Chapter Text
No prompt.
[I let a model generate stuff without my input at all. Glad to see it also sees the chemistry between Harry and his Professor.]
“I will tell you everything, if you promise to tell me everything,” Harry said. He was sitting on a hard stone bench in the corner of the Room of Requirement with Professor Quirrell. “But first let me say that I don’t know what I want from you. It’s not as easy for me as it might be for you. My mind is like a book filled with letters from all different people; I can’t read them at once—even when I look at one letter, more letters slip out behind it into the world.”
Professor Quirrell nodded. “You have spent much time in the House of Muggle-borns and the Order of the Phoenix, haven’t you?”
Harry nodded again. The other man had his head bowed, and his fingers were interlaced; he looked like a very old wizard in need of rest.
“Now, this is the way things are,” said Professor Quirrell. “We are two wizards, both ambitious, who have fought against each other and now find ourselves in the same position. We may still fight; we may even kill each other. But if we do not make peace, our enemies will tear us apart.”
The room was silent. After a moment Professor Quirrell straightened up and faced Harry, meeting his eyes steadily. “So this is how it must be.” He held out his hand, and Harry took it in his own.
“I am glad we could come to an understanding,” said Professor Quirrell.
Prompt: First kiss.
[The model actively generated tabs before every paragraph, I took it for an attempt to center the text center-wise, which is what I’ve done here.]
I did not think to find you here, Professor Quirrell.
I had thought to visit the Room of Requirement, but I fear that I may be too late.
If this is your doing,
then it was an interesting experiment in control.
Perhaps I should have been more careful—
—but then again, perhaps it would be better for my reputation if I were to simply disappear.
And so—
—if this is your doing, then let us see how far you can go!
Harry Potter leaned back against one wall, watching the Dark Lord.
Professor Quirrell leaned back against another wall, watching the boy.
It was a little hard at first,
I mean, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to kiss you—it was just that it seemed like there was something wrong with me for wanting to kiss you, so I needed some time to sort out my feelings about that, and also I didn’t think I could kiss you properly until I knew what the rules were—
—but after I figured out what those rules were, you were there, waiting for me, and it would have been wrong to leave you hanging.
The next thing I knew, I had kissed you.
I don’t know why you came here—
—maybe it was something you’d always wanted to do.
Maybe you wanted to find out whether I would kiss you or not, even if it meant kissing me yourself—
—I suppose I should thank you for that.
So that was the first time.
Prompt: Ice skating; Riddle pretends to be incompetent at it.
[This was supposed to be a shitpost...]
“I thought I knew the way around this rink—” said Professor Quirrell. His voice was quiet, but his hands were busy on Harry’s arms to steady him as they glided across the ice. “But it seems that I have been mistaken, and you are much better than I at skating…”
Harry tried not to laugh as he made his way across the frozen surface of the pond at the back of Hogwarts. “I did play a little bit with my cousin once when we were children, though she was an excellent skater and I was very bad at it…”
The cold air chilled his lungs; Harry smiled as he pulled the scarf tight around his neck, trying to hide the fact that his nose was running.
“How many times have I told you that you should use your magic to warm yourself instead of wasting it on that ridiculous scarf?” said Professor Quirrell with a frown as he leaned forward slightly to reach a hand down to tug at Harry’s jacket sleeve. “It would be most unwise if anyone saw you shivering like that. You must keep up appearances…”
Harry let his head fall back against the Professor’s shoulder, and then turned his face away from Quirrell so that he could stare out across the frozen surface of the pond. It was dark by now, but there were lights hanging above the pond and the distant castle, and the moon shone brightly over the ice-covered pond.
He had never liked ice-skating when he was a child, though he had enjoyed other winter sports (he remembered once playing an entire game of hockey in his school uniform, which was quite possibly one of the silliest things Harry had ever done). But as a teenager, Harry had taken to skating almost immediately. He couldn’t explain why, but skating seemed to bring him closer to the sensation of flying, or soaring through the sky. There was something about the smooth glide of the blade, and the sensation of weightlessness that came with it, that gave Harry a sense of peace.
But he hadn’t been skating in years; perhaps his skill had dulled somewhat. The Professor’s hand tightened around his arm and Harry looked up, just enough to catch the hint of a smile.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll manage better than I did,” said Professor Quirrell.
Harry chuckled, and glanced back over his shoulder as they glided past the edge of the pond.
“You know, it’s kind of funny,” said Professor Quirrell. “I always assumed that you would be an excellent ice-skater, but I have never seen you do anything more athletic than lifting a book—”
Harry laughed again, and turned his head so that he could lean up to kiss the Professor.
“Thank you,” said Harry.
Prompt: Significant Digits universe; Harry decides to experiment and touch the box which results in a rush of magic-induced feelings.
[The first two paragraphs are from a prompt by my friend.]
The weight and warmth of the box reminded Harry of Crookshanks, Hermione's kneazle.
It was a very inappropriate thought, but the Professor did remind him of a cat—a very feral one. Even more inappropriate was the thought that every feral cat could be tamed, given the time and care. You gave them space and security, and it was a matter of time until they trusted you. Next, they let you pet them, and after a while, you could find the former beast purring on your lap.
Perhaps, he could consider this thought.
And perhaps not. The whole idea was absurd, as well.
But what else would happen? It seemed unlikely, or at least highly improbable, that Riddle had any such thing going for him—but if there were something inside him, waiting to emerge…what then? What would it look like, if it ever did? Would it feel anything like an ordinary human?
He’d probably never know, anyway. But still. He wanted to try it.
So he reached into the box, his hand hovering just above the smooth surface, fingers spread slightly apart, palm up, the fingertips only barely brushing against the metal sides of the container, feeling nothing, seeing nothing—just touching something, just trying to reach inside—and yet—
A wave of emotion washed over him so powerfully, it made his head swim with dizziness, a sensation both physical and emotional—an overwhelming flood of raw emotions pouring through him, all jumbled together and confused and painful and beautiful, making his eyes water with unshed tears—
He didn't even know what he felt anymore. His thoughts spun chaotically, and he tried to hold onto one single thought, some tiny bit of clarity—but it wasn’t clear; he couldn’t focus—it hurt too much to think clearly—he wanted it to stop hurting!—
And then—
The spell wore off. The pain faded away. All at once, the confusion cleared from his mind, leaving only relief. He knew what he felt now, what was inside him—and oh dear god—was it love? How long since he last experienced this? Was he sure it wasn't simply lust, desire, attraction, obsession, infatuation? Because it certainly looked like it.
Oh no. Oh no, no, NO.
He closed his eyes tightly shut, trying desperately to block out everything else, but it was hopeless. There was nowhere to hide, no way to keep himself from being overwhelmed by these emotions, these feelings. He opened his mouth to speak, and instead of words came a torrent of pure emotion, pouring forth in a flood, filling the air with its beauty, overwhelming, consuming—oh no, please, I can't stand this, I'm drowning in happiness, it's too much—I don't want this—
Then, silence. And darkness.
Harry opened his eyes. He was lying face down on the floor of his bedroom. He sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands. He blinked several times. Then, carefully, tentatively, gingerly, he put his hands on the ground and stood up. His knees buckled under him, but he stayed upright, breathing heavily.
This wasn't right. This shouldn't have happened. It should have been just the usual thing, nothing special, just an experimental touch of magic, and maybe some kind of temporary effect that lasted less than a minute. Nothing like what he just went through. That hadn't happened before, not ever. It shouldn't have affected him this badly, this strongly.
What had happened? Why did he suddenly get those feelings?
Was this what people meant when they talked about love? No. It was impossible. Love was supposed to make you feel good, to fill you with joy, with hope—like it did— but not... not like this. Not this intense, overwhelming flood of emotion, like a raging river, overwhelming you with all the conflicting needs, all the desires, wanting things you'd never thought you could want—wanting things that made you sick with despair.
It wasn't supposed to do that.
No, wait, wait, wait. He wasn't thinking straight. Maybe this was normal, maybe this was how everyone felt sometimes. Everyone felt bad sometimes. Everyone needed help sometimes.
He needed help. Right now. Immediately. This was dangerous. This was a mistake.
Maybe if he touched it again, he wouldn't get those awful feelings, the horrible feelings, and maybe he'd feel better.