myhyperfixatedmess

[myhyperfixatedmess]

What was Almost Me.

Chapter 1: The Choice to Turn Around

Okay, yeah my platonic time travel Tomarry idea? I totally ran with it, so here I go. First chapter, testing the waters a bit. Idk why I'm starting this during exam season but yk, I love to torture myself.

—

History is written in blood and ink, but Harry Potter is neither historian nor saint. Dropped into 1943, he finds himself tangled in a war of shadows, where every choice cuts deeper, and even salvation has a price. Some ghosts just aren’t dead yet.

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: Slight death and war reflections, Harry has been through it.

Time was fickle.

It wasn’t meant to be touched, or twisted, or bent under the will of those who thought they knew better. Harry Potter knew that. He knew it like he knew war—like a wound that never fully healed. Dangerous, unpredictable, and irreversible, time was not a thing to play with.

But Harry had never been particularly good at doing what he was supposed to.

He sat in the stillness of the Room of Requirement, the enchanted object resting in the palm of his hand. It didn’t look like much—just a small, stone disc with runes etched deep into its face. It pulsed faintly with old magic, the kind that felt like it was watching you, weighing your intentions.

The books he found said it could take you back. Not just hours or days like a Time-Turner, but years. Decades. To the moment you needed most.

And Harry… he needed this.

He had found it half by accident, tucked in the bottom of a forgotten trunk in a corner of the Room that never revealed itself before. Maybe it had been meant for him. Maybe fate was just feeling cruel.

He hadn’t told anyone. Not Ron. Not Hermione. Not Dumbledore.

Because if he told them, they’d try to stop him.

And Harry wasn’t sure he’d survive one more year of watching people die. Of waiting for Voldemort to make the next move. Of playing defense in a war he hadn’t chosen.

No, if there was even the smallest chance that he could stop it—all of it—then he had to try.

He had thought, once, that if he could just go back, he might kill Tom Riddle before he ever became Voldemort. A clean solution. Final.

But the idea had soured quickly in his mind. No, he couldn’t do that.

He wouldn’t.

Because Harry had read enough. Learned enough. And when he looked at Tom Riddle, he didn’t just see Voldemort—he saw what he could have become. A boy raised without love, twisted by fear, hungry for power because power meant safety.

Tom Riddle had been a mirror, once. And Harry wasn’t sure if that scared him more, or less.

Maybe he couldn’t save him.But maybe he could reach him. Even just for a moment.

Maybe that would be enough.He closed his fingers around the stone and whispered the year like a prayer.

“1943.”

...The shift was immediate—violent, even.

Magic unlike anything Harry had ever felt before surged around him, pressing in from every direction. It wasn’t painful, not exactly, but it pulled him apart and reassembled him in a breathless second, like the world had exhaled and rearranged itself to make room for him.

When he opened his eyes, the Room of Requirement was gone.

The air was colder. The lighting, dimmer. The architecture familiar, but… off. Quieter. As if Hogwarts itself had not yet settled into the scars it would one day bear.

He was in a hallway he recognized—near the Headmaster’s office—but the portraits were different. Fewer. And when he reached the stone gargoyle and muttered a guess at a password, it shifted aside as though someone had expected him.

The spiral staircase brought him to a wooden door that opened before he could knock.

And there he was.Armando Dippet.Alive. Real. Grey-bearded and fragile-looking, with sharp eyes beneath heavy brows. The air carried a mustiness that reminded Harry of long-forgotten books and aging secrets. Behind Dippet stood Professor Slughorn, looking younger and less rotund, though just as pink-faced and shrewd.

“Ah,” Dippet said, standing slowly. “You must be the transfer.”

Harry nodded quickly, heart hammering.

“Yes, sir. Harry.”

“Harry…?” He’d thought about this. Rehearsed it in his head a dozen times.

“Harry Evans.” It was his mother’s name. Uncommon enough to slip by, but real enough to feel steady in his mouth.

Slughorn gave a curious blink. “Evans? Don’t think I’ve heard of that family before.”

“We’re not really well-known,” Harry said, managing a modest shrug. “I’m from a small village. Our school’s… not exactly on the Ministry’s radar.”

“Indeed,” Dippet murmured, eyes lingering on him for a second too long. “Well, we welcome all magical youth here, especially those with potential. Your Headmaster’s letter speaks highly of you.”

Harry gave a polite, vaguely grateful smile. He had forged the letter himself with Hermione’s old dictation notes and a lot of guesswork.

Dippet motioned to the Sorting Hat, now resting on a stool that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “As you're joining late in the year, we’ll do this here. The students will meet you at dinner.”

Harry moved toward it slowly, not sure why his hands were trembling. He sat down, placed the hat on his head, and let it fall over his ears.

“How interesting...” the hat murmured in his ear.Harry stiffened on the stool, forcing himself not to look up at Dippet and Slughorn, who were watching him expectantly. His heart thudded, did the hat know? Could it tell he wasn’t meant to be here?

“Misplaced, are we?” the hat mused, its voice curling like smoke through his thoughts. “Very misplaced indeed. But no matter... there’s really only one place for you now.”

Harry’s fingers clenched the edge of the stool. He already knew what was coming, but still, he held his breath.

“Slytherin!” the hat finally declared, loud and clear.

Harry looked up, his eyes meeting Dippet’s mildly interested gaze. The Headmaster gave a small, polite nod, but Slughorn, standing beside him, broke into a broad, delighted grin.

“Oh, wonderful!” Slughorn exclaimed, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. He looked downright jubilant, clearly imagining Harry as his next prized pupil. Harry realized with a flicker of amusement—and a pang of irony—that he was already in Slughorn’s collection, just... not yet. Or not anymore? Time was strange like that.

“Horace, would you show Mr. Evans to the Great Hall? Dinner should just be starting,” Dippet said, glancing between Slughorn and Harry.

“Mr. Evans,” Dippet added with a nod and a welcoming smile, “Professor Slughorn will see you there.”

Slughorn, already half turned, beamed. “Of course, Headmaster! Right this way, Mr. Evans.”

Harry stood quickly, fumbling a bit as he followed Slughorn out of the office.

“You’ll find,” Slughorn began, his voice full of cheery pride as they strode down the corridor, “that Slytherin is quite the extraordinary house. I must say, I’m extremely pleased—very pleased indeed—that you’ll be joining us. If your former Headmaster’s praises are anything to go by, I daresay I have a group of boys who’ll be most interested in making your acquaintance.”

Harry forced a polite smile, biting back the urge to roll his eyes.

Before long, they reached a towering set of double doors.

“This is the Great Hall,” Slughorn announced, gesturing grandly. “Where all our feasts are held and, well, where most of the magic happens, if you’ll forgive the expression.” He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.

Harry nodded along, schooling his features into polite curiosity. He needed to look wide-eyed, like all of this was new. For at least a few days, he’d have to pretend Hogwarts itself was a complete mystery.

At Slughorn’s command, the doors swung open, and the chatter inside dimmed as dozens of eyes turned toward them. Harry froze for half a second, a flush creeping up his neck at the sudden attention. He knew, of course, that a new student was bound to cause a stir—especially midyear—but the weight of all those stares prickled uncomfortably down his spine.

He was used to being watched back in his own time, but here? Here, he couldn’t afford it. He couldn’t be anyone worth noticing. Not if he wanted this to work. Still, a bitter little thought crept in: I’m already breaking the rules of nature and time, what’s one more risk?

Slughorn led the way into the Great Hall, Harry trailing a few steps behind. The murmur of conversation dimmed slightly as they entered, curiosity rippling through the room like a silent wave. Without missing a beat, Slughorn steered him straight toward the Slytherin table, a place Harry never imagined he’d feel anxious to approach.He kept his gaze down, carefully avoiding eye contact with the sea of emerald and silver as they walked. Still, he felt the weight of their stares, sharp, appraising, and undeniably judgmental.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a few lingering glances, their expressions cool and guarded, yet unmistakably familiar. There it was, that glint. The same one he’d seen in Slytherins of his own time: ambitious, cunning, always calculating.

The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He was surrounded by the ancestors of the people he’d grown up avoiding. Faces different but eerily echoing the same legacy.

Not that it mattered, he reminded himself grimly. Knowing people who weren’t even born yet wouldn’t mean anything here. This was a different battlefield, and he was utterly alone.

“All right, Harry!” Slughorn’s voice boomed, shattering Harry’s thoughts and pulling him abruptly back to the present.

He was now acutely aware of the group standing before him—a carefully selected circle of Slytherins, their eyes sharp and watchful, their attention fixed entirely on him. They barely spared a glance for the professor who’d brought him along.

“Boys, this is Harry Evans,” Slughorn announced brightly, gesturing with an open hand. “Harry, these fine young men are the pride of Slytherin House, no better company in the castle.”

The group stared back, unimpressed, their faces a mix of boredom and mild disdain. A few exchanged knowing looks, snickering quietly. Others shook their heads, muttering under their breath just loud enough for Harry to catch the tail end of some less-than-friendly remarks.

Harry shifted on his feet, pulse quickening, but forced his expression to harden. He lifted his chin, setting his jaw in what he hoped passed for Slytherin steel, a silent challenge, as if to say I belong here just as much as you do.

But beneath the bravado, a coil of anxiety tightened in his gut. He was painfully aware of the tightrope he’d have to walk. Blending in meant keeping his head down, but also, perhaps, mirroring their attitudes just enough to earn trust. The thought made his skin crawl. Would he be expected to spout pure-blood nonsense? Could he even pull that off without raising suspicion?

And worse still—would they believe him if he tried?

He wouldn't dare lie about being pureblood. That was a risk too far. Slytherins were like sharks; the slightest whiff of falsehood, and they’d tear him apart.

"Well! I'll leave you to get to know each other now, boys,” Slughorn proclaimed after several seconds had passed in heavy silence. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Evans."

Harry nodded, forcing himself to return the professor’s cheerful smile. Slughorn left without looking back, moving easily through the tables and around groups of students. He smiled politely at several acquaintances as he continued away to the teachers table at the front.

Harry turned back to the Slytherins, allowing himself—for the first time—to really look at them. His gaze landed on a blond boy seated near the center of the group, who was watching him with a sharp glint in his pale eyes. There was something familiar in his aristocratic features, the tilt of his chin—Harry would have bet money this one was a Malfoy.

“Do sit down, Evans… was it?” the blond drawled, lips quirking with thinly veiled amusement, as if this whole situation was an unexpected joke at Harry’s expense.

Harry hesitated only a moment before sliding into the space that had been cleared for him, the shuffle of bodies around the bench making room. His shoulders stiffened slightly as he sat, acutely aware of the eyes that followed his every move.

“Yes. Harry Evans. Nice to meet you,” Harry said, nodding politely toward the blond, keeping his tone neutral—measured.

The boy didn’t respond right away, instead glancing to either side of him, sharing a brief, knowing look with two others flanking him. One of them looked oddly familiar—there was something about his nose, the set of his jaw—but Harry couldn’t quite place why. The other, light-haired and lean, was a stranger to him, though he couldn’t help but suspect both were connected to familiar names in his own time.

He kept his expression unreadable, even as his mind spun—already piecing together the puzzle of who was who, and more importantly, how he was going to fit in.

“Malfoy. Abraxas Malfoy,” the blond finally said, holding out a hand.

Harry stared at the outstretched fingers for a brief moment, weighing the gesture, before reaching forward and clasping the offered hand. He gave it a firm shake, doing his best to ignore the faint, clammy coldness of Malfoy’s palm. When they released, Abraxas returned his hands to the table, crossing them in an easy, practiced way that screamed polished pureblood confidence.

“This is Orion Black,” Malfoy continued smoothly, nodding toward the dark-haired boy on his right, “and Cassius Avery,” gesturing to the leaner boy on his left.

A thrill of recognition flickered through Harry, quick and sharp. He knew those names. Of course he did. Black—his stomach gave a twist. Sirius. The boy sitting in front of him had to be Sirius’s father, if Harry’s memory was correct. Orion Black. The resemblance was there too—dark hair, piercing eyes—but any flicker of familiarity was quickly undercut by a ripple of discomfort. What Harry did know about Sirius’s father was far from comforting: a true-blood supremacist, deeply entrenched in the worst of pureblood ideology, and—if time held its course—destined to become an eager supporter of Voldemort.

His gaze flicked to Avery, no less unsettling a name, another mark in the roster of Death Eaters to come.

Harry schooled his features into polite interest, tamping down the mix of revulsion and dread knotting in his chest. He couldn’t afford to show anything but calm curiosity now.

“Evans,” Orion Black repeated, tasting the name like he was testing its worth. His dark eyes raked over Harry, sharp and searching. “Haven’t heard that one before. Your family’s not from around here?”

Harry kept his expression neutral, his mind racing. “No, my family keeps to itself,” he replied smoothly. “We don’t exactly seek the spotlight.”

That earned a few exchanged glances between the boys, some skeptical, some intrigued.

“Interesting,” Cassius Avery drawled, leaning in slightly, his tone dripping with something between challenge and mockery. “Not many pureblood families stay in the shadows. You’d think we’d have at least heard of you.”

Harry met his gaze evenly, not denying he was a pureblood but not exactly saying he was either. “Not everyone sees value in… publicity.”

That, at least, seemed to strike a chord. Abraxas Malfoy’s lips quirked in mild amusement, his pale eyes watching Harry more closely now, like someone examining an unexpected card in their deck.

“Well said,” Malfoy murmured, tapping one elegant finger against the table. “Still, you must be someone, to be dropped into our midst like this. Bit sudden, isn’t it?”

Harry shrugged lightly, playing the part of someone aloof but guarded. “It wasn’t my choice. Circumstances change.”

For a beat, there was silence as they studied him, hunters circling new prey, but not quite ready to strike.

“Circumstances,” Orion echoed, his eyes narrowing slightly, a flicker of calculation behind them. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

“Indeed,” Malfoy agreed smoothly, raising his goblet in a casual salute. “To new… circumstances.”

Harry lifted his own goblet in return, clinking it lightly against Malfoy’s, forcing a smile as the weight of their scrutiny settled over him like a cloak. He was in now, whether they fully trusted him yet or not, the game had begun.

Harry was good at playing games with dangerous opponents, he’d had plenty of practice. And frankly, these boys didn’t even crack the top tier of harrowing adversaries. No, there was someone far more compelling, far more dangerous, that he had his eye on.

Where was Riddle?

Harry’s green eyes began sweeping down the Slytherin table, scanning faces quickly and carefully. Surely this group of well-bred malcontents wouldn’t stray far from their leader. From what Harry knew of Tom Riddle, it was a safe bet that the very group Slughorn had deposited him with—the polished heirs and budding elitists—were the same ones Riddle had handpicked to be his first followers, the ones who would eventually become the Death Eaters.

Already, they circled him like vultures, no doubt hanging on his every word, eager for scraps of power.

Harry’s pulse quickened. He needed to find him.

.

.

.

A few seats down, Harry finally spotted him.

Tom Riddle.

He sat with a book open in front of him, completely absorbed, or at least appearing to be. There was no grand entrance, no theatrical sizing up. Just Tom, calm and unreadable, as though Harry’s arrival were of no consequence at all.

And yet, as if sensing the weight of Harry’s gaze, Riddle glanced up. Their eyes met, just for a heartbeat. Riddle’s expression was cool, blank, offering nothing of the monster Harry knew he’d become. No curiosity, no interest. Just a fleeting, impassive look before he dropped his gaze back to his book, dismissing Harry as swiftly as he’d acknowledged him.

Harry exhaled through his nose, dragging his attention back to Malfoy and the others, the ones at least willing to speak, even if every word felt like walking a tightrope.

He’d have to play the long game.

––

After dinner, Malfoy and the others led Harry deep into the dungeons, their footsteps echoing softly in the cool, stone corridors. Twisting and turning through passageways that felt more like a labyrinth than a school, they finally stopped before a stone wall.

“This is the Slytherin common room,” one of them announced in a flat voice. Wasting no time in saying the password, which revealed a wooden door that the Slytherins confidently ambled through. Malfoy narrowed his eyes, and with a hand urging Harry to follow. Harry hesitated. Then relented, the whole situation vaguely reminiscent of his second year.

The room was practically identical to what he'd seen in his own time. Greenish light shimmered from lamps and the reflection of the Black Lake rippled across the walls. Dark leather armchairs and polished tables stood in neat rows. It was cold, but not unpleasantly so, a place that seemed to wrap ambition around you like a cloak.

They guided him further, to a set of stairs spiraling down to the boys' dormitory. Five beds, neatly arranged, each with dark green hangings and thick covers. His trunk (which he hadn't a clue where it came from) was already there at the foot of one bed, perfectly in place.

“Good night,” Avery and another he'd learned to be Nott, intoned strangely in unison, turning sharply and retreating to their own beds.Harry stood rather still for a moment, taking it in.

The others were already settling in. Quiet, tired, murmured goodnights. No one seemed interested in speaking much anymore, especially not to Harry.

He dressed mechanically, pulling on the too-familiar pajamas.

He climbed into bed, drew the heavy curtains shut, and lay on his back, staring up into the darkness.

The silence felt enormous.

His fingers curled into the blanket as thoughts churned in his mind, sharp-edged, unsettled.

He thought of what he’d left behind: friends, battles, pain, and victory that never seemed to end anything. He thought of the boy he was supposed to be here, the role he’d need to play.

And he thought of the weight of it all—how every step he took now twisted the strands of the past and the future together. What had he undone by being here? What had he already changed? Was the world outside this castle crumbling or healing without him? Did it even matter?

His eyes narrowed in the dark, teeth clenching.

This time, he promised himself, I won’t let it slip away. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it differently. I have to.

He lay there for a long while, the murmur of the lake just audible beyond the walls, until finally his body betrayed him and he fell into an uneasy sleep. Wrapped in the cold, heavy quiet of Slytherin, and the uncertain storm of what was still to come.

. . .

[myhyperfixatedmess]

Okay, so like, I really wanna write a Harry Potter time travel fic. You know the classic “Harry goes back in time to stop Tom Riddle from becoming Voldemort” thing? But this one wouldn’t be Tomarry. He doesn't change Tom by making him fall in love with him or anything like that. Instead, he changes him by showing him real companionship—platonic companionship. Like, the kind of connection that feels almost brotherly.

I want to focus on a story where Harry tries to change Tom not through romance, but because he genuinely wants to prevent all the pain Voldemort ends up causing. And because he gets Tom—they’re two sides of the same coin. Parallels. Reflections. One is what could’ve been, the other is what was. I want to explore that dynamic.

But I’m lowkey afraid no one’s gonna read it just because it’s not smutty or ship-centered. So please, would anyone read something like that? Do yall like the idea at all? I just wanna write so bad 😣

[myhyperfixatedmess]

Unsent.

Tom Riddle x Reader

In which before Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort, he wrote you a letter. One last truth before burying who he once was. He never sent it. Years later, in the wreckage of a place you once called home, you find it.

Word count: 537

Writing is so fun yall

The old drawer sticks.You have to wrench it open, hands coated in dust and ash. The abandoned study is silent, only the whispers of ghosts remain here. No one's stepped foot in this room for decades, not since the world turned to war, and he stopped being Tom.

You didn’t come looking for anything.

And yet… something finds you.

Tucked beneath a stack of aged parchment and cracked inkwells is a letter, folded with surprising care. The wax seal is long broken, the handwriting—his handwriting—impossibly familiar. Your breath stutters as you see your name inked in black across the front.

It’s dated a week before everything fell apart.

Before he disappeared into darkness.

Before Tom Riddle died and Voldemort was born.

Your fingers tremble as you unfold it.

. . .

My dearest,

I’m writing this knowing you’ll never read it.

Because if you did, it would mean I failed—either in keeping my distance, or in letting you go the way I should have from the start.

I imagine, in another life, I would’ve read this to you instead. Out loud, in the quiet of the common room, where your fingers would pull at the frayed threads of my sleeve and your laughter would curl around my heart like a spell I never wanted to break.

But this isn’t that life.

And I’m not the boy you loved anymore.

I think I could have been. With you. Maybe. If I’d let myself.

You saw something in me no one else did. Something I buried. Something I didn’t think I deserved. And I hated you for it, sometimes. For hoping for me.

But mostly, I loved you for it.I never said it. Never let the words pass my lips, because I was terrified they’d make me weak. That you would.

But I did. I do.

I love you.

I love you in ways that scare me. That tear at the part of me that wants power more than peace. I love you enough to lie to myself about it, to convince myself that letting you go is protection, not punishment.

I’m going somewhere you can’t follow. I have to.

The world is broken, and I can’t fix it the way you want me to. Not with softness. Not with love. Only with fear. Only with control. I know you wouldn’t agree.

That’s why I can’t take you with me.

But if there’s ever a version of me left somewhere—tucked between the pages of a forgotten book, in the echo of your name when I think of it in silence, I hope you know he never stopped loving you.

Even as he let you go.

Even as he became something else entirely. As he became me.

Forgive me, if you can.

And if not, remember me, if you must.

But don’t love me. Not anymore.

Not when I couldn’t choose you.

—Tom

. . .

You read it once.

Then again.

The ink has long since dried, but your tears are fresh—dripping softly onto a name that no one dares speak anymore.

You press the letter to your chest.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself mourn him—not the monster he became.

But the boy who almost loved you right.

[myhyperfixatedmess]

Hint of you

Tom Riddle x Reader

In which someone tries to slip Tom Riddle a love potion which he only notices because of you.

Word count: 633

Tom Riddle was magnetic in the most dangerous way. It wasn't just his looks, though his striking features certainly didn't hurt. No, it was the way he carried himself, sharp and regal, like a king draped in shadows. He was brilliant, cunning, and born with an air of inevitable greatness that made people flock to him like moths to flame.

And yet, Tom had never once spared any of them more than a calculated glance. The girls who batted their lashes, who just happened to need help with homework or lingered a little too long near the Slytherin common room, were beneath his interest. To him, they were tools, distractions, noise.

Until you.

A year into your unlikely relationship, you still caught people staring—whispers trailing behind you like perfume as you walked beside him. Tom Riddle, the untouchable, had chosen you. The jealousy was nearly tangible.

You sat together at lunch, side by side at the Slytherin table. His so-called “friends,” pureblood lapdogs dressed as comrades, chatted aimlessly across the table. You leaned a little toward Tom, distractedly spooning some soup into your mouth while he picked up his goblet.

He raised it halfway to his lips before he paused.

Then, his eyes narrowed.

He tilted the cup slightly, watching the liquid swirl, then sniffed.

“Huh,” he said, his voice low.

You blinked and turned to him. “What?”

He set the cup down gently, eyes sharp and unreadable. “Amortentia.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Wait—what?” You leaned over to look at the goblet as if it might confess to its crimes.

“Someone slipped Amortentia into my tea,” he said flatly, with the kind of disgust most people reserved for moldy food or betrayal. “Poorly brewed, too.”

You drew back, eyes wide. “You’re joking.”

His lips curled into a mirthless smile. “Unfortunately not.”

You looked around, paranoia prickling under your skin. “That’s insane. I mean, that’s so illegal. Someone actually tried that on you?” You snorted despite yourself. “Okay, bold. Stupid, but bold.”

His gaze slid to you, something dark and amused glinting in his eyes. “Bold, yes. But idiotic. They didn't even hide it well.”

You blinked. “Wait… how did you know?”

Tom turned to you, and for the briefest moment, the walls came down. He wasn’t Lord Riddle, or heir of Slytherin, or future anything. He was just your boyfriend, with that sly, teasing glimmer reserved only for you.

“My tea,” he said softly, “doesn’t normally smell so strongly of you.”

Leaning forward ever so slightly as he blinked slowly at you. “Amortentia reflects what you desire. It’s subtle, but noticeable. The scent was… overwhelming. Not in a bad way, of course. Just obvious.” he said smoothly, leaning back in his chair, eyes half-lidded with his usual cool detachment.

Your face warmed instantly, and you fought the instinct to hide behind your hands.

“Oh,” you said stupidly.

He chuckled, quiet and genuine, and shook his head.

Your lips parted, unsure whether to laugh or melt under his gaze. The others at the table seemed oblivious, engaged in some stiff conversation about bloodline superiority. But you could hardly hear them.

“You hate love potions,” you whispered, glancing at the goblet with fresh wariness.

“I loathe them,” he agreed. “Artificial affection is the most pathetic form of manipulation.

Though,” he added, voice dropping, “I suppose I should be flattered. They’re getting more desperate.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you know who it was?”

“Not yet,” Tom said, fingers settled against the table. “But I will."

You stared at him. Dangerous. Cold. Yours.

You smiled a little and leaned into him, bumping your shoulder against his. “Well, I guess it’s nice to know you don’t need a potion to want me.”

His eyes cut to yours, sharp but fond. “They couldn’t brew a potion strong enough.”

——

I am in such a writing for Tom Riddle kick, I may be losing my mind 🙏

[myhyperfixatedmess]

"Tommy"

Tom Riddle x Reader

In which Riddle was always your "Tommy"

Word count: 418

"Tommy."

The word sliced through the quiet like a curse. Or maybe a blessing. He could never decide.

Wool's Orphanage was a grim place, all dull greys and colder glances, but you had never minded it as much as the others. Not because it was good, it wasn’t. But because he was there. Tom. Cold, sharp, clever, cruel Tom. He had been like a storm in a bottle from the moment you'd met him. And you, well... you’d always had a habit of reaching for lightning.

Even back then, before the word magic had slipped into your shared vocabulary, you'd stuck to his side like ivy. He was the boy the other children feared, the boy the matron watched like a hawk. But you? You’d just looked at him like he was ordinary.

And that drove him mad.

Then came Dumbledore. Hogwarts. The Sorting Hat had barely brushed your heads before shouting Slytherin. It surprised no one, least of all Tom. Ambition practically steamed off his skin.

It wasn't long before he started gathering people, purebloods, half-bloods with nasty views, boys with ancient names and eyes full of legacy: Abraxas Malfoy, Reinhard Lestrange, Clarence Avery, Orion Black. They weren’t friends, not really. They were useful. Stepping stones. Soldiers. Fools.

But you?

You weren’t like them. You didn’t grovel. You didn’t posture. You didn’t fear him. You never had.

And worst of all, you still called him "Tommy."

Not "Tom." Not "Riddle."

Not even "Lord," like he sometimes toyed with behind closed doors.

"Tommy, you forgot your book."

"Tommy, are you sulking again?"

"Tommy, you’re terrifying that first year."

"Tommy, stop trying to hex the sky. It’s not your fault it’s raining."

And he'd tolerate it. Barely. Though the Malfoy boy had once muttered something about your “disrespect,” only for Tom to shoot him a look so sharp it could have flayed skin.

You weren’t sure what he was turning into. You didn’t pretend to understand the shadows you sometimes saw in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. But you’d known him before the power, before the whisper of greatness, before he discovered just how far his charm and control could take him.

You knew the boy who locked himself in the cupboard and muttered to snakes to keep the silence at bay.

And that boy, your Tommy, still looked at you sometimes like he hated you for being the one witness to it all.

But he never told you to leave.

And you never did.

[myhyperfixatedmess]

The Week // Monday

Satoru Gojo x Reader

In which a 19 year old Gojo is given a mission he wasn't expecting. A job to observe and possibly kill the only living descedant of Ryomen Sukuna– a girl who doesn't seem all that dangerous.

Note: first ever anime fic, spare me and my poor writing 😣. Anyway, this idea came to me in a vision and will be a short series. Hope you enjoy!

Content Warning: Mentions of confinement, danger, and implied emotional manipulation.

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.

Monday.

The chamber was cold, cloaked in shadows save for the pale glow of the towering screens surrounding the room. The elders of Jujutsu High sat hidden behind them, their distorted voices spilling into the vast emptiness.

Gojo Satoru stood alone at the center. Dark-tinted glasses masked his sharp gaze, reflecting the cold glow of those screens. His posture was relaxed, hands stuffed into his uniform pockets, but there was a quiet tension in the way his weight shifted.

"You summoned me," Gojo drawled, voice light but edged with boredom. "What’s the job this time? Exorcism? Babysitting? Oh, wait! Let me guess. Both?"

"Watch your tone," one elder snapped. Gojo tilted his head lazily, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Or what? You’ll scold me?"

"Enough," another voice cut in, colder. "This concerns Ryomen Sukuna."

That made Gojo pause, the smirk faltering just slightly. "...Sukuna? Bit late for that, don’t you think?"

"Not Sukuna himself. His bloodline." Gojo’s brows lifted above his glasses. "You’re joking." No one laughed.

"One descendant remains," an elder continued. "The last trace of Sukuna’s blood. A girl. Your age." Gojo exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair.

"And what exactly do you want me to do with her? Kill her?" "Observe her." Gojo blinked.

"Come again?"

"She has been in our custody for years. Sealed away. But it is time to determine whether she can exist in this world without becoming a threat."

Gojo let out a low, humorless laugh.

"So you want me to test drive Sukuna’s heir? See if she crashes and burns?"

"Consider this an evaluation," another elder said. "You are to assess her. If she proves stable, she may be... of use. If not—"

"I get it." Gojo’s smirk returned, but it didn’t touch his eyes. "Fine. Let’s see what kind of monster you’ve been hiding."

–

The halls of Jujutsu High grew colder the deeper Gojo walked.

The layers of cursed seals and reinforced barriers pressed against him like a suffocating weight. Doors of iron and stone lined the walls, etched with talismans that glowed faintly in the dim light. Layers upon layers of paranoia.

All this for one girl…Gojo’s steps echoed as he neared the final door.

Massive. Thick iron. Covered in ancient scripts that pulsed like veins.

A guard stood beside it, tense. Gojo barely spared him a glance.

"Open it." The man hesitated, but the seals began to peel away, burning into ash as the door groaned and slowly swung open. The air that seeped out was stale, heavy, untouched by time.

The cell was small. Empty. Stone walls, a thin bed, discarded chains on the floor. And you. You sat on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to your chest, your head bowed slightly.

Then, slowly, you lifted your gaze. Your eyes met his, Gojo stopped. There wasn’t fear in your eyes. No malice, either. Just something deep. Ancient. Patient.

But it wasn’t your cursed energy that caught him off guard. It was the way you looked at him—like someone seeing sunlight through cracks for the first time. Gojo blinked, breaking the silence first.

"Huh." He tilted his head, lips curling lazily. "You’re not what I expected." You didn’t answer.

He stepped in, the door groaning shut behind him.

"Y/N, right?" he asked, voice casual. "Or do you prefer something more dramatic? 'Child of Calamity'? 'Curse Incarnate'?"

Your brow twitched, unimpressed.

"Is that supposed to be funny?" Gojo grinned. "You tell me." Silence. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Alright, let’s cut to it. I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to... babysit, I guess. See if you can handle existing without blowing up the world."

You stared for a long moment.

"Outside."

Gojo blinked. "...What?"

"Take me outside." The demand was simple, but your voice was firm. Gojo raised a brow.

"Wow, straight to it, huh? You haven’t been out in..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. "Wait. How long have they had you in here?"

"Since I was seven."

Gojo’s smirk faltered.

"...Damn."

Your fingers tightened slightly on your knees.

"So? Can I?" Gojo hesitated. He was supposed to assess you carefully, technically keep you contained, maybe even–

But the way you looked at him now, hopeful, alive, threw him off.

"...Fine." He gave a casual shrug. "Let’s get some sun on that ghost skin of yours."

The moment the doors to the outside clicked open, you froze. Wind rushed past, brushing your skin like something foreign, something forgotten.

The sky stretched endlessly above, a soft blue smeared with clouds. Trees rustled gently in the breeze, and far-off voices of students echoed faintly.

You stepped forward, slow at first.

Then faster.

Grass crunched under your feet. The wind tangled in your hair. Gojo leaned lazily against the doorframe, watching you with mild curiosity. You spun once, arms stretching wide, laughing—actually laughing as you tilted your head to the sun.

"Wow," you breathed, spinning again. "It’s amazing! There's so much out here."

Gojo blinked, startled by your sudden burst of energy. "...Okay, didn’t expect that," You turned to him, grinning.

"Do they have gardens here? Or maybe a pond! I want to see everything!" Gojo stared for a second too long. He had been ready to talk about control, about what would happen if you lost it. He was even about to hint at the consequences if things went wrong.

But watching you now, eyes wide, smiling like a kid seeing the world for the first time. He felt the words catch in his throat.

"Yeah," he muttered, looking away. "..Something like that." It bothered him, how excited you were.

Like you didn’t know you were standing on a knife’s edge.

Like you weren’t the monster they said you were. Gojo shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, scowling to himself.

"Come on," he called, forcing a smirk.

"Let’s start with not getting you killed in the first five minutes." You laughed again, chasing after him.

And Gojo found himself thinking a little too much about what he was supposed to do with you.

[myhyperfixatedmess]

[1]

Nobara's betrayal

In my inumaki era 😋

Yn and Inumaki are idiots in love (everybody knows but them)

Toge Inumaki x reader smau

content warning: swearing, suggestive-ish jokes idk.

These two are going crazy, but ofc they're not gonna confess! Silly sorcerers.

JJK obsession came back and with it my love for inumaki so I just had to do one of these ♡

[myhyperfixatedmess]

Bound II

Tom Riddle x Reader.

In which your betrothal is getting harder to deal with.

I II

Word count: 1.4k

Content Warning: None

–––

"You and Riddle!?" screeched Walburga, her hands flying to grip your own. Seraphina looked slightly aghast but kept her usual air of composed indifference.

You lowered your gaze to your lap, fiddling with your fingers.

"Is it really that surprising?" you muttered, feeling your face heat up in humiliation.

"Surprising? No," Walburga said with a scoff. "Scandalous? Absolutely." Her lips twisted into a sly grin as if relishing the drama of it all.

"Exactly," Seraphina chimed in, her tone quieter but no less sharp. "It does seem a curious choice for your parents."

"Curious is an understatement," Walburga cut in, leaning closer. "Tom Riddle? He’s not even properly Gaunt. What a joke!" She laughed, but it was edged with something darker, more calculating than pure mockery.

You sighed, bracing yourself for her tirade.

"Let’s be honest," she went on, waving a hand dismissively. "The Gaunts were barely respectable before, and now? A fading pureblood line, clinging to scraps of glory. Sure, they’ve got Slytherin blood, but Tom? That halfblood is..." She cut herself off, her voice was laced with disgust, but you caught the flicker of envy behind her words.

"Walburga," Seraphina said, a subtle warning in her tone. "He’s not without talent."

"Talent, maybe," Walburga conceded with a shrug. "But what use is talent without a proper name or fortune? Honestly, I wouldn’t waste my time if I were you." Her gaze slid to you, critical and vaguely amused. "Though, I suppose you don’t have much of a choice, do you?"

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay composed. "I’d appreciate it if you didn’t remind me."

"Don’t take it personally," Walburga said breezily. "If anything, I’m jealous. It’ll be entertaining to watch him rise—and maybe fall." She smirked, clearly enjoying the thought.

"Entertaining?" you echoed, incredulous.

"Oh, come now," Walburga said with a sly smile. "Riddle’s not just some brooding nobody. He’s dangerous. Ambitious. Cunning. If I didn’t know better, I’d say your parents think they’re making a power play."

Seraphina nodded slightly, her calm demeanor unshaken. "Perhaps they see something in him that others don’t."

"Or," Walburga interjected, leaning back with a theatrical sigh, "they’ve made a mistake. Either way, darling, I’ll be watching closely. This should be fun."

You stood abruptly, the weight of their words pressing down on you. "If you’ll excuse me," you said stiffly, turning on your heel before they could say more.

Their voices faded as you walked away, Walburga’s laughter lingering in your ears. You just needed to get away—from Walburga, from this marriage, from everything.

The Hogwarts Express was a hive of chatter and excitement as students bustled aboard, eager to return to their familiar routines. You navigated through the train, searching for an empty compartment or at least one with less commotion. Walburga’s words still echoed in your mind, making your already tense shoulders even stiffer. Her dramatics were typical, but for once, they felt too close to the truth.

Finally, you found a quieter compartment at the end of the train. As you slid the door closed and settled into the corner, you allowed yourself a moment to breathe. The prospect of seeing Tom again loomed large, but you hoped the train ride would grant you some respite. The door creaked open moments later, shattering your fragile bubble of peace. A tall figure stepped inside with an air of practiced confidence.

“Mind if I join you?” You looked up, your stomach sinking. Of course, it had to be him.

“Tom,” you said, voice strained but polite. “There are plenty of other compartments.”

“And yet, none quite as intriguing as this one,” he replied smoothly, sliding the door shut behind him.

He took a seat across from you, stretching his legs out just far enough to invade your space. His dark eyes lingered on you with that same unnerving intensity you’d felt back home.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” you muttered, folding your arms defensively.

“Neither did I,” he admitted, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “But then again, we have much to discuss, don’t we?”

You frowned, unsure where this was going. “Discuss? Like what?”

“Our... arrangement.” The way he said the word sent a shiver down your spine.

“I didn’t think there was much to discuss,” you replied, keeping your tone even. “The terms are set, aren’t they? Or do you have some objection?”

Tom leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Not an objection, no. But I find myself curious about you. Surely you feel the same about me.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his candor. “Curious? About what, exactly?”

“Everything,” he said, his voice soft but commanding. “Your thoughts, your ambitions, your fears... your opinions on the arrangement, for instance.”

You hesitated, unsure if this was a trap. “It doesn’t matter what I think, does it? The decision has already been made.”

Tom’s smirk grew. “Perhaps. But you underestimate the power of influence.”

His words hung heavy in the air, their meaning layered and elusive.

“Is this how you plan to win me over?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “By being cryptic and unsettling?”

Tom chuckled, a low, smooth sound that sent another shiver down your spine. “Win you over? You assume I need to.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You think I’ll just accept this without question?”

“I think,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “that we both know how to make the best of a situation. And that, despite your protests, there’s a part of you that finds all this... intriguing.”

His words struck a nerve, not because they were entirely false but because they were too close to the truth.

“What do you want from me, Tom?” you asked, your tone sharper than you intended.

“For now?” He leaned back, folding his arms and watching you like a hawk.

“Honesty.”

You opened your mouth to respond but were interrupted by the compartment door sliding open again. The train compartment door slid open, and you immediately wished you could disappear. Walburga Black, in all her imperious glory, stepped inside, her sharp eyes flitting from you to Tom. Seraphina followed closely behind, her expression neutral but her gaze assessing.

“Well, well,” Walburga drawled, a sly grin curling her lips. “What have we here? I didn’t expect to find you in such... interesting company.”

Tom, seated across from you, leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable but his dark eyes flickering with faint amusement. He didn’t rise to greet her, which only seemed to amuse Walburga more.

“Walburga,” you greeted stiffly, your hands tightening in your lap.

“Riddle,” she said, her tone deliberately clipped as she addressed him. “You’ve managed to snag quite the prize, haven’t you?” She gave a pointed glance at you before settling into a seat beside Seraphina.

Tom offered her a polite smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose I have.”

Walburga let out a low laugh, her fingers idly playing with the hem of her sleeve. “I must admit, it’s quite the surprise. I’d have thought the Gaunts would aim higher, but then again, they’re not exactly in a position to be choosy these days, are they?”

Your jaw tightened, but before you could respond, Tom’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “I wasn’t aware you were so invested in my family’s affairs, Miss Black.”

Her grin widened, undeterred. “Oh, not at all. I just find it fascinating, that’s all. A match like this... it does raise questions.” She turned to you, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Don’t you think so, [Y/N]?”

You hesitated, your gaze darting to Tom, who watched you with an unnerving intensity. “I think it’s none of your concern,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady.

Walburga tilted her head, clearly enjoying herself. “Touchy, aren’t we? Relax, darling. I’m merely curious. After all, this isn’t just any pairing. It’s practically a spectacle.”

“Enough, Walburga,” Seraphina murmured, her tone mild but firm.

Walburga huffed but relented, though not before throwing one last smirk in Tom’s direction. “Well, I suppose we’ll see how this all plays out, won’t we? Best of luck to you both.” Her voice dripped with faux sincerity as she rose, brushing past you and out of the compartment with Seraphina in tow.

The door slid shut, leaving you and Tom in a charged silence.

“She’s charming,” Tom said dryly, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “I’m sorry. She’s always like that.”

“No need to apologize,” he replied smoothly. “People like her are easy to handle. They talk too much and think too little.”

You couldn’t help but glance at him, surprised by his calm demeanor. “You didn’t seem bothered at all.”

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

[myhyperfixatedmess]

"This One Means Forever"

Spencer Reid x Reader

The BAU's hunt for an unsub goes terribly wrong.

—

The air in the abandoned warehouse was thick with tension, the shadows of the old building casting eerie shapes against the cracked walls. The BAU team moved cautiously through the dimly lit corridors, weapons drawn, as they closed in on their unsub. Spencer Reid’s mind was racing, the urgency of their mission intensified by the presence of his partner, you, somewhere in the same perilous building.

It had all gone wrong so quickly. They had split up to cover more ground, a necessary but always risky tactic. Now, with the unsub unpredictable and desperate, Spencer’s heart pounded in his chest, each step echoing with the dread of not knowing where you were or what you might be facing.

“Reid, where are you?” Hotch’s voice crackled through the comms, steady yet laced with concern.

“South wing,” Spencer replied, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice. “I’m heading toward the main floor.”

“Be careful,” Hotch urged. “We believe the unsub is armed and extremely dangerous.” Spencer swallowed hard, his grip tightening on his gun. “Copy that.”

As he rounded a corner, a muffled cry reached his ears. It was a sound that chilled him to the bone—your voice, strained and terrified. His heart lurched, and he broke into a run, his fear propelling him forward faster than his mind could calculate the risks.

He burst into a large, empty room, its high ceilings and empty crates providing plenty of places to hide. But his eyes were immediately drawn to the center, where the unsub held you, a knife pressed dangerously against your throat.

Spencer’s voice cracked as he called out your name.

“Spencer, don’t!” you gasped, your eyes wide with terror but your focus sharp. “He has a bomb.”

The unsub's face twisted into a cruel smile. “Nice to see you, Dr. Reid. Thought you might join us.”

Spencer's mind raced, assessing the situation. The unsub had a bomb, but his primary weapon was the knife at your throat. He could see the fear in your eyes, not for yourself but for the danger that hung over them all.

“Please,” you begged, your voice breaking. “Don’t do this.”

Spencer felt his heart shatter at your plea. He raised his hands, trying to stay calm.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice shaking. “Whatever you want, we can work it out. Just let her go.”

“You think you can just waltz in here and fix everything, genius?” the unsub sneered. “You took everything from me. Now I’m taking everything from you.”

Hotch, JJ, and Morgan had arrived, positioning themselves around the room, weapons trained on the unsub. The tension was palpable, each second feeling like an eternity.

“Please, just let her go,” Spencer begged, tears welling in his eyes.

But the unsub’s grip tightened on the knife, and you winced, a small cry escaping your lips. “No more negotiating,” he growled. “This ends now."

Time seemed to slow as the unsub moved. Your eyes met Spencer’s, a look of pure fear and desperate love in them. “I love you,” you mouthed, your eyes brimming with tears.

“No!” Spencer screamed, lunging forward as a shot rang out, echoing through the empty space. The unsub staggered, a look of shock on his face before he crumpled to the ground.

But the knife had already done its damage. You collapsed, blood staining your clothes. Spencer was at your side in an instant, his hands shaking as he tried to stop the bleeding.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice breaking. “You’re going to be okay.”

Your hand clutched his, your grip weak but insistent. “Spencer,” you gasped, your eyes searching his. “I’m so sorry…” Hotch and the others were calling for medics, but Spencer barely heard them. All he could focus on was your pale face, your eyes slowly losing their light.

“Please, you can’t leave me,” he sobbed, pressing his forehead against yours. “We need you. I need you.”

Your lips trembled in a faint smile. “I love you,” you whispered, your voice so faint he could barely hear it. “Forever.”

And then you were gone. The life drained from your eyes, and your hand slipped from his grasp. Spencer’s world shattered in that instant, the pain more than he could bear. He clutched your lifeless body, his cries of anguish echoing through the warehouse.

The team watched in silence, their hearts breaking for their friend. Losing you, the agony etched on Spencer’s face, was a wound that would leave them all scarred.---In the weeks that followed, the BAU struggled to return to their normal rhythm.

The loss was a heavy burden, but it was Spencer who bore the brunt of the grief. He moved through his days in a daze, haunted by memories of you, the dreams you had shared.

Your home, once filled with laughter and warmth, now felt hollow and empty. The reminders of your life together were everywhere—the books you had read, the plans you had made. Each one was a knife twisting in Spencer’s heart.

He often found himself staring at your shared memories, lost in the past. The pain of losing you, of the future you had been robbed of, was a wound that time could never heal.

[myhyperfixatedmess]

Bound

Tom Riddle x Fem!Reader

In which Tom was raised by his grandfather and now a betrothal is in order.

Word count: 1.1k

Content Warning: None

I II

----

Before you stood a man of regal stature, his presence both overwhelming and suffocating. It was almost easy to forget that he shared the same age and school years with you. The weight of his presence was magnified by the realization of what his presence meant. You had to suppress a dry swallow to ease the tightness in your throat.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Or was it Gaunt?

Unlikely as it seemed, you didn't believe he went by that name. Regardless, he was there—the sole heir to the fading Gaunt family. A touch of amusement brushed against you at the irony; the boy didn't even bear the Gaunt name. Though the dwindling bloodline had little else to hold on to.

Generations of tenuous friendship existed between your family and the Gaunts. An alliance of sorts, given the, well, intensity of the Gaunt family. Yet, this current scenario was beyond any prediction. An arranged marriage had been expected, even if begrudgingly, as a consequence of your pureblood lineage. But being paired with the bastard heir of the Gaunt family? That was never on your radar.

You suspected the Gaunts chose your family for their own salvation. Oddly, your parents had accepted the arrangement without protest, despite receiving nothing in return. Tom's halfblood status likely ruffled your parents' beliefs, though they probably consented due to his Gaunt heritage, despite the Muggle name he bore.

And so, here he stood, the man who was to be your future husband. The thought of turning and walking away briefly crossed your mind, but fear of your parents' wrath kept you rooted in place.

"Marvolo, what a pleasure to have you here," your father chimed with an overly cheery tone, his joviality clashing with the somber situation.

"The pleasure is mutual," Marvolo responded curtly, extending his hand to your father for a firm handshake.

"And Tom boy, haven't you grow!" Your father diverted his attention to the other, as him and Marvolo Gaunt ended their greeting. Tom gave a polite smile in response.

"It is nice to meet you, sir," The boy said as his dark eyes shifted over to you.

With a subtle nod, you worked up the courage to acknowledge his presence, meeting his gaze for a fleeting moment. His eyes held a calculated intensity, making your heart race. You had known him for years, had attended the same school, but this encounter was different. Now he was no longer just your classmate. He was Tom Riddle, the heir to the Gaunt legacy, and your betrothed.

A small, almost imperceptible, quirk of his lips suggested a hint of amusement as his attention shifted to you. His gaze swept over you, studying you in a way that felt unnerving yet strangely thrilling. You couldn't help but feel self-conscious under his scrutiny.

"Allow me to introduce you to my daughter," your father spoke, his tone more serious now, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere. He simply gave the two your name.

You inclined your head politely, mustering a delicate smile. "Tom," you greeted, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions inside you.

"An honor," he replied with a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. It was as if he had mastered the art of polite gestures, yet his true intentions remained carefully concealed.

The air between you held a subtle tension, both of you aware of the unspoken expectations and the responsibilities that came with your union. Your parents' voices droned on, discussing the details and formalities, but your attention was locked onto Tom. There was an enigmatic aura about him, an air of mystery that left you simultaneously intrigued and cautious.

As the conversation continued, you couldn't help but wonder how your life had taken such a turn. A mere arrangement had transformed into a bewildering collision of two worlds—yours and Tom's. Your thoughts swirled with questions, doubts, and a hint of curiosity about the man you were destined to share your life with.

The future felt uncertain, yet amidst the uncertainty, there was a glimmer of intrigue, a faint ember of connection between you and the mysterious heir of the Gaunt family.

"Tom," you began, and his dark eyes shifted to yours. "Walk with me?"

He smiled slightly and nodded, following your lead as you guided him through the halls of your home.

You weren't sure if your parents noticed the two of you disappearing, but if they had, you didn't really care. You wanted to at least attempt to get to know this man before signing your future away to him.

"Your estate is very beautiful," Tom spoke first, admiring the portraits of relatives and ancestors that adorned the walls.

"Thank you," you replied, taking a deep breath to gather your thoughts. "I'm glad you like it."He hummed in agreement. "How long has it been in your family?

"You frowned slightly, wondering why he’d ask such an obvious question, but you weren't one to be rude. "Oh, for generations. It was built by my 8th great-grandfather. Of course, it's had a fair amount of renovations since."

"Interesting," he mused. A silence fell upon you, making you want to say anything to fill it.

So you did, albeit ridiculously. "Do you want to marry me?" you asked, with less confidence than you intended.

Tom looked at you with an expression you could only read as amusement. That alone made you want to never speak again.

"Where'd that come from?" The corner of his lips quirked, and the darkness in his eyes lightened.

You mentally facepalmed. Why would you ask him that? "Well, I just—it's just that this is an awfully strange occurrence." You stumbled over your words, a habit you thought you'd grown out of.

"There have been stranger occurrences," he replied, still staring at you with a look that told you he was enjoying this.

"I suppose you're correct, but I am a little worried. I mean, we've known each other for years because of school and such. However, what if you're actually repulsed by me and I have to spend the rest of my life with a man who won't even look in my direction?" You were rambling, of course. You had half a mind to take out your wand and curse yourself.

"Repulsed is quite the word," Tom said, his eyes flicking over your figure so quickly you almost thought you imagined it. "And it is definitely not the one I'd use."

Before you could process what he said or what he meant, you heard a call from the other end of the hall, a mix of your parents and Marvolo Gaunt calling for both of your presence.

The Gaunt family was leaving, and as you rejoined your family's side, Tom sent a smirk your way and mouthed something that looked like, "See you at school."

But as you watched him turn and leave with his grandfather, you suddenly didn't want to go to school anymore. Returning to Hogwarts after that felt like a death sentence in itself.

What on earth were you going to do?

[myhyperfixatedmess]

Bruh not me randomly getting covid, I'm gonna use this as time to write when I feel a little better but for now im gonna do literally nothing. So if anyone wants to send in requests, please do I need to focus on something that isn't the excruciating pain (trust im not being dramatic).

[myhyperfixatedmess]

Intrusion.

Tom Riddle × Fem!Reader

You always had a hard time understanding why Tom kept you so hidden away. One night something happens that makes you realize why.

Word count: 1.7k

Content warning: Hints of a panic attack, violence, depictions of torture.

Soft!Tom makes an appearance!

You were very aware that Tom kept you at a distance from his...business.

Even during your time at school, he only allowed you to attend the Room of Requirement meetings a couple of times after much pleading. Graduating didn't change the situation much, despite your marriage; you didn't mind not knowing every detail of his plans, but the extent of your seclusion felt odd. You just wanted to understand why he kept you hidden away so intensely.

Most days, you tried to convince yourself that being the wife of the Dark Lord was enough, even if you had no say in his world-altering decisions. It was hard to ignore that some of his followers were unaware of your existence, while others knew you only as "The Dark Lord's mistress," a term you doubted Tom was aware of or would tolerate.

Though a few Death Eaters knew you from your Hogwarts days, most remained tight-lipped around you, offering mere nods or quiet acknowledgments. It was clear they feared Tom greatly; making eye contact with you seemed like a perilous act. You weren't sure if it was due to his direct orders or their assumptions about his expectations. Either way, though you couldn't really fault them for hiding from you. While you weren't scared of Tom, you could understand why others would be. 

Quiet apprehension gnawed at you as you contemplated discussing your concerns with Tom. But you reasoned that avoiding potential arguments and trusting him were better choices. After all, you were an adult now, not a teenage worrier. You had married him despite his questionable morals, so who were you to judge?

The muffled conversations behind closed doors and fleeting glimpses of secretive meetings became your new norm. Sometimes you managed to catch glimpses through cracks, only to have the door swiftly shut when you were noticed. While you occasionally wondered about his trust in you, you pushed those doubts away to avoid unnecessary distress. You remained silent, occupying yourself with your own pursuits, whether it was reading, writing, or wandering the halls of the inherited family estate.

On this particular evening, you found yourself in the library, Tom being out for the night, which didn't bother you. As you perused the shelves, a loud bang from downstairs jolted you. Frozen in place, you strained to listen for more sounds, until harsh, unfamiliar voices reached your ears. Loud and aggressive, they echoed from the ground floor.

Panic surged as you realized you were in danger. These voices weren't part of Tom's inner circle, and you backed away from the library door, realizing that someone had broken into your home. The thought of a robbery crossed your mind, but then a chilling realization struck—you hadn't considered the possibility that Tom's ambitious plans might have made enemies.

Your initial instinct was to leave the house, apparate, and contact Tom for help. But as your hand reached for your wand, you remembered it was in your room. Unlike Tom, you couldn't perform wandless magic. Trapped and helpless, the sound of angry shouting grew louder, approaching from downstairs.

With each thud of footsteps ascending the stairs, you strained to catch their words. The first voice, a man's, sent a shiver down your spine as he called out, "Where is that bitch?" It was clear they were after you, and this wasn't just a random intrusion; they intended to harm you.

Anxiety clenched at your heart. You had never felt targeted before, never imagined this vulnerability. You cursed yourself for not being better prepared, for letting yourself be defenseless and alone. As their voices drew nearer, panic coursed through you; you were trapped, with no means of escape. 

With painstaking effort, you inched backward against the library wall, the cold surface offering a stark contrast to your racing heart. The air felt thin and suffocating, your breaths shallow and uneven, while beads of sweat dotted your forehead.

They were right outside the door now.

You pressed your hands against the wall, your pulse pounding in your ears, as you prayed for them not to notice you. They pounded on the door, and you clamped your eyes shut, fear tightening its grip on you with each thud.

A shiver of dread ran down your spine as the door gave way, crashing open under their assault. Two men stormed in, wands at the ready. Your body locked up, terror stifling your voice, and you blinked back tears that threatened to betray your composure. This couldn't be real, it couldn't be happening.

The realization hit that running was futile—your exit was blocked. Your heart raced as their eyes settled on you, and you weighed your chances against them without a wand. Your legs trembled as the fear that gripped you teetered on the edge of overwhelming.

"There she is," one of the men sneered, his gaze locking onto you. Panic gripped you tighter, the world narrowing down to their menacing forms.

"We've been looking for you. I'll take her. Come along." His companion's nod was a chilling confirmation, and your pulse quickened as he aimed his wand at you. Their grip tightened, hauling you forward, and you struggled against their grasp. Your voice wavered as you spoke, desperation evident, "Don't do anything foolish. Let me go!"

Their faces twisted with anger at your words, their cruelty evident.

"Voldemort's whore has a temper," the other man taunted, the use of Voldemort's name sending a shock through you. These were Tom's followers, but why target you? They had to know the repercussions of angering him.

"What do you want with me? What are you doing?" you pleaded, flinching when the grip on your arm intensified.

"Enough talking," he snapped, his wand slicing through the air to silence you. Before you could react, the curse fell from his lips.

"Crucio."

Agony erupted, a scream tearing from your throat. Pain seared across your skin, your body convulsing as the torture curse wracked you. Darkness encroached on your vision, and you were thrown backward, a collision with a bookshelf shattering your senses.

As your awareness wavered, a silver dagger gleamed in one captor's hand, your body too weak to move. The other man grabbed your hair, his wand trained on you, while the dagger-wielding one advanced with malicious intent.

"Please, no! Tom will b—"

"Shut it!" the man spat, the blade plunging into your leg. Agony shot through you, your body wracked with pain as your screams filled the room.

"That bastard doesn't even know we're here, but he's gonna regret making a fool out of us," the man hissed, drawing closer. Nausea swelled within you, tears clouding your vision.

"Unhand her." The voice cut through the chaos, familiar and commanding.

"Tom…" you croaked weakly, blinking teary eyes to see him standing behind your assailants. His eyes blazed with fury, and you clung to his presence, your savior in this nightmare.

The attackers froze, their surprise palpable.

"M- My lord," one stammered, and Tom's lip curled with disdain.

"Ah, so it is 'my lord' now?" he seethed, closing in. The men scrambled, leaving you slumped against the bookshelf.

"We meant no disrespect, sir," one attempted, while the other looked on anxiously. "We simply were…"

"Were what?" Tom's anger laced his voice. "Please do explain your assault on my wife."

"My lord," the shorter man bowed, "We didn't know—We just thought she was some intruder!"

The taller man nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, we came for you and saw her! We thought she was breaking in, my lord, I swear!"

The lies were transparent.

"Not only did you invade my home and attack my wife, but you dare lie about it," Tom growled, his gaze steely.

"No, we're—"

"Silence!" Tom's command silenced them both.

"Both of you will go downstairs; I will address this later." The men hurried away, assuming they were off the hook. Tom turned to you, worry etched his features as he reached for your trembling hands.

"My love, can you hear me?" he murmured, his voice a soothing balm. His arms enfolded you, lifting you gently. Pain rippled through you, your vision swimming.

"Everything will be all right now, I am here," he assured softly, but your pain remained relentless. Tom's gaze shifted to your bleeding leg, his brows furrowing in concern.

"You will be fine," he said gently as he cradled you. The pain was overpowering, your vision blurring as you teetered on the brink of unconsciousness.

His voice reached you, your consciousness slipping away, but you knew he was there.

And then the darkness enveloped you.

-

When consciousness returned, you found yourself in your bed, the dull ache in your head the only lingering reminder of the ordeal. Your gaze shifted to your bandaged leg, confirming that the events weren't some nightmarish illusion. Sighing, you realized it had all been real.

You pushed yourself up, cautiously testing your body's limits. Muscles protested the movement, and a groan escaped your lips as pain surged through you. Memories of the harrowing experience played on a loop in your mind, each scene etched with vivid intensity.

Tom's voice interrupted your thoughts. "You need to rest." His presence filled the room, and you met his gaze as he spoke.

"How long was I asleep?" you questioned, trying to make sense of the passage of time.

"13 hours," he replied calmly, offering you a glass of water. He settled beside you on the bed.

"Thirteen hours!?" Shock colored your voice as you nearly dropped the glass. "I was unconscious for thirteen hours?"

Tom's reassurance came with a touch. "It is okay, you're safe now," he said, his arms encircling you. The glass of water quickly emptied as you downed it, your body yearning for hydration after the ordeal.

"So, what happened to the intruders?" you ventured, your apprehension clear in your voice.

"They have been dealt with," Tom's response was clipped, his demeanor stern. You understood the implication behind his words and chose not to press further.

"I'm sorry, Tom," you murmured, resting your head against his chest. Fatigue washed over you, threatening to pull you back into sleep.

"For what?" he inquired gently.

"Being reckless," you admitted, your eyelids growing heavy.

"I was careless too," he confessed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "They are gone now. I will never let any harm come to you again."

"Promise?" you whispered, your eyes fluttering closed.

"I promise," his reply was tender, and with a content smile, you surrendered to sleep once more.

[myhyperfixatedmess]

Your writing is so good I can’t get over the fact that somebody actually wrote such a beautiful piece of writing! Do you take requests? (don’t feel pressured to do so!)

Aww thank you!! I'm new to this kinda writing so I'm glad you like it! And yes I do take requests

[myhyperfixatedmess]

ur writing is so good i literally would believe an ai wrote it, i NEED A PART 2 !!

Thank you so much!! It took me a little time but I just posted pt 2! Hope you like it <3

[myhyperfixatedmess]

Serpentine. Pt 2

Tom isn't so certain anymore, which only makes things worse.

Word count:3.4k

Content warning: None that I am aware of.

Pt. I

It seemed Tom's mission to get answers had taken an unexpected turn, beginning sooner than he anticipated. As he entered the common room, he was taken aback to find you engaged in an animated conversation with some of his acquaintances. A mixture of surprise and uncertainty washed over him, leaving his eyebrows furrowed and his body momentarily frozen.

Tom observed the scene in front of him, silently contemplating the implications of this unexpected encounter. He knew his deep-seated hatred for you had been evident to those around him, including Avery, who now locked eyes with him, a flicker of fear dancing in his gaze. 

It was understandable for Avery to feel apprehensive, considering the consequences they could face for being in your presence, given Tom's previous animosity towards you. However, things had changed, even if Tom hated to admit it. This unforeseen circumstance presented a unique opportunity—one he couldn't ignore.

With a calculated shift in his demeanor, Tom made a decision. He would leverage this situation to gain the answers he desperately sought. It was a chance to bridge the gap between his festering resentment and the curiosity that had begun to bloom within him.Taking a deep breath, Tom approached the group, suppressing the remnants of his disdain. He wore a carefully constructed mask of indifference, concealing the internal turmoil that churned beneath the surface. As he joined the conversation, his words were measured, his tone guarded. 

"Clarence, Abraxas, Orion," he addressed the boys surrounding you, causing a collective tension to ripple through their bodies. It was an expected reaction, and you, of course, remained unfazed. A serene smile graced your lips, your gaze steady and unyielding as you looked up at him through your eyelashes. Tom couldn't help but feel a surge of irritation as he watched you, his jaw clenching with the intensity of his simmering hatred. He fought against the impulse to let his anger consume him, knowing all too well that it would only hinder his objectives. With a calculated restraint, he nodded in your direction, his voice carrying a curt formality, "And hello to you as well."

The sudden acknowledgment of your presence caught everyone off guard, including Tom himself. The room fell into a momentary silence, as if time itself had momentarily paused to witness this unexpected exchange. Tom's eyes remained fixed on you, scrutinizing your every movement, your every gesture. He detected no hint of vulnerability or discomfort in your demeanor, and that only served to further fuel his resentment.

As the weight of the unspoken tension settled upon the room, Tom made a conscious effort to regain control. He straightened his posture and composed himself, a cold resolve settling over him like a shroud. Deep down, he knew that engaging with you would disrupt the carefully crafted walls he had built, yet he couldn't resist the magnetic pull that compelled him to address you in that moment.

Though the others exchanged bewildered glances, Tom was resolute in his decision. He would face you head-on, determined to navigate the treacherous terrain of his emotions. In that fleeting acknowledgment, a subtle shift occurred, challenging the established dynamics and setting the stage for an unforeseen journey—one that would force Tom to confront the depths of his own conflicted feelings.

Your smile widened at Tom's greeting, a glimmer of amusement dancing in your eyes. Perhaps you had indeed noticed his simmering hatred towards you, or maybe you were genuinely surprised by his acknowledgment. Tom couldn't quite decipher your true feelings, and that in itself was a source of vexation. While he had a knack for reading people like open books, you remained an enigma—a locked tome with secrets he couldn't pry open, no matter how hard he tried.

"Hello, Tom," you spoke, your voice dripping with sweetness that could almost be sickening to some. Your words seemed to have an almost hypnotic effect, and Tom felt a strange sensation stir in his stomach as his heart rate quickened. He couldn't quite explain the odd fluttering feeling that you seemed to evoke within him.

Shaking off the unexpected reaction, Tom's eyes darted to one of your hands, which he suddenly noticed was placed firmly on Malfoy's arm. The sight brought him back to his senses, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of irritation. What business did you have being so physically close to Malfoy? The notion bothered him more than he cared to admit.

As Tom tried to regain his composure, the realization hit him that he had been acting strangely around you for some time now. It was disconcerting to find himself affected by your presence in ways he couldn't comprehend. But then again, he was no stranger to feeling out of sorts, especially when it came to matters involving you.

Pushing aside his internal turmoil, Tom questioned your presence among his "friends." He found it hard to believe that you had any genuine friendship with them, and the idea of you casually chatting with them unsettled him. However, he was quick to remind himself that it no longer mattered. He had his own objectives and didn't need to concern himself with your interactions.

"Shall we go to dinner?" Tom suggested, attempting to appear unaffected by the situation. He knew his followers were probably shocked by his behavior, but he couldn't bring himself to care about their opinions. What mattered now was understanding the complexities of his emotions, even if that meant appearing out of character to those around him.

Your eyes brightened at the suggestion, and your smile remained as radiant as ever. Tom couldn't help but notice the trepidation in the other boys' expressions, seemingly unsure of what was happening between the two of you. In all honesty, Tom didn't know what was happening either, but he was resolute in seeking the answers.

You stood gracefully from your chair, your composure unwavering as you turned to address the other boys.

 "Let's go then," you said with genuine enthusiasm. Your readiness to embrace the situation both surprised and intrigued Tom.

As the group made their way towards the Great hall, Tom's mind was consumed with thoughts of you. He knew he had to tread carefully, for he was stepping into unknown territory—one where his mind was in disarray and the line between loathing and fascination blurred. It was a dangerous path he was traversing, one that held the potential to alter the very fabric of his existence.

But for now, he would focus on the present, on this peculiar situation with you, and on the unraveling problem that was slowly consuming his thoughts and emotions.

-

Tom was certain he was losing it.

He was watching you laugh at something your friend had said, throwing your head back and lightly hitting them for whatever the comment had been. His followers were talking about something, pondering when the next meeting would be, he was pretty sure.

 However his focus had long drifted from the topic and was now placed upon you. He felt a mixture of envy and anger when he saw your male friend, a muggle-born no less, reaching out to fix something in your hair. The intensity of his feelings surprised him; for once the burning  hatred wasn't aimed at you. But at the scum who had the audacity to touch you.

Tom's thoughts were threatening to swallow him whole.

Why was he touching you? Why were you letting him touch you? And why did Tom care so much?

 You weren't his responsibility; he had no reason to care about you beyond your status. Yet there was an inexplicable pull towards you and, despite his attempts to deny it, he felt responsible for you. He didn't understand why or how this happened, but he felt compelled to be around you, despite what it could cost him

Oh how he wished he was just ill, at least then there'd be a cure and a reason.

Instead, it seemed, he was terminally obsessed with you. With no cure and no reason.

And Tom was deathly afraid of what that could mean.

-

You had invited him to study with you.

He should've said no, but the look in your eyes and the urge to discern the way he's been feeling had him saying yes. 

And the way your eyes lit up had him reveling in the fact he had. 

Just what exactly had you done to him?

So, now the two of you were studying in a quiet corner of the library. You were flipping through a runes book and he was watching you do so. His own book lay forgotten on his lap. It truly was a miracle you hadn't noticed his unrelenting gaze, but then again you seemed rather entranced.

If anyone saw the way he was looking at you, they'd probably say the same about him.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he examined you intently. His mind was preoccupied with a million and one questions, each vying to dominate his attention. It was difficult to keep them in check as he struggled with what to make of this situation, but he forced himself to remain calm.

You suddenly looked up and Tom's eyes flew off your figure, determined to hide his previous staring. You didn't mention it though as you glanced at him, and he pretended to only then look up from his book and meet your eyes. 

"Do you know where I could find that book on advanced runes, Professor had mentioned? This ones not very useful," You laughed lightly, tilting the now closed book in his direction. His mouth went dry again, and he nodded. Pointing in the direction of the shelf he was sure the book would be, before speaking.

"You should find it under "M ''," Tom said and you beamed, wasting no time in getting up and waltzing over to where he'd pointed. Scouring the shelves and running your fingertips over the spins of certain books.

Tom felt his heart pounding in his chest as he saw you find the book then proceed to struggle with obtaining it. Without thinking, he was already beside you, his hand extending to retrieve the book for you. As you turned around with a grateful smile, his breath caught in his throat, realizing how close you were.

Your innocent gaze and the genuine warmth in your smile overwhelmed him. He found himself lost in the depths of your eyes, and all rational thoughts seemed to vanish. In that moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you.

Kiss them.

The intrusive thought echoed in his mind, shocking him back to reality. He tried to dismiss it, to convince himself it wasn't his own desire. He couldn't afford to be vulnerable, to let his emotions take control. Yet, the more he resisted, the more the temptation grew.

He wouldn't kiss you, he couldn't kiss you. He wasn't going to give in, he wasn't going to show weakness and he definitely wasn't going to—

.

.

.

He kissed you.

Time seemed to stand still as the world around him blurred into insignificance. The softness of your lips against his sent a rush of emotions through him. It was both thrilling and terrifying, like dancing on the edge of a precipice.

For a fleeting moment, he forgot about the darkness within him, his ambitions, and the path he had chosen. In that kiss, he felt a connection he had never experienced before. It was as if the walls he had built around himself were crumbling, and for once, he allowed himself to be vulnerable.

But as quickly as it had begun, the kiss ended. Tom stepped back, his expression a mixture of surprise and fear. He couldn't comprehend what had just happened and how he had let himself succumb to such weakness.

Regret washed over him, and he turned away, unable to face you. The conflicting emotions inside him continued to rage, leaving him more uncertain about himself than ever before. That impulsive moment had laid bare a part of him he hadn't even known existed, and he was terrified of the implications it held

"Tom?" You called out to him, but something was off, you sounded so sad. He turned back around to look you in the eyes. You looked so sad. Why? Why were you sad? What was wrong with–

Oh.

It was him.

He's what was wrong.

"I apologize for taking advantage of our proximity, I do not know what came over me," Tom spoke, reverting to the cold, calm and detached persona he was more comfortable with. He watched your eyes widen at his words.

"No, Tom, that's not–"

Tom shook his head, cutting you off before any of your protests could escape. 

"There is no need to continue." He was already moving toward the door, his mind focused on nothing but escaping the library and finding somewhere else for him to be. He didn't exactly know where he was going, he just had to get away from you.

He heard you softly call out to him once more, but he continued walking, unable to face the emotions stirring inside him.

-

When he finally returned to his room, confusion and regret overwhelmed him. There was a knot in his stomach, making him feel queasy. How could he have let that moment happen? It was a mistake he knew he shouldn't have made.

But he did.

Tom's head throbbed intensely, each heartbeat pounding against his skull like a hammer. His throat felt dry, no amount of swallowing could quench the parched feeling. He hadn't felt this drained in a long time. Weary and unsteady, he practically stumbled onto his bed.

With a heavy sigh, he collapsed onto the mattress, closing his eyes in an attempt to escape the tumultuous emotions swirling within him. Sleep enveloped him, providing a temporary respite from the turmoil.

He prayed he wouldn't dream of you.

-

The next day brought an unexpected encounter. You stood in front of him, appearing nervous and maybe even a bit guilty, though he couldn't fathom why. It was him who had acted out of line.

Your presence perplexed him, and he wondered what troubled your mind so profoundly.

He hoped it wasn't because of him.

You fidgeted with your tie, and your eyes kept darting between him and the floor, searching for the right words. Tom observed you, contemplating your intentions. Were you here to reprimand him for his behavior? Or perhaps to humiliate him? In his experience, those who tried usually regretted it, but he couldn't discount the possibility that people would believe anything coming from you. Tom was pretty certain that in everyone's mind, you were the female version of him. Which, he didn't like, because it was just so far from the truth, you were nothing like him.

The crimson red that stained his hands would never dare taint yours.

"Can we talk about yesterday?" you finally asked, breaking the silence. He frowned, reluctant to delve into that painful subject. He didn't want to discuss yesterday, as if it would somehow make things better.

"Why do you wish to discuss yesterday?" he inquired, a hint of detachment in his voice.

"Are you serious?" Your expression fell, and Tom couldn't decipher if you were mocking him or genuinely upset.

"Why do you seem so insistent upon making this a conversation? Are you that intent on berating me?" he questioned, the tension between you palpable.

"Of course not, Tom! I just want to talk, please," you pleaded. Tom noticed the desperation in your eyes, which softened his resolve. He knew he couldn't remain in that place of distance forever.

"Very well," he acquiesced, gesturing for you to sit beside him. As you took the seat, he noticed how your gaze remained fixed on him, silently assessing him.

He wanted to run away from you, from everyone connected to you. But a part of him also yearned to reach out and feel your presence once again.

"So..." you began, and he turned his attention to you.

"You kissed me," you said, and Tom felt himself freeze, as though bound by a spell.

"That's right," he replied simply, his emotions kept in check. His questioning gaze encouraged you to continue.

"Well...why?" you asked, and he found himself struggling to articulate an answer.

His brow furrowed as he tried to find the words. He had thought about it before, trying to understand why he acted on his feelings, why he didn't resist the temptation. But at that moment, he couldn't find a satisfactory explanation.

"...I...I do not know," Tom admitted with uncertainty.

"Do you regret kissing me?" Your question made his shoulders tense.

Did he regret it? Of course, he did. Regret filled him every moment after that kiss. But the kiss itself, the act of it, he couldn't bring himself to regret that.

"I suppose… I do not," he finally managed to say. It was true; he didn't regret the kiss itself, though he regretted how it played out and the turmoil it had caused.

"That's good," you smiled, even letting out a light laugh. Tom couldn't help but feel a bit relieved to see you happy.

"Pardon?" he raised an eyebrow, not quite grasping your response.

"Yeah! I mean the guy I like kisses me then runs off, I thought that felt bad. But it would've been soooo much worse had you regretted the whole thing," you explained, and Tom's heart skipped a beat.

What had you just said?

"You like me?" he whispered, the words hanging heavily in the air.

You smiled and nodded energetically, "Yep!"

Tom couldn't believe what he was hearing, and he couldn't believe the warmth that spread through him at your admission. He was both elated and terrified at the thought of what this revelation could mean.

"Oh," was all he managed to say, but he could see your disappointment. He quickly attempted to clarify his reaction, feeling the need to salvage the situation.

"Wait, that is not- I was not trying to..." he stumbled over his words, but you just giggled.

"You know what, I give up," he sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. He allowed himself to get lost in the sound of your laughter, feeling a sense of relief that he didn't quite understand.

"It is not funny," he murmured when you stopped laughing, but you only smiled at him.

"Sorry…"

"You do not need to apologize," Tom said quietly, shaking his head.

As you both sat in silence, looking out at the black lake, he couldn't help but feel that everything was so messed up. Days ago, you were the last person he wanted to see, and now, having you there felt almost right.

But it couldn't be. He couldn't allow himself to feel this way.

He couldn't afford to let himself get attached to you.

But he wanted to so badly.

Tom felt you gently lean forward and press a soft kiss to his cheek. He felt himself stiffen momentarily before relaxing. A smile graced your features, and he allowed himself to bask in its radiance.

Tom refused to believe he deserved this, that he deserved you. He knew everything would eventually fall apart, everything would go back to the way it used to be. Back to when he hated you. Or atleast whatever cheap imitation of hate he convinced himself he felt for you.

And yet, here you were, willingly giving him a chance at happiness, despite knowing he didn't deserve it.

And although it felt unnatural, and unfamiliar, and uncomfortable, he wanted to embrace this change.

He really wanted to.

"Hey..." His voice surprised him, its softness unfamiliar.

"Hi.." You responded, a genuine smile lighting up your face.

"Would you, perhaps... like to attend the next Hogsmeade trip with me?" Tom's voice was hushed, as if he was unsure of his own words.

You, on the other hand, felt a spark of delight within you. Your smile grew wider, your eyes sparkling.

"Hmm, perhaps..." Your reply carried a playful tone, enjoying the moment.

"Oh, do not be coy," he said, his voice pretending to be stern, but the hint of a smile betrayed him.

"Alright, alright, I apologize," you laughed, the sound musical and infectious.

"I will accompany you to Hogsmeade, Tom," you finally agreed, and you could see the tension release from his posture. He licked his lips, turning his gaze away from you, mostly to mask the budding grin on his face.

"Brilliant."

Abruptly, the clamor of thoughts in his mind hushed. Inner turmoil gave way to an unusual serenity, and the torment subsided.

Casting another glance at you, a sense of alignment washed over him. Everything felt oddly harmonious.

For if you were a rose, then he'd be the thorns, drawing blood from all those who try to corrupt your beauty.

[myhyperfixatedmess]

Unrequited Devotion.

This is just a short little thing leaning into the idea that since Tom is incapable of love he sees the reader as more of a trophy/just likes the idea of someone being utterly devoted to him.

Why did you choose to love a man who seemed incapable of returning such fragile feelings?

"I love you, Tom," you would whisper, pouring your whole heart into the words.

Tom Marvolo Riddle—the man your heart had dedicated itself to for years. Despite having given him everything you had, all you received in return were broken pieces. Tom remained an enigma, something you could never have foreseen when you decided to entangle yourself deeply in his carefully spun web. His unpredictability only seemed to add to the allure, captivating your attention despite your differences.

"I know," he would say, never the words you so desperately wanted to hear. Yet, you were naive, perhaps even foolish as you kept hoping that he did love you back. Even if he couldn't express it.

With your whole being—your soul, mind, and body—you loved him unconditionally, willing to give him everything. And he would allow you too, even without reciprocating the depth of your feelings.

[myhyperfixatedmess]

Serpentine.

Tom is certain of many things, including the fact that he absolutely hates your guts.

Word count: 2.4k

Content warning: None that I'm aware of.

[This is my first time ever writing anything like this so I apologize if it's not very good, also Tom might be a bit ooc. I'm not entirely sure.]

Tom seethed with anger as his gaze fixated on you. The mere sight of you sent a surge of resentment coursing through his veins. Among his classmates, you were hailed as the epitome of perfection, and that only fueled his disdain. He detested the carefree way you danced, as if the world around you didn't matter, oblivious to anyone who dared to watch. Your smile, so radiant and seemingly untainted by pain, infuriated him. It was a constant reminder of his own hidden struggles. The way you effortlessly attracted attention, drawing others toward you like moths to a flame, further fueled his animosity. But what he despised the most was how effortlessly you had captured his attention, enough to evoke such intense hatred. The fact that he found himself fixating on you, scrutinizing every aspect he found insufferable, was a constant source of frustration.

Lost in his bitter thoughts, Tom was abruptly interrupted by Malfoy's voice, snapping him back to reality. Confused by the sudden attention, Tom's narrowed eyes shifted towards his classmates, who stared at him inquisitively. Avery, his mouth full, pointed in your direction, making it clear that Tom had been gazing at you for an uncomfortably long time. Annoyed with himself for being so distracted, Tom dismissed their concerns with a curt response, willing them to remain silent. The skeptical glances exchanged by his peers, however, indicated their doubt in his dismissive words.

Tom's loathing for you only grew stronger, especially as he observed you in the common room. Your infectious laughter, the soft waves of your hair framing your face, it all served as a constant reminder of his unwanted attraction. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he averted his gaze, disgusted with how easily you managed to capture his attention time and time again. Determined to ignore you, he resolved to focus solely on his ambitions, leaving you to your own devices. But even as he made this resolution, he couldn't resist stealing another glimpse in your direction.

Fate had a cruel sense of humor, as Tom found himself in your presence once more during Potions class. Professor Slughorn, in a particularly peculiar moment, decided to pair Tom and you together for an assignment. Suppressing his distaste, Tom watched with growing irritation as you approached him, wearing an infuriating smile and settling down beside him.

As you organized your materials, Tom yearned for the opportunity to work on the potion alone. It wasn't that he thought you incapable—quite the opposite. He was well aware of your exceptional brilliance, and that knowledge only fueled his resentment towards you. Handing him some ingredients with that same disarming smile, you provoked another surge of animosity within him. Tom wasn't foolish; he recognized that his hatred may have been unfounded. He was even mindful enough to admit that maybe he was unjust in his loathing. Yet, as you absentmindedly brushed against him, his anger intensified, the burning in his chest escalating to a blazing inferno. He stared ahead, refusing to acknowledge your presence, while inwardly seething.

Your gentleness was like salt on an open wound, an unwelcome contrast to his own inner turmoil. He couldn't stand the kind smiles you directed his way or the softness in your voice when you spoke to him. Unsure if you treated everyone with such tenderness, Tom hated every ounce of it.

And even now, as he silently directed daggers towards the side of your head, you remained unaffected. That ever-present smile adorned your face as you attentively listened to the professor. Perhaps you hadn't noticed his seething resentment, or maybe you simply didn't care.

Tom truly despised you.

-

Despite Tom's best efforts to bury his loathing and distance himself from you, fate seemed determined to test his resolve. The universe conspired to place you in his path, unrelenting in its mission to fuel his inner turmoil.

Days turned into weeks, and Tom found himself encountering you more frequently than he would have preferred. Your presence in the corridors, the library, and even in the Great Hall became impossible to ignore. Each time, his resentment swelled, festering like a wound that refused to heal.

It was during Defense Against the Dark Arts class that a peculiar incident occurred. The professor, caught up in an animated discussion with another student, accidentally assigned you as Tom's partner for a practical exercise. Tom's heart sank as the realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. This forced collaboration would inevitably tear down the walls he had so meticulously built around his feelings.

Reluctantly, you approached him, that ever-present smile adorning your face as if it were a permanent fixture. Tom's blood boiled beneath his calm facade, his grip on his wand tightening as you settled in beside him. The instructions were given, and as you prepared for the exercise, you turned to him with genuine warmth in your eyes.

"I believe we can work well together, Tom," you said, your voice soft and encouraging. "Let's make the most of this opportunity."

Your words were meant to foster cooperation, but to Tom, they were like nails on a chalkboard. He wasn't fond of your unrelenting insistence to call everyone, even him, by their first name. He detested the way you effortlessly extended an olive branch, offering a glimpse of the goodness that resided within you. His own walls, built on bitterness and resentment, grew higher in response.

As the exercise progressed, you displayed a remarkable talent and unwavering focus. Your skills complemented Tom's own abilities, leading to a seamless collaboration that drew the professor's attention. You seemed unfazed by Tom's icy demeanor, treating him with a kindness he felt he did not deserve.

But beneath his icy exterior, Tom's emotions churned like a tempestuous sea. He couldn't comprehend why you insisted on being pleasant, even as he pushed you away with his cold indifference. It was maddening to witness your genuine care and empathy, qualities he struggled to understand, let alone reciprocate.

As the days went on, a part of Tom's hardened facade began to crack. He found himself observing you from a distance, catching glimpses of your interactions with others. Your infectious laughter, the way you lent a helping hand without hesitation, and the ease with which you forged connections—these traits only deepened his confusion and resentment.

Tom loathed the fact that you evoked a sense of admiration within him, despite his best efforts to resist. He hated how your mere presence had the power to make him question his own beliefs, to reevaluate the walls he had erected around his heart. And most of all, he despised how your kindness seemed to seep into the depths of his soul, stirring emotions he had long buried.

But as he watched you navigate through the complexities of life with grace and compassion, a whisper of doubt began to emerge within him. Could it be possible that his hatred stemmed from envy? Envy for the light that radiated from you effortlessly, while darkness consumed him from within.

As the war between his loathing and burgeoning curiosity raged on, Tom found himself at a crossroads. Would he succumb to the bitterness that had become his shield, or would he dare to explore the mysteries that lay beneath the surface?

Tom wasn't sure, he wasn't sure whether to embrace the light that threatened to illuminate his shadows or to retreat further into the darkness he had come to know so well.

-

In the midst of another Potions class, you took your usual seat next to Tom. As you settled in, Tom did his best to ignore your presence, casting only a fleeting glance in your direction to acknowledge your arrival.

During a break from Professor Slughorn's lecture, you turned towards Tom, your voice barely above a whisper as you spoke.

"Hey, can you fill me in on what Professor said about the effects of Boomslang skin on a potion? I seem to have missed that part," you asked, your eyes fixed on his. Tom felt a sudden stiffness in his body, his mouth drying up as he struggled to maintain his composure. Though he yearned to brush you off and but he couldn't risk his carefully constructed reputation, he knew he couldn't afford to dismiss you so callously.

Resolute in upholding his image as a model student, Tom nodded and glanced back at his own notes.

"Here," he offered, sliding his notes towards you and pointing out the relevant paragraph with his quill. A genuine smile spread across your face as you expressed your gratitude, causing a flutter of unfamiliar emotions within Tom. He simply nodded in response and watched as you diligently copied the information onto your own parchment.

Tom couldn't understand why it was becoming increasingly challenging to maintain his hatred for you. He had built a part of his identity around loathing your very existence—your face, your smile, your gentle voice. Yet, the more he focused on you, the harder it became to justify his animosity.

A growing sense of unease settled within him. Something was undeniably wrong.

The week marched on and everything turned into a whirlwind of conflicting emotions for Tom. He found himself stealing glances at you when he believed no one was looking, analyzing the subtle curves of your face and the way your eyes lit up when engaged in conversation. Your infectious laughter echoed in his ears, tugging at a corner of his heart that he had kept hidden for far too long.

Tom wrestled with his feelings, torn between the comfortable familiarity of hatred and the unsettling allure of something new. His internal battle consumed him, tormenting his every thought. What was happening to him? How could a person he had once despised stir such conflicting emotions within him?

In the stillness of his thoughts, doubt wove its tendrils through Tom's mind, tightening like a constricting snake, threatening to suffocate him with its conflicting presence.

Unknown emotions swirled within him, a turbulent mix that challenged the very core of his being. The source of this upheaval? You.

For so long, Tom had reveled in his hatred for you, finding solace in the darkness it provided. But now, the lines blurred, and he found himself teetering on the precipice of something new and terrifying. A part of him yearned to embrace these unfamiliar sentiments, to explore the depths of his own vulnerabilities. Yet, another part clung desperately to the comfort of loathing, fearing the uncertainty that lay ahead.

You had become an enigma he couldn't decipher—a puzzle piece that refused to fit neatly into his predetermined narrative. Your presence, once a thorn in his side, now had the power to ignite a spark within him, casting doubt on the foundations of his carefully constructed persona.

With every stolen glance, every accidental brush of skin, his walls crumbled, exposing the rawness beneath. The once unyielding armor of hatred cracked under the weight of conflicting desires and buried longing.

It infuriated him. It terrified him.

He despised how you had effortlessly breached his defenses, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. It was as if you had unlocked a hidden chamber in his soul, releasing emotions he had long suppressed. He resented the power you held over him, the way you unsettled his carefully controlled existence.

Yet, even as Tom fought against these unfamiliar emotions, a small voice within him whispered of the possibilities that lay in embracing them.

He tried to bury the voice, banishing it from the recesses of his mind. It continued to whisper, he realized it wouldn't stop. Instead, it only grew louder, stronger. It demanded his surrender, his compliance, his acceptance.

As the tumultuous emotions surged within Tom, it felt as though he was losing control. The certainty he once held crumbled, leaving behind a profound sense of confusion. Like a question without an answer, he found himself adrift in a sea of uncertainty, searching for a guiding light that seemed elusive.

You were the catalyst for this internal chaos, the one who had unraveled the tightly woven threads of his convictions. Tom couldn't comprehend how you had managed to dismantle the carefully constructed fortress he had built around his heart. Your presence, once a source of loathing, now became the source of his bewilderment.

He felt lost—lost in the labyrinth of his own emotions, stumbling through the maze of conflicting desires. The hatred that had consumed him for so long had morphed into something else entirely. It gnawed at his insides, urging him to reconsider his preconceived notions and venture into uncharted territory.

It frustrated him to no end. He was accustomed to being in control, to understanding the intricacies of his own mind. But now, he stood at the precipice of the unknown, grappling with a myriad of feelings that defied explanation.

Tom yearned for clarity, for a resolute path to follow. He longed for the comfort of familiarity, for the ease of hatred that had shielded him from vulnerability. But with each passing day, that certainty slipped further from his grasp, leaving him teetering on the edge of an abyss.

And in the midst of his confusion, he couldn't help but place the blame on you. You had become the embodiment of his turmoil, the reason behind his internal disarray. The very thought of you filled him with equal parts fascination and trepidation.

Tom knew that something had to be done. He couldn't linger in this limbo forever. It was time to confront the chaos within, to find the answers that eluded him.

He took a deep breath, ready to face the enigma that was you, ready to delve into depths of his own soul. He had come to accept that what he was about to do, would likely change the plan he had so meticulously crafted for years. However, he knew something had to be done, before he went properly mad.

Tom needed answers, and the only person who would be able to provide them, was you.

Pt.2