetime and will be as strong as the person.” He whispered into Riddle's ear and felt him perk up. A satisfied smirk graced his lips, pulling closer until his breath was against Riddle's neck. “Use raw magic and the runes will last for how long you wish. Draw those runes with your magic in the air and it'll be a more condensed substitute of spells.”

Riddle sucked in a deep breath, his own cocky grin appearing on his face. He glanced at Hyperion like he was some sort of treasure. 

That's right, think of me as your light. He huffed softly, tilting his head before he pulled away. 

“Interesting.” He heard Riddle whisper, clearly satisfied with his answers. 

Hyperion hummed in response, glancing at Riddle with a smile that the others thought was amused or perhaps — dare he say — fond. Horrid but necessary. As he ate his lunch, he observed everyone else. Just as he expected, the Slytherins were civil and spoke in hushed whispers. Unlike Gryffindor who practically announced their gossip with their rowdy nature, Hufflepuffs who were willing to share their gossip with those they were loyal to, and Ravenclaw whose information was mixed with overlapping knowledge that made onlookers bewildered. Slytherin was quiet, keeping their cards close to their chests and even throwing suspicious looks at one another. 

Hyperion watched them closely, until his eyes were back on Riddle. Brown eyes were met with green and he could only smile gently. 

“Enjoying yourself?” 

Riddle hummed, “This lamb tastes exquisite.”

Lamb. 

His grin stiffened and his gaze immediately went to the Ravenclaw table. His eyes found Callum’s. He knew that look, that knowing look every seer had in their faces as they watched each other carefully. Callum, blank faced for a moment, smiled ruefully. 

The bastard. 

“I see… Do you like eating lamb?” 

Riddle nodded nonchalantly, “I suppose… it's my favourite.” 

Of course, Hyperion pursed his lips. His appetite was gone again. 

His gaze found Callum again and the seer had a manic grin on his face. Silver hues were fogged and yet they were burning like stars. His mouth opened and closed. Even from here, Hyperion could read his lips like his eyesight wasn't cursed. 

The sacrificial lamb.

Hyperion closed his eyes again. He didn't have the appetite to eat. 

Be the saviour. 

Hyperion has been the saviour long enough to know how to act like it. Sweet smiles, gentle words, and a hand offered to the condemned for salvation. Kindness was a weapon of its own if utilised properly. And that was exactly what Tom Riddle needed; unprecedented, inconsequential kindness. To Tom Riddle who isolated himself, to Tom Riddle who was forced to be a monster by Dumbledore — Hyperion Peverell would be his mercy. 

The key to this was looking at Tom Riddle as if he were Harry Potter. 

Because Harry Potter was dead. It wouldn't be hard to imagine him as Tom. 

“What a pity that neither of us are of age yet… I would have whisked you away from that crappy orphanage to my manor by now.” Hyperion sighed, looking directly into Riddle's eyes. Liars didn't look people in the eyes. Good liars did. 

He could see the cogs work in Riddle's brain. For someone who's suffered so much, he knew how their heads worked. This act of kindness would feel like a fever dream for the little snake. Hopeless and yet so beautifully determined. 

“What?”

“Hm?”

Hyperion smiled. Insincere yet he knew that look of longing in Riddle's eyes. That desire for it to be real and not one of his fake smiles. How cute. 

“Would you really?” He sounded so hesitant, so untrusting. Tom Riddle was cynical but he had a naivety to him that sprung from that miniscule bit of hope that rested beautifully in his fractured soul.  “Would you really take me to your manor if you could? Whisk me away, as you said.”

Hyperion smiled in satisfaction. He crossed his legs and thought carefully. His plan was going well. It was. Myrtle was still alive and no Horcrux had been made. Tom was going down the path he wanted. 

Harry wrote his life, his history. 

Hyperion will rewrite it. 

So he did what Dumbledore had failed to do with them both…

He offered Tom safety. 

He offered him salvation. 

Harry had chosen his name. 

Hyperion; the titan son of Gaia and Ouranus. The titan of heavenly light. The father of the dawn, sun, and moon. 

The Blacks named themselves after celestial beings, drowning themselves in the illusion that they were closer to the stars than they were to humans. That delusion was the cause of their ruin, but to Harry who had ruined himself for so long, it was a delusion necessary to keep himself sane. 

Thus, Harry died and Hyperion was born. A delusion of that blinding light that bled from the heavens. A guide for humans and creatures alike. He was the chosen one. He was the hero. He was the saviour. He was the sacrifice. He was their light.

It was only befitting for him to have such a name. 

He fashioned himself the name of heavenly light, thinking of his mission the entire time. As he slipped into the chamber of secrets, he thought of his first day in his new body. His new life. 

There was no scar on his forehead, nor was there a strange fracture in his soul that was left by the Horcrux. This body was fresh, unmarked by fracturing magic. It was the few mercies he could get from Death and Fate. A body that was his — the exact replica of Harry Potter's body. That was enough for him. So long as a part of him remained Harry then he was content. 

One of his gifts from Death and Fate happened to be his side effects. 

“You feel better?” He asked softly as he cradled Riddle's head in his hands. 

“I'm fine now…” Tom whispered softly, arms wrapped around Hyperion's waist. His dorm was quiet and empty aside from the two of them. No one dared to enter the room whenever Hyperion was with Riddle, a rule that he didn't doubt came from Tom himself. 

He carded his fingers through Tom's hair. The boy practically leaned into his touch, “Hyperion…” Tom whispered softly, eyes fogged as he yearned for his touch.

I will be your light, Hyperion looked down upon what could have been a future dark lord. Maybe it would still be the same but that didn't matter. Tom might become a dark lord but his methods would change. Prosperity might be upon their wretched country if that were to happen. 

His little snake was firmly under the delusion that Fate had set him on his path. Technically, that was the truth, however, it was also not. It was Hyperion's choice to step into Tom's path, to stand before him like an obstacle — only to become his guide. A light within the shadows and fogged path that he has struggled to walk on. 

“Yes, Tom?” He hummed. 

“No… no… talk to me in parseltongue,” Tom pleaded. He was like a desperate kitten yearned for attention. Or was it a puppy? Regardless, the little snake leaned forward and kept insisting him to speak in the language they were privy to. 

A small laugh escaped his lips. How amusing. How the mighty have fallen, or was he never mighty to begin with? Voldemort will not exist in this world. Tom Riddle would walk down the fate Hyperion wanted. 

As he's said. 

Manipulators needed to think they were in control. That's how you turned them into puppets. 

“Of course. Anything for you, Marvolo.” 

Harry became Hyperion for one reason. 

To be the light that would guide Tom Riddle into a better future… and eventually burn and blind the little snake. 

“You will never leave me.” Tom whispered, his head settled on Hyperion's lap as he played with his hand. It wasn't a question; it was a statement, a declaration. Those brown eyes were like molten chocolate, Hyperion's personal favourite. But there were times he wanted to gauge them out. Fearing that they will suddenly turn red. 

Their fingers intertwined as Hyperion whispered sweet nothings. Such words slipping away and turning into his usual mindless rambling that Tom seems to have grown fond of. Flowery words were not needed between them. 

“There is a particularly strange story about Ravenclaw. Y’know…” He trailed off, wondering if Helena had told her tale to his little snake. “Rowena Ravenclaw’s daughter. Have you heard of it?”

“I'm afraid I have not… grace me with another one of your stories.” Tom sighed in content. 

Hyperion grinned. Wonderful. This was absolutely wonderful! He resisted the urge to giggle as Tom succumbed to his words. It seems like his stories have become a comfort to the little snake. 

Correlation was a simple thing. Simply make every story have some sort of relation to himself or better yet, the two of them. The thought of soulmates would be ingrained into Tom's head. The word itself would be associated with Hyperion, who played that single role. 

“It's quite strange. Helena Ravenclaw, daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw…” he watched Tom's eyes widen for a fraction of a second. “She was a superb witch that was taught by her mother and the other founders. But, she was an envious child. Overshadowed by her mother, yearning for her own spotlight. The little bird cried to the heavens and begged for the gods to favour her so.”

He hummed softly, running his fingers through Tom's hair. 

“Helena envied her mother, loathed her to an extent. Rowena was a witch of her own calibre and as her daughter, Helena expected to reach her own level. Alas, her envy withered her wit, corrupting it with the erosion of time.” He sighed, clicking his tongue at such flowery words. 

The grey lady was a pitiful ghost. A prodigy yet outshined by her mother. In the end, her envy and greed got her killed by none other than her lover. 

His fingers laced themselves through Tom's hair, causing a low hiss to escape from the other boy. He was turning seventeen from what Hyperion remembers. Perhaps he should prepare a gift for his little snake, a reward for being so good after all this time. 

“Ehem!” He cleared his throat, “As I was saying… Her envy and her greed got the best of her. No longer able to contain her own desires, the little bird plucked her mother's most prized possession from its velvet box and fled. The poor thing was foolish enough to think that running would get her anywhere. After all, Rowena Ravenclaw was the most clever of her age. She hid her daughter's betrayal and her own loss from everyone, even the other founders.” He hushed Tom when he saw the hint of a questioning rising up his throat. 

“Helena fled… far from Hogwarts, never to be seen again…” he lowered his voice, as if ending the story. Tom looked bewildered but Hyperion simply smiled. “Then one day, Rowena grew ill. Though her daughter's betrayal was a horrendous act, she still wished to see sweet Helena one last time before she were to pass.” 

Hyperion was often reminded of Romeo and Juliet when talking about the grey lady and the baron. Foolish idiots that allowed love and envy to control their hearts and minds. But half of Hyperion's stories did not have lessons. Could they even be considered as stories by then?

“Desperate to see her daughter, she called for a baron who once held love for her.” He whispered to him, like it was a secret. Tom would understand. His little snake was clever like that. 

Rowena was a smart woman, yes, but she was no seer. She did not know of the fate that awaited her daughter by sending the baron. 

“The baron found her. He did. He tried to persuade her to come back, to return to the castle, to return her mother's tiara.” He hummed, feeling as Tom took his hand and gently kissed the tips of his fingers. Hyperion scarcely went out without gloves nowadays but Tom was an exception. “But alas… Helena was stubborn. Fearful of punishment, she kept refusing. Firmly, she had told the baron that he would never return.” 

Human emotions were fickle. Choose to follow your heart, your emotions instead of your mind and logic, then it was a tragedy in the making. The Baron and Helena were mere examples of the misfortune that came upon your emotions taking over and leading you to do the unthinkable. 

Death was the beginning and end. Death came to all. It was a greedy yet fair thing, Death. Crawling into every crevice there is in the world, haunting mortality as they waited and waited and waited. Soon, Tom Riddle will fall into the arms of death, thrown into the afterlife with what gentleness Death could provide. 

Hyperion will follow, gladly falling into the darkness and he shall wait. Death will be there for him, cradling him like a child and setting his tattered and tired soul into the afterlife with all the care in the world. 

Fate favoured Tom Riddle. 

Death held Hyperion like he was their child. 

“In a fit of rage, the Baron killed her.” Hyperion chuckled softly. A noise unfit for such a sentence but he laughed regardless. “Helena died and sorrow and guilt swallowed the baron whole. Unable to live with his sins, with Helena’s blood on his hands, he took his own life “

Tom stared at him, fascinated yet there was a hint of understanding in his eyes. Of course, Hyperion sighed in content. It would do him well if Tom remained clever and smart, but not to the point he'd catch on to some of Hyperion's lies. Tom sat up, looked at Hyperion with those brown eyes and tilted his head. It was cute. Strange. But cute. 

“They became ghosts, didn't they?” He whispered quietly, narrowing his eyes at Hyperion before his hands encompassed his waist. 

Hyperion grinned. “That, my dear, was the story of the Bloody Baron and the Grey Lady. The ghosts of our houses.” He whispered softly, caressing Tom's cheek. “Fate set them in each other's paths and they took the wrong turns. Their ends were not meant to be with each other, ending with one dying by the other's hands. How tragic…” he hissed, cupping Tom's face with a knowing look. 

Tom's breath hitched. Pulling Hyperion close and nuzzling into the crook of the Ravenclaw’s neck, the heir of Slytherin breathed in his scent and simply took everything in. Hyperion cooed as if Tom was some child, continuing to card his fingers through those black curls and click his tongue. To think, he was treating the man who ruined his life like some child to be coddled. But as Dumbledore said — loathed it as he may to repeat such ruinous words — it was for the greater good. As stupid as it was. 

Hyperion was a mercy to his own ruination. He was an angel to Tom, the angel who brought him knowledge and shelter. The one person in this wretched world that took in a sinner such as Tom. Fate was a catalyst to the story he created, to the one he made Tom believe like a loyal follower.

“We won't be like that.” He assured, whispering softly. Their lips were so close, inches away and they would be kissing if Hyperion just leaned in. But he teased and taunted and tempted. Tom looked utterly distressed as Hyperion pulled away so quickly, fancying a mischievous smile on his lips. 

Harry Potter might have been the sacrificial lamb, but Hyperion Peverell was not. No. He was the shepherd that guided the sheep away from a wolf's jaws.

Harry was haunted after the war. His dreams consisted of nothing but blood, screams, and green. A familiar green that he'd see every time he looked into the mirror. No amount of dreamless sleep potions were capable of erasing those nightmares that ruined him for years. 

At some point, his screaming was so severe that Kreacher had resorted to flooring his friends. The elf loathed people but there was some semblance of empathy within the blasted creature to call for his friends. 

Hermione and Ron had held him down, tried so desperately to wake him up. Yet all Harry could do was sleep and dream and scream. Voldemort — Tom Riddle was a constant in his dreams. Be it his voice, his face, his eyes. He was always there, always whispering something into Harry's ear. Sometimes they were sweet nothings. Other times they were taunting words, poisonous insults that seemed to cut through his soul. Every night, he feared that the horcrux remained within him. That the parasite that his soul carried for years was still alive. 

There was nothing he could do but weep and tremble in his friends’ arms. They were loyal. 

Therapy didn't work. No one would understand his worries. 

Was Voldemort going to come back because of him? Was he Voldemort’s tether to the mortal realm? Such thoughts plagued him until he drove himself mad, cooped up in Grimmauld place with nothing but an elf and portraits as company. 

He has refused visits from everyone and anyone. What if Voldemort did come back through him? What if he took over and they got hurt? 

Harry would rather die than risk it.

Hyperion often dreamed of what ifs. 

What if he got to live peacefully? What if his parents were alive? Would he have siblings by then? What if he and his friends could live out their lives in a little corner of the world, hidden from everyone else, where they could live out their lives the way they wanted to? What if…

There was no point in dwelling on them so much but he had time. He had too much time. He couldn't loathe it, not really. Fate was kind now, giving him enough time to forge the future he wanted, at the cost of his own existence. What were the chances that he'd completely erased himself by changing Riddle's path? A lot. But risks were a necessity in the world he wanted. Risking himself wouldn't be so hard. Actually, it would be easy. Dumbledore did raise him to constantly risk himself for others after all.

“Hyperion?” He heard Tom call for him. 

It was the yule of their sixth year. As promised, he brought Tom to Peverell manor. He expected for the young man to start living with him the moment Tom became an adult. It was expected. Hyperion had hinted at this enough times for that hopeful gleam in Tom's eyes to continue burning. And Hyperion would comply, taking Tom in like the saviour he fancied himself to be. 

“Yeah, Tommy?” He grinned, tilting his head as his black kneazle rested on his lap. 

“Don't call me that.” Tom grumbled, sitting opposite to him in the fireplace. He glared at the cat sleeping on Hyperion's lap. As if to taunt him, the cat opened an eye before getting even more comfortable on Hyperion. 

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged, grinning as he leaned back and happily pet his gift from Death. “Her name is Morticia.” 

“Morticia?” Tom grimaced at the name. 

“Fitting, ain't it?” 

Tom shook his head, “I wanted to ask… you are aware of what my ability entails, yes?” He cautiously whispered, looking up at Hyperion who kept petting the blasted cat of death. 

Hyperion merely nodded. He was waiting for this question. 

“Once summer starts…” He carefully chose his words, “I'll bring you to Gringotts and prove your identity. The last of Slytherin’s kin are unfit to take over the lordship anyways. ‘Suppose you're the best option…” he grinned, leaning back on his chair as Tom looked at him with surprise yet there was a hint of worship in his gaze. “The goblins will love to know there's a new lord in their midst.”

Pleased with being called a lord, Tom puffed up his chest — like a peacock. 

“That is well appreciated, Hyperion… One day, I shall repay you tenfold.” He vowed, abandoning his seat to stand before Hyperion. A smile graced the very lips of that wretched boy — Tom Riddle did not smile but for Hyperion? He would do anything. “Thank you,” he whispered as if it was his greatest secret, tilting Hyperion's head up and planting a sweet kiss to his forehead. 

Hyperion kept smiling, running his fingers through Morticia’s fur as he wondered what would happen next. Such an obedient little puppet Tom has become. Succumbing to his emotions, fraying from his manipulative nature as he fell into the depths of what could be Aphrodite's trap. 

For Hyperion who was named after a titan, Aphrodite was the greatest in his heart. The very Goddess that lay ever present in Gods and Men. Her power of love seeped into their very hearts, causing them to act. Good or Bad, such things were born from love. Wretched and beautiful. It was tender and torturous and Hyperion knew what it meant to love. Had his mother not loved him, he would have been dead. 

Dumbledore thought love was a mercy. A kindness that should be given to all. 

Hyperion plucked that love from their hearts and turned it into a weapon. 

In their seventh year, Hyperion displayed his love for Tom once more. As the year bleeds away, he adorns Tom's neck with a shiny locket. Green and silver, Slytherins mark wrapping around Tom's pretty neck. 

A gift, Tom marvelled. 

A collar, Hyperion decided. 

Pure and utter devotion bled into Tom Riddle's dark eyes. Ready to surrender himself to Hyperion as he held him close. It was marvellous to see the Dark Lord that ruined it all for him to come undone by simple touches, by whispers against his ear, by a mere kiss that Hyperion had gifted to others before. But Tom thought differently from him. 

He could feel raw desperation in the kiss. Hyperion did not stop him as Tom takes, and takes, and takes. Because Hyperion always gives. He will continue to give until Tom gets sick of it. But constantly giving made Tom pliant to his wishes, to his desires, to his demands. 

Hyperion is no god but he is willing to play as one. Tom Riddle's fate was his. He will forge it anew, destroy the future that will be Harry Potter's ruin and create something new, something better. 

Opening his mouth, he felt Tom's tongue slip in. He felt Tom's hands squeeze his hips and he doesn't mind, he doesn't care. His little snake was drowning in everything that Hyperion had given him. Tom was turning blind and Hyperion gladly took his hands and guided him through that blank whiteness. 

“I love you.” Tom confessed, helpless as Hyperion pulls away. 

There is an unspoken anxiety in his eyes as Hyperion caresses his cheek. His little snake, his poor, unfortunate puppet. As Hyperion has thought, love could be weaponized. 

He pressed a chaste kiss to Tom's lips. “I love you too.” He replied. 

Thrice. Tom utters such confessions thrice and Hyperion replies thrice. Three; Fate’s sigil and mark. The number three has plagued him so. Three lions, three snakes, three hallows, three… If he were to die this time, it would be his final death. In the forest, in Grimmauld Place, and wherever he shall find his future resting place. 

Hyperion finds himself ensnared by the very essence of Tom's devotion. 

To Tom, Hyperion was salvation. 

To Hyperion, Tom was ruination. 

They were opposites of the same coin. Always the same, yet complete opposites. 

He kisses and licks and touches and confesses. He finds his lips against Tom's skin, his hands roaming the other boy's body as their clothes are shed and abandoned. Years. He's been in this blasted world for three years. That number again…

Plagued and drowning himself in delusion, he stops giving. He claims, he takes, he wants. And in that moment of weakness, Tom Riddle is the one he wants. He wants and wants and gods, Fate decides he could have him. 

“There we go Tom…” He whispered softly as he settled over the boy. Low hiss escapes him as he sucks in a deep breath. Euphoric, perfect, and full. He wants this sensation to last as Tom trembles beneath him. “You're doing good, my love.” he praised, wincing as he shifted again. 

Tom groaned softly, lunging forward to capture Hyperion's lips. He soothed his little snake, a hand to his chest as he pushed Tom down. Carefully, Hyperion began to move as they kissed. That damning kiss. 

Hyperion pulled away again, lifting his body before going down. He hissed at the blinding pain that was soon overcome by pleasure. Panting, he looked down at the boy who could have been his destruction. Red faced, panting, and looking at him like he was some angel sent by god. 

Hyperion was no angel. 

He thought, kissing Tom like the world ended as their bodies went wild with lust. Love seeped into the cracked heart Tom owned, mending it from the wounds the world has crashed upon him. Hyperion shall heal him in his own way, making him perfect for the future he decided. 

Hyperion Peverell was the dead sheep that rose from the grave and replaced the shepherd. Before him was a new lamb, lost and covered in blood and dirt. The three weavers would not want the lamb's wool, so he cleaned and tended the lamb. He would lead Tom to his future. 

Fate chose them. They were what wrote their histories and they shall rewrite it. 

Death was mercy and torment, a being that had ensnared no matter what. 

Hyperion comes to realise that no matter the name, his soul was woven into Tom Riddle's as per Fate’s design. If that was the case then he shall make do with what he's given. 

“You, Tom Riddle,” he smiled, almost tender if he could not feel the flames of resentment welling within him. His little snake, his death, his destruction…

“You are my ruin.”