We're All Mad Here

I

Tom Riddle is completing his rounds, patrolling Hogwart's hallowed halls as his Head Boy duties dictate, when the section of the floor he is stepping onto abruptly evaporates into nothingness.

Overbalanced, Tom falls forwards, the hole within the floor growing to accommodate his falling form and then swallowing him whole.

For a moment, there's nothing but darkness, a weightless fall as Tom screams in surprise. It's nothing like the drop into the Chamber; there he has the ancient stone pressing against his back as he falls, the surety of the stone eventually curving out into a smooth surface.

There are no such reassurances here.

Tom twists his body, but all that passes by him is air, kissing at every inch of his exposed skin and lifting the hairs on the back of his neck.

His wand is in his hand not a second later, a lumos leaving from between dry lips. Instantly his surroundings are illuminated, and Tom feels his stomach drop out from his chest, as if he's left it somewhere far, far above him.

He can't see the bottom.

There's no sure wall around him, instead a faded haze of substances that he clearly has no hope of catching and holding onto.

Panic well and truly surging, Tom has no problem shouting the spell to slow his fall. But the magic just washes over him, ineffective, doing absolutely nothing.

Screaming, Tom tries a second time, feeling his control, the perfect control that has not failed him since his first meeting with Dumbledore, shatter like porcelain around him.

He is the Head Boy. He is the best student to walk the halls of Hogwarts since Albus Dumbledore himself, if not the best! He is Lord Voldemort!

And yet, he's still falling, still unable to stop his fall. Nothing is working, every spell that leaves his wand coils like smoke away from him, splutters like smoke and disperses. His muscles, once tense and holding him steady, begin to spasm in response to his panic.

Tumbling head over heels, Tom can barely make sense of what is up and what is down, just that he is still in motion, that he is still falling and he will die from this speed. The impact will kill him.

Tears gather in the corner of his eyes, a flashback to the Defence lesson on Boggarts, seeing his own lifeless eyes staring back at him. Only, at this rate, he won't have any eyes to glaze over. He'll be lucky if he's recognisable as a human at this speed.

His mind is blind with panic, so much so that it takes a few seconds for him to realize that he is starting to slow. It is not until it his stomach has been returned to him -albeit, feeling as if it has been stretched, shrunk, shaken, and then stirred for good measure- that he realizes the momentum has lessened.

Daring to open his eyes, Tom finds himself still falling; where there had been indistinguishable forms before, now only the paradoxical sky, both night and day at the same time, sat all around him, both sun and moon watching his fall.

He wonders if this is how Icarus felt.

Tom has not even questioned his safety at Hogwarts. Not when he ruled Slytherin with an iron fist. Not when Dumbledore was nothing more than a minor annoyance and Grindelwald's march upon Europe still so far from British shores.

He has been a fool, he realizes. He has fallen into the same rose tinted world as the rest of the sheep, and if he ever lives through this, whatever it is, then he will never allow the world to take upon that sweet colouring again.

As if registering his decision, the world speeds up around him, and Tom finds himself plummeting faster than ever.

His heart leaps into his throat when there is suddenly a surface in sight, the ground, and he attempts one last spell before contact is made.

.

Only, he doesn't die.

.

It's as if he has been saved by the softest of substances, so comfortingly secure in the way that it catches him that he drops his wand in shock. It's nonsensical, because the wooden floor beneath him is anything but soft. In fact, some of the board are loose, a multitude of splinters poking at his fingers. The room smells musky, an evident lack of fresh air lingering in every inch of space. There's a crack of light, a perfectly straight angle of brightness seeping in through a pin thin opening.

After a mere moment, in which Tom processes the concept of falling for hours and seconds, falling so fast and yet emerging unhurt, he realizes exactly where he is. Or rather, what he is in.

He is in a cupboard.

Snarling, Tom shoots to his feet, his head slamming into the suddenly very unexpected, very low ceiling. Hissing beneath his breath, the teen rubs at the tender skin of his skull, blow not in the least bit cushioned by his thick hair. What is going on? He had just been falling down at a terrifying rate, a plummet really, and now there's a ceiling above his head? What madness is this?

The muffled sounds from outside have dulled, until they are completely silent, leaving Tom hunching awkwardly within the confined space. No, this simply wouldn't do.

Teeth grinding and feeling that he is very much justified with his use of magic -is he even in Hogwarts anymore?-, Tom gave a twirl of his wand and blasted the door right off its hinges. There's an almighty crash, far more than what a thin wooden door should allow, and Tom watches in surprise as the projectile goes right through the brickwork of the adjacent wall.

He stares for a mere moment, cringing backwards when the wall bubbles and begins to fill in the hall, until it has managed to restore itself with but a few seconds of healing. What in the world?

A sudden screech from his left has Tom twisting around to face the threat, a curse upon the tip of his tongue, but he finds himself faltering in sheer surprise.

A horse of a woman stares back at him. No, she is not a centaur, nor is she a woman with an unfortunately long face. Well, the latter is actually quite true, but she's not human. She cannot possibly be. Like some demented cross between a horse and a human, the woman sheers and him, lips curled back over her teeth and snapping in a similar manner to what he had seen the Thestrals and Unicorns -though that had always been from a sizable distance- perform.

"Freak!" She cries, the rest of her words lost between the neighs that leave her lips, foot hitting the ground in fury.

Tom sneers right back, for while he may not know who this woman is, why she is before him or why she is so horrendously ugly, he knows an insult when it is delivered.

"I think the freak is you," Tom snarls in return, polite façade of Head Boy, the perfect Slytherin Student, dripping from his face like water upon glass.

Deciding he has wasted enough time, Tom flicks his wand, completing the transformation himself. Where the woman had once stood, a horse half the size stumbles, placed under a silencing charm when it attempts to vocalize its panic.

"What have you done to my wife?! Freak! I'll beat it out of you!"

Tom's sharp dark eyes snap up to the stairwell, right above the cupboard he has just escaped from. It's exactly like the horse woman, only this time it appears as if the man is a horrific walrus humanoid. That moustache- really, he'd be doing the world a favour by killing that thing off.

Flicking is wand again, Tom watches as the great beast's legs merge together, sending it crashing down the stairs in a flailing heap of blubbery fat. Disgusting.

Approaching the threshold from which he had previously emerged, Tom places one sure hand on the outside of the wall before cautiously poking his head back in.

Only to be met with the same sight. A low level ceiling, a single light bulb still dancing upon it's thin chain in the aftermath of the Walrus' fall. Delightful.

But that does not give him the slightest indication of what has happened. If anything, the disappearing corridor that had once housed the sky, the fall from Hogwarts that had panicked him like nothing before ever had, chills his innards.

How is he suppose to get back, if the way in which he came has vanished? Another of Hogwarts' many secrets? No, surely there would have been the slightest hint of something like that in the books focused solely upon Hogwarts?

Unless he is the first to have survived it? No, that can't possibly be right.

It is certainly a bitter potion to swallow, but Tom knows that it was nothing under his power that stopped his fall, that saved his life. It's sickening to admit, and it most certainly burns at his pride. He, Hogwarts' most capable student, had been unable to take his own life into his hands when it counted.

Now, he's in this strange place, so unlike Hogwarts he's beginning to believe that he is in fact, no longer within the school at all.

No, he can handle this. He is of age, he can legally use magic outside of Hogwarts' ancient walls, he can sort out this mess on his own. He is Tom Marvolo Riddle, he is Lord Voldemort, and he knows what he is doing.

Fingers running over the ring upon his finger, the Horcrux that resides upon his person, Tom knows he can handle anything. Because even if it strikes a fatal blow, it will not kill him. Kill his body, yes. But now, he can always get a new one. He is Tom Riddle, he is immune to death, he has beaten death and gone further than any wizard before him.

He can handle this.

Tom Riddle doesn't even blink when the whale humanoid comes out of what is clearly a kitchen, clutching something horribly greasy within his plump appendages, stuffing his face with some other disgustingly muggle food.

Making a clean sweep of the place, Tom transfigures the male into the baby whale that he is clearly training to become. Gaze cool as he looks upon the mammal upon the floor. It will die without any water, but he cannot bring himself to care.

Instead, he turns on heel, heading for the front door and pulling it open.

The sight that greets him is not welcomed at all.

.

While the house had been muggle, so disgustingly muggle, it had been at the very least familiar. Tom stares, uncomprehendingly at the sight before him.

It is not a street that sits before him, it is not a road or a neatly trimmed garden. It is not a paved walkway, nor a concrete path.

Instead, a seemingly endless stretch of grass lays before him. Rainbow grass. As tall as his knees. Anything, anything at all could be hidden in that vegetation. The colours even cycle through the kaleidoscope, a sea of ever-changing shades that threaten to sear his eyesight.

No. Lord Voldemort will not put up with this madness.

Drawing his wand, Tom watches the fire whip out from the end, sparking through the dry grass like a snake in motion. It all goes up in flames, multiplying faster than even the multiplication of a Gemino curse.

Quickly applying a flame-freezing charm, Tom tentatively steps out into the blaze, a bubblehead charm quickly following when the smoke begins clogging his nostrils.

The burning fury that lashes out around his body tastes like the darkest chocolate, sweet and deliciously bitter, all at once.

He has a single minute, a lone minute in all the madness that has suddenly gripped his life so ferociously, in which he regains total control of the situation.

.

Then the rug is once again pulled from under his feet.

.

The flames snuff out, every last inch of the wildfire dying off, all at once. Trees sprout up from the ashes, dark grey and rotten, rising up and curling towards the sky. The grass springs back to life, but as dark as the charcoal it rises from. Sinister and minacious in appearance, it instantly sets Tom on edge.

And then, he is no longer alone.

"Greetings!"

The cheerful heralding has Tom's head snapping up to look at the source, and he freezes in place.

A boy sits in one of the trees. A thin shirt, black as sin and rolled up to expose his pale forearms covers his torso, trousers of a similar shade tucked into dark grey, dragonhide boots. His hair is wild, a riot of curls that flick out in every direction, covering his ears but failing to fall much further. They do an admirable job of hiding his forehead, though the large, circular spectacles that shield his eyes draw far too much attention to his face.

Given the brilliant vibrancy of his green eyes though, what attention the spectacles would lose would probably double in the face of those irises.

Most interestingly of all, green markings the same shade as the killing curse filter across his face, dipping low in a curve around his eyes like particularly fierce war paint. He appears unlike anyone Tom has ever seen.

He also does not have the time, nor the patience for this.

"What is this place?"

The boy with the brilliant green markings leans forwards, until disturbingly, he is no longer in the tree at all. Instead, he floats just before it, on level with its limbs but completely unsupported. The bright eyes blink at him, seemingly both too large and too old for his face.

And then, he smiles. It's an easy gesture and full of teeth. Tom is instantly on edge.

"It's mine," the boy claims, arms spread outwards and he slowly rolls in place, until he's belly up and neck arching back to continue holding Tom's stare, "like Wonderland but not. Let's call it Hallowland."

That sounds ominous.

"I'm sure you'll find some familiar faces here," the boy continues, as if all of this is just a common occurrence, as if there is no need to be alarmed. But Tom has been kidnapped, right out of the heart of Hogwarts, and he will not stand for it.

"I think I'll take on the roll of the guide. After all, the cat turns invisible, and so do I."

And then he's gone.

Tom can't tell if he's still present and just invisible, or if the stranger has disappeared completely.

Wand still held tight within his grip, the Slytherin carefully steps in a circle, searching. The psychedelic colours of before sit heavy in his mind, having imprinted their obnoxious brightness upon his mind.

Golden snitches flutter through the abruptly sky in flocks, ducking and diving and making a general nuisance of themselves, as usual. The twisted offspring of Devil's Snare and the Giant Squid little the ground, suctioned tentacles flopping uselessly around in whatever puddles they can find. There are snakes in the trees, hissing nonsensical words and just being irritatingly unhelpful.

"I suppose you could call me Cheshire, or Cat," the boy's voice echoes around the clearing, and all that Tom can see is that sharp grin, appearing upon every surface, "or Just Harry."

"Harry," Tom repeats dully.

Has the man, boy, whatever he is, just proclaimed himself to be 'Harry'?

Surely not. Surely someone strong enough to overpower Hogwarts wards has to have a more magnificent name, a more awe inspiring title than 'Harry'.

"It's Just Harry actually. It's the first time I'll get to play that role, play by my own rules. I do believe I'll rather enjoy it. You better hurry along, Tom Riddle. Sometimes forever is only a second, and sometimes, a second is forever. No matter which is correct, you are late."

And then all the smiles are gone.

.

.

He's been walking for what seems like hours, though he cannot exactly say for sure. Physics escapes this place; he's seen collections of earth hovering above the ground like weightless moons, water rising from its rivers and dancing through the sky as rain falling upwards. His lips do not crack dry from the pain of dehydration, nor does his stomach rumble and growl with vicious hunger.

Time seems to have lost all meaning in this place, as he passes through wastelands of flora and jungles of animals.

The snakes he meet speak of nothing but nonsense, praising the Deathspeaker, giver of life. None of them will even design to hold a conversation with him, let alone give him any answers. For a boy that's always had snakes prostrating themselves before him, willing to obey his every command; well, it throws Tom off his game. Slightly, he can still work with this, can still power through, but the discomfort is there. It lingers like a particularly stubborn curse, a constant reminder that keeps him alert and on edge.

"Point me Hogwarts," Tom hisses furiously beneath his breath, watching his wand spin, hopelessly lost, around in the centre of his palm.

Thirteen and a half inches of Yew has never seemed so less, so understated, in this moment. His magic, all the magic he has tried to escape this place with has been met with no success. Apperation is useless, his three attempts have ended with him falling over his own heels when completing the spin, the only place that attempt of magical transportation has taken him is straight to the ground. Even the Point-Me spell is failing him.

Tom stares forlornly at the wood within his hand, the wand that is a reflection of his current state, each as lost as the other. His mind begins to trail back to the stranger -Just Harry- and his words.

Tom quickly banishes the thought, refusing to acknowledge it. The rule of three applies here. If it doesn't work after the third time, then logic dictates that the results of such actions taken afterwards would continue to fail. Only a fool repeats their actions expecting change to occur.

"Point me Hogwarts," he all but snarls at the wand, watching as it simply continued to spin in useless circles. Merlin damn it. If his wand continuously fails to find Hogwarts, a location swamped in magical power that has stood for a thousand years, it has no hope of locating something as weak as London.

"What in Salazar's name is a 'Hallowland' anyway." It is not a question, more of an angry statement.

As such,

Tom is utterly surprised, but not unprepared, when he gets an answer.

"It's my world."

"Stupefy!"
The spell crackles through the air, the fastest casting Tom has ever completed. It's on target, and now, Tom will have someone to interrogate. He will finally find out what the hell is going on.

Only, the spell passes right through him. Like smoke, the boy's body phases around the spell as it passes harmlessly through his apparently incorporeal form, ruffling the silvery fluid of the cloak upon his shoulders.

"That's not very friendly."

Tom doesn't care.

"Where am I." His temper is burning, decorum fraying at the edges and leaving his magic to spark angrily throughout the vicinity. One of the closer trees is steadily melting.

"I told you, it's Hallowland. If you want to get out, you have to collect the keys. I even gave you one to start with."

The boy disappears, leaving only a floating, glowing symbol in his place. It scars the air, a brilliant green that matches Just Harry's eyes.

More importantly though, Tom knows that sigil. It's Grindelwald's symbol, that sits and floats heavy in the air.

That doesn't make any sense though, this is nothing like the attacks in Europe, and why would the Dark Lord go out of his way to cause so much trouble for a Hogwarts student, of all people?

No, it's not right, which means he has to search for other answers. He remembers reading that Grindelwald had taken an archaic sigil, that he had perverted it's legend, but for the life of him, Tom cannot remember anything else. Oh how he wishes for Hogwarts and its library. It would give him the answers he now finds himself forced to seek.

No, wait, he has seen that particular symbol before.

Glancing down at the ring, at the Horcrux upon his hand, Tom runs a shaking finger across the stone's surface. Embedded within, seemingly carved deep in the centre of the ugly gem, sits the very same image as what is currently projected within the air. Something to do with the Peverell family then, he remembers his deranged uncle bragging of such a thing, deep within his twisted mind.

The boy cannot be asking him to collect his own Horcruxes; not only should the stranger not know of them, but he most certainly shouldn't connect them to this particular sigil. His diary has nothing to do with that. Plus, Just Harry seems to have indicated that there are more than two, of whatever he has to collect. For he has already been given one, but instructed him to collect 'they keys'.

So, at least two other objects, related to that symbol to locate and acquire. How infuriating.

No, he is Lord Voldemort. He will find his own way out of this. He will not rely upon a being crazier than even Dumbledore to guide him to freedom.

Decision made, Tom stalks forwards, ignoring the blinking green eyes that seem to flash from surface to surface, from existence to non-existence.

"Where are you going, Tom?"

Gritting his teeth at the name, Tom ignores the question, wand still in hand. The stranger might be able to phase through spells, but that doesn't mean Tom cannot shield himself, cannot effect the environment he inhabits.

"Tom?"

"Go away," he snarls, lips curling in displeasure at the voice that still calls out to him with a detached curiosity.

"I don't need to go away, you seem to be quite content to leave without asking me any questions."

Tom ignores him.

.

He walks and walks and walks. He walks until his feet ache and his toes plea for mercy and still he walks.
The finishing line of what has seemed to be an endless journey among the grasslands comes abruptly, and as maddeningly derisory as everything else that has occurred since falling through the floor. If not more so than anything else, because this sight is far more welcomed while simultaneously being as twistedly perverted as everything else.

Tom has always considered Quidditch a waste of time, but now, looking upon this-this travesty, he longs for the famed Hogwarts games.

It's sheer madness before him, more so than anything else he has seen yet since being pulled into this twisted world. Maybe it is because he is familiar with Quidditch, more so than the strange house he was dropped into, or the endless plainland that he has been crossing ever since. Mayhap it is because he recognises those that take part in this charade of a sport, and it tears at his self confidence to witness others playing along with the demented stranger's world.

Though he finally understands why this all seems familiar.

He has well and truly fallen down the rabbit hole.

Above him, Lestrange, Malfoy and Avery soar through the air, mounted upon broomsticks. This in itself would not be an unusual sight, given that all three were active members of the Slytherin Quidditch team back at Hogwarts.

What strays from the norm, what leaves Tom feeling so magnificently unsettled, is that his fellow students are most certainly not playing Quidditch.

It's an unholy alliance between order and chaos, between a tea party and Quidditch.

A table, large enough that it could possibly have been stolen right from the Great Hall floats dead within the centre of the Quidditch pitch, placed an even space from each set of goals. Large rivers of tea stream through the air like twisting serpents, unbound by gravity, giant lumps of undissolved sugar bobbing about within their liquid streams. The goal hoops that stand in a collective trio at each end of the pitch have all been replaced, giant teacups balanced precariously upon equally giant spoons instead.

Tom watches with a detached sense of horror as his Knights of Walpurgis fly seamlessly together, only to throw obnoxiously bright cupcakes each the size of a quaffle towards the substituted goals. The desserts curve around in the base of the teacups, before soaring back out, leaving the noble heirs to attempt catching them with nothing but their mouths. Given the sheer size of the pastries, it's unsurprisingly that all they can manage is a simple mouthful before the rest splatter upon their robes, their broomsticks, before finally falling down to the earth.

Liquid honey glistens golden as the afternoon sun catches each droplet during its falls from the underside of the floating table. The table surface itself is covered in fine china of all colours, breeding new desserts for the Slytherins to pick up and launch at the teacups. They're covered in confectionary. It certainly brings a whole new meaning to the phrase 'playing with your food'.

Perhaps, Tom thinks, this is what shock feels like.

Certainly he cannot bring himself to do more than stare at the very sight before him, as if looking hard enough will break the illusion that he is surely trapped within.

But no, it doesn't happen.

In the same moment Tom manages to shake himself free of the stupor that grips him so tightly, the floating table gives an almighty sneeze, rattling all the contents upon its surface and spraying out great geysers of buttercream.

Drumming up every last ounce of patience within his body -he finds himself unnervingly ill-equipped to deal with all of this- Tom raises his wand to his throat and casts a Sonorus charm.

"Avery! Lestrange! Malfoy!"

He doesn't need to ask any questions, because the three freeze upon their brooms, a particularly heavy looking cake smashing into Lestrange's face when he's too slow to dodge it.

Three sets of wide eyes turn down to stare at him, and Tom is uncomfortably reminded of watching his classmates awaken from the Imperius curse. Given the state of the continent, Dippet had called an Auror in, to showcase the Unforgivables to them. Tom had resisted the Imperio, but he had been the only one.

"My Lord?" Malfoy babbles, words slurred, as if he has drunk far too much syrup. For how long they appear to have been playing -quite a while, given the state of their dessert caked robes- it is possible that's exactly the case.

Tom raises a simple eyebrow as the trio steadily float down, looking more and more confused as they close the distance between them.

It is only as they get closer that Tom realizes the trio are not, in fact, dressed in robes, but neither are they garbed in muggle clothes. That is saying nothing off the accessories they sport.

Rather, Lestrange is wearing the most ridiculous hat Tom has ever seen in his life, and with Dumbledore for a teacher, the Heir of Slytherin has seen his fair share of stupid clothing.

Hanging from his waist, Malfoy has a pocketwatch so large that is cannot even be called such a thing. The face of the clock is absurd, intricate gold edging and offensively large.

Avery carries a sword, which in itself would not be so unusual were it not for the fact there seemed to be tiny little mice engraved upon its every surface, dancing with one another.

"My Lord- What- Where are we?" Lestrange aborts his sentence twice before he settles upon the last one.

Tom is still staring at that stupid hat.

Acknowledging the problem, Avery knocks the hat right off his fellow Slytherin's head, leaving all four bamboozled when the displaced hat reveals an exact replica lies beneath it. It's the exact same size; Tom does not even want to begin touching the physics of that thing right now.

"We've been kidnapped," Tom declares bluntly, mind whirling. If these three are here, who else has Just Harry pulled into this insanity? What kind of power would all of this take? It is almost inconceivable.

Certainly the kind of power that has Tom itching to break into hysterical laughter. What is this twisted place doing to him?

"Kidnapped?!" Squawks Lestrange, wrestling with the hat that just births more and more of its kind upon his head, each one disappearing like smoke when they hit the floor, It would seem that particular accessory is rather against being removed.

"I have no idea who he is, or what he wants…"

Slowly, Tom painstakingly outlines all that he has learnt so far; from the stranger with the green markings, to the evident lack of physics, even his embarrassing capture via the hole in the floor.

Unhelpfully, none of the others remember how they appeared here. In fact, they cannot recall anything past going to sleep within their dorm, and then the next thing they know, they're wearing clothing that looks like it was plucked straight from Dumbledore's wardrobe if it'd been smothered in frosting.

Neither can they give him a valid reason as to why they were playing that bastardized version of Quidditch. Tom had not believed himself capable of finding a game more absurd than Quidditch, but, here it is.

As if that were not, something else comes right out of nowhere to top off his ludicrous day.

"I say Froge! There's cakes and tea!"

"Good show Gred, good show!"

Twins, ginger with freckles faces and wings sprouting from their backs in a garnish shade of canary yellow swoop down upon the table. They hover there, mass of xanthous feathers working overtime as they pretend to sit in midair, helping themselves to cakes and pastries now that his fellow Slytherins are no longer using them as projectiles.

"Cream pies, Gred! Cream pies!"

All four Slytherins present stare unabashedly, watching as the duo proceed to gorge themselves upon the sweet treats, bodies steadily enlarging.

It takes Tom a few seconds to organise his thoughts, and then he realizes exactly where this is going.

"We need to leave, now."

The trio do not question his harried command, instead scampering towards the edge of the pitch, dropping the chocolate sticks that were once broomsticks as they go.

.

They clear the hill that was most certainly not there when he first arrived just in time.

The redhead twins explode in a shower of fireworks, an intimidating loud display of vibrant colours that form pictures and words, all of which pass by far too quickly for Tom to actually take them in.

Sitting upon the long blue grass, he considers that perhaps he is not as free of that shock as he had first thought. Or maybe this is all some kind of horrible, potion induced dream.

How sad a state of affairs it must be, for Tom to prefer a hallucinogenic potion being slipped into his morning coffee -he will never look at tea in the same way again- by an ambitious classmate, than to what appears to be reality.

At least he is no longer alone in his suffering, the trio seem just as flabbergasted, if not even more dumbstruck than what he was to begin with.

"Well, I see you've met Gred and Forge."

And there's the green eyed asshole.

.

Ah, I have no idea what I'm writing here. I just got the idea, and rolled with it. It was gonna be a oneshot, but then ideas kept coming, and more and more characters kept muscling in, so I stopped after the first 5,000ish words to post it as a chapter.

Anyway, welcome to Harry's Wonderland. Featuring the delights of; Harry as the Cheshire Cat, guest appearances from a very confused Gellert Grindelwald, a Queen of Lemondrops, the Amazing Bouncing Ferret, and the very unamused Tom Riddle. And of course, many more.

Otheriwse known as I wanted to write some Gen and something absurd. There's very little plans for this, other than a few characters cast in roles that may change, a very happy Basilisk and Harry's love of delicious irony.

Thoughts?

Tsume

xxx