Chapter 1: Ironically Alive

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So! I am back!! And I bet you guys weren't expecting this.

"But author-chan, what happened to the cute twin brothers, or the cute soulmates having fun together?!!"

Well, you see, I got this idea yesterday, and I literally am now obsessed with idea of Tom becoming Harry's slave after the war. Why was I the first to think of this. It's such a good idea. I actually started crying when I got the idea. ((IF ANYBODY WANTS TO MAKE THEIR OWN STORY WITH THIS IDEA P L E A S E DO I BEG YOU I"M SO DESPERATE FOR MORE OF THIS))

So you guys get to deal with this crap. Yeah I know it sucks, and the tags suck even worse, but eeehhhh. :D


 "Tom Riddle," the voice echoed, sounding impossibly loud in his ears.

His body tensed without permission, knowing the next words would decide his fate. Perhaps, if he were lucky, it would only be death.

He doubted it, even before the words had left the judges mouth.

"You are hereby sentenced to be Harry Potter's slave."

. . . . .

Harry stared at the letter in his hand, a confused expression adorning his face. What could the Ministry possibly want with him this time? They promised they wouldn't bother him unless it was for the utmost importance.

He frowned, rereading the words a few times, summoning him to one of the many offices they have in a couple hours, but ultimately shrugged.

'Might as well see what they want this time.'

There was nothing to gain by refusing, and they would just keep pestering him until he agreed, anyways.

Harry sighed, throwing the letter onto his desk, not sparing it a second glance. They didn't even bother telling him why he was being asked to come this time. Usually they at least grace him with why.

He sighed again, wishing he could go back to bed.

"Kreacher!" Harry called down the hall, despite that being a completely unnecessary action.

The house elf popped in the room only a second later, giving Harry a short bow. "Is Master needing something?"

"The Ministry just sent me a letter—something about compensation for the war—at two. Would you remind me when it gets close to that time?"

"Of course, Master. Would you be wanting any lunch?" Kreacher replied.

"Maybe sandwiches or something, please," Harry shrugged. "Nothing big. I'll be in the garden."

Kreacher disappeared with a quiet pop, most likely to the kitchen to start on lunch. Harry was just glad they had gotten past their differences and come to an understanding, especially since he was now living in Grimmauld Place with the house elf. Harry had refurnished a bunch of the rooms, getting rid of everything—okay, most things—dangerous, including the very loud screaming head of Walburga Black. Everything that was important to Kreacher went in the house elf's own room, where he could furnish it however he likes, as long as it's not disruptive. (Harry doesn't even know what all he has in there anymore, and he doesn't think he wants to know.)

Harry headed out back to work on his small garden, a mixture of magical and muggle plants, some for potions, others just for show, and some even for eating. One thing the Dursleys had managed to beat into him was a hobby of gardening. He liked the feel of the soil beneath his hands, the plants coming to life because of his efforts, and being able to literally taste hard work he put into them, in some cases.

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