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[purplefox-writes]

⭑ observations ii. tom riddle x reader

part i here.

warnings. smut (so. so much. minors BE GONE TO WHENCE YOU CAME!), fem anatomy + reader is referred to as a woman by someone, fingering, cunnilingus, piv, again implied tall!tom or short!reader (take it however you prefer), jealous tom does not understand friendship but then again neither does reader apparently, a little wine is had, the room of requirement is used shamelessly as a plot device, did i mention smut, i’ve lost my mind etc etc.

summary. two weeks after reader's last encounter with tom shatters all previous observations, tensions are high, and eventually, something's gotta give. (it's tom. he’s giving head)

note. this is a part two, so go ahead and read the first part and come back if you'd like :) obligatory preface: it's safe to assume everything i write is a university au — these people are all 18+ tyvm. also woahh was not expecting the love on my last post so thank you! i'm still trying to figure this whole acc out so support, questions, (requests? never done those before) anything is appreciated ♡

word count. 6.3k

The next two weeks are agony. You don’t, in fact, stop meeting with Godefrey to study, because you do, in fact, still need a good mark in Ancient Runes and for all his faults he can reach the tallest shelves and he’s a faster writer than you. Also, Tom Riddle is fantastic with his hands but this does not make him God.

You find pureblood politics a bit archaic. You find muggle courting a bit stifling. This leaves very little space for what took place between you and Tom in the middle of a corridor two weeks ago (you can’t stop wincing at how insane that sounds) and very little patience for his utterly original and not-at-all entitled request that you halt your studies with Godefrey. Godefrey doesn’t stick his hands up your skirts while the two of you are studying, doesn’t silence your gasps with a shush and a finger to your mouth, doesn’t — wouldn’t (you’re so imaginative when you want to be) — tell you to keep reading as his thumb draws circles between your legs, tell you to repeat the words that get caught in your throat, tell you how much he likes it when your eyes go dumb and glassy and all you can say is his name. So, really, Tom should have nothing to worry about.

“I swear,” Selwyn says, picking at a plate you don’t think she’s actually eaten anything off with how distracted she is, “he’s looked over here at least three times.”

You don’t dare glance at who you know she’s talking about. “You’re obsessed.”

Pot. Kettle. Whatever.

“Are you sure you didn’t do something to upset him in Potions? Didn’t botch something that might mar his perfect record?”

You flick her forehead and she scowls. “I’m not an idiot, Selwyn. I handle myself just as well in Potions as he does — he wouldn’t —” Wouldn’t have complimented your rapport if that weren’t true, wouldn’t have said you communicate efficiently, make a good pair, probably wouldn’t have — fingered you in the hallway? — yes, that too. Slipped your mind. So easy to forget.

You take a long exhale, and smile impassively at her. “I didn’t botch anything, trust me.”

She finally takes a bite of food. “Maybe I did something…”

And then she’s lost in thought again, eating now, at least, and you shake your head softly as you watch what are likely a million different theories flitting through her head.

“Morning,” Tom says to you when you enter Potions after breakfast, a delicate smile tugging at his lips.

You have, of course, trained for this. 

It’s your fifth — sixth? — time sharing a table with him since that night and it is somehow easier by nature and harder by anticipation (of what, you have no idea) every time. The first was terrible. Unsalvageable and without a silver lining. It had taken almost an hour that morning to charm the violent hues of red and purple spanning the column of your throat, and ultimately, the marks were so persistent you’d forgone the glamours and decided to just wear a turtleneck. You’d been fortunate it was completely inconspicuous to wear such a thing in December, but that was about all there’d been to be grateful for. You hadn’t been able to look at Tom all class and his hand had brushed yours once to take a phial from you and you’d flinched so sharply it would have shattered on the floor if he hadn’t caught it. And he’d smiled, like he’s smiling now, a soft, “Careful,” that honestly, for a short moment, made you want him dead.

Now you could speak just fine, look him in the eyes in practised intervals, and almost, impressively, make articulate conversation with him again. Make stupid comments about Slughorn and Lestrange and bear the weight of his grin knowing it was there for you.

His, he’d called you. A very funny thing.

“Morning,” you answer on a smiling sigh, sleepy but jovial all the same. 

You deserve applause for this.

“Tired?”

“Mhm — Essays for Ancient Runes are due Friday and it’s been keeping us up all night.”

His eyes flash with something you’ve yet to ascertain. Your research has been put temporarily on hold, scattered and splintered by the revelation that your first observation was, admittedly, a little bit off, and you have no means of figuring out a look like that when you can’t even begin to figure out anything else.

“Has it?” he asks, a tinge less friendly.

“Well,” you say, grinding the lacewing flies, “that’s commonplace, isn’t it? You take all sorts of advanced classes, I’m sure you understand the work it takes.”

“...Hm.”

That’s it. That’s all you get from him.

And if Selwyn’s concern over you botching your work in Potions wasn’t already, obviously dispelled, the glee on Slughorn’s face as he assesses your and Tom’s cauldron should do it.

“Brilliant! Just brilliant!” He claps a hand over Tom’s back, regarding you both with pride so thick it clouds his eyes, like he's drifted into a revery of the future (you and Tom, you expect, are his most prized graduates, making history under his name, proving his immense wisdom) before he appears to return to Earth. “Ten points between the two of you, hm? Very, very good — though, of course, no surprises there!”

He chuckles to himself as he evaluates the other students, and you catch a horrified wheeze of Godefrey’s name (bless his heart) as one of the cauldrons in the back begins to sputter and froth.

You look to Tom with some droll little comment at making it to the end of term with top marks, but his gaze is burning into Godefrey’s table in such a way you wouldn’t be surprised if it was what was causing his cauldron to boil.

Well. Perhaps not, then.

You and Godefrey hand in your essay that Friday with more relief than apprehension — you both decide it’s quite good — and you laugh loudly and breathlessly as he picks you up and thanks you a thousand times, spinning you until you’re dizzy. You refrain from making any promises to attend his Quidditch games, but he vows to let you have the snitch he catches.

And Slughorn, you come to find, was not exaggerating his elation at your skill. After trotting after you on your walk back from Ancient Runes to invite you to the last Slug Club dinner of the year, your spirits are high with the blissful satisfaction of a job well done and a night to celebrate it with.

You can breathe, finally, when it’s the last week of school before Christmas break and Selwyn’s zipping the back of a last-minute dress you purchased in Hogsmeade.

“Gorgeous,” Selwyn says with a grin. “Wish this school would have a bloody ball so I could really dress you up.”

“Buy a doll, Selwyn; you can dress them however you like.”

“You are such a —”

You burst into laugher, swatting her wand away as she pokes your side with it. 

“Just — go then, before I hex you.”

“All right, all right!” you concede, arms raised in surrender. “Don’t ruin all your hard work now.”

“Oh,” she calls on your way out the door. You turn and there’s a mischievous look in her eyes as she tucks her wand back in her pocket. “And do tell me before I leave tomorrow if Riddle stares at you all night.”

You groan as if it’s a truly abominable thing to imagine. Riddle, staring with those dark eyes of his? You, the centre of his attention? Ghastly. You daresay you’d never recover from the horror of it.

“Don’t leave before I tell you how remarkably uneventful a night it was,” you say with a sidelong glare, and leave before she can edge in the final word.

You have no idea what a Slug Club supper typically consists of, but you imagine for Christmas he’s gone a little further with his festivities. His office is glittering in hues of green and red and fleecy, snow-dappled gold. The lights overheard (some similar charm to the one in the Great Hall but a tad less complex, you think) drip and then vanish into the air like squeezed berries, and the berries — served with pastries and ice cream — taste like they must be enchanted with something.

Selwyn was right that the standard dress isn’t quite formal enough for a ball, but it’s… formal. The boys are in clean-cut dress robes and the girls are in fine gowns of different lengths. By the overwhelming number of them you recall being archetypes of Slytherin pureblood fanaticism, it makes sense how expensive they all look. You yourself brush up nicely, if not a bit more frugally, but you haven’t been to an event like this at the school yet, and that’s exciting on its own.

It’s another degree of training (is there going to be a marathon? Are you at war?), a step up from your preparations before Potions every other day, to be ready when Tom Riddle enters the room a respectable five minutes late with a gleam about him more captivating than any of the lights.

“Ah, Tom!” Slughorn exclaims, and ushers him into a seat you remark before Tom is even in it is discomfitingly near to yours. “We’re all here at last… Supper, then? Hope you aren’t too full already, I’ve got the House Elves running laps!”

You’re spared Tom’s closeness by a Ravenclaw couple sat in the chairs between you, their hands clasped under the table while they sip wine from their goblets, and you only realise the length of your observation when Tom glances at you from the spot over, and you startle yourself into reaching for your own goblet and pretending to enjoy Slughorn’s bitter wine.

You eat. You listen to cluttered, unending tales of Slughorn’s time at school and how he earned his post. You drink, and then you regret not drinking before eating because there’s only a very light, very nice buzz that warms you when you finish your cup, and the Ravenclaw couple is — oh, wait, it isn’t just them — they’re standing up to dance as a gramophone sparks to life and a low, dulcet instrumental begins to play. There are now two notably empty seats separating you from Tom.

What had you said this night would be? Blissful satisfaction? 

You couldn’t blame Selwyn for suggesting you’d blundered Potions — you didn’t feel exceptionally smart right now.

“I didn’t know you would be here tonight,” Tom says, pulling the chair beside you.

Where is the bottle of wine? No. Nevermind. You behave regrettably enough sober.

You manage a simple, “And yet.”

“...And yet.” His lips quirk before he takes a drink from his goblet. 

You lament for a second that you’ve only actually kissed those lips once. They spent a great deal longer on your neck.

“Will you be here over break?” he asks, and it isn’t an unreasonable thing to ask, you suppose.

“I think so. Why?”

“I’d like to know whether to expect you or not.”

Expect you… No, yes — revert to observation two: unusual is not an apt enough word for him.

It takes you a moment to conjure a response befitting polite dinner conversation. That is, after all, still what this is.

“I suppose you can. I’ll be busy, of course.”

Well, you didn’t say you conjured something good. It’s a big fat lie. Placating, vague, empty. And you suspect Tom knows that.

“Pity.”

Yes, he knows. He’s all quiet amusement again.

You stare off, satisfied to be left alone —

"And what is it that'll be taking so much of your time?"

“Well, I'm —” And now you have to build the lie — “I’ve told Godefrey I’ll attend to his Quidditch practise. Since the pitch isn’t in use.”

God, it’s so stupid it’s almost impressive — you don’t even know if Godefrey will be here over break, and you could have chosen any number of excuses that would pique Tom’s interest less than it’s apparently consistently piqued by the mention of your study partner. 

There’s that strange, indecipherable look again. Riddle is a perfect surname for him, you decide then, and you almost laugh at yourself for it, but that would probably not go over well should he ask what’s so funny.

“Have you, now? That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s hardly charity.”

“Hm, it’s kind of you to think so.”

You huff, tipping your goblet back to swallow the last meagre dregs of your wine.

“You look lovely.”

It’s just a little bit — just a tiny, straggling little bit of elderflower that captures your throat — and you cough into your goblet. “Thank — thank you.”

And, well, he looks lovely too. Obviously. Sickeningly so. You know little about his personal life but you’re positive he’s at least a half-blood, if not muggle-born, and it makes you wonder the influence of his renownedly plain black suit in a crowd of neat, long robes.

He manages with little effort to look better than all of them at their best.

His eyes drift over you appreciatively, quick enough not to be rude but — enough. (Enough that you daresay you might never recover from the horror of it.) You adjust under his gaze even when it’s situated on your face, such a heavy thing you’re surprised he doesn’t tip over. “Does Godefrey call you lovely?”

What?

You blink at him, your mouth is probably open and you probably look stupid but he’s so… irritating. Yes, of course Godefrey calls you lovely. Godefrey tells you you’re the smartest woman he’s ever met (after his mother), and he drowns you with sherbet lemons at no cost, and he writes at the speed of light to match the quickness with which you recite your textbook, and none of it means anything. Tom is just —

“Unbelievable…”

He quirks a brow. “What was that?”

“I said you’re unbelievable, Riddle. Is it impossible for you to comprehend that I might have friends? That Godefrey is my friend?”

“Well, memory serves me right that you seemed a bit confused on the conventions of friendship last you mentioned it. Do forgive my uncertainty.”

He — that was —

“Well, that’s because we are not friends.”

“No.” He leans in. “We are not.”

You push your chair from the table with all the grace you can manage for such an abrupt thing: a tight, impersonal smile on your face as you walk away and approach Slughorn, only realising when you get there that your empty goblet is clutched in your hand like you’re trying to strangle it.

Whatever he sees on your face, he isn’t drunk enough not to frown at. “Ah, our newest gem — hardly seen you all night! Not leaving already, are we?”

You glance at the clock. It isn’t as though you’re being impolite by abandoning his party in the middle of the event. It’s quite late, the servers are stuck to the walls with little to do, and most of the room has divided into waltzing pairs.

“I’m taking my friend to the train station tomorrow, sir. Unfortunately I need to be up quite early.”

Yes, yes, it’s all so tragic. You’re depressed to go.

“Such a shame,” Slughorn frets, wobbling a tad and balancing himself on the wall. “You’ll be all right getting back? Not at all dizzy, are you?” His laugh is cleaved by a loud hiccough, and then he laughs even more. “My, well, I myself will need to be carried!”

“...I’ll be fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Oh, no trouble at all — there’s — hm… ah, Tom!”

No, no — is it bad you almost reach over and slap your palm over your professor’s mouth? Is it at all impressive that you don’t? You should look on the bright side in moments like these. You should admire your restraint.

But of course, Slughorn’s eyes don’t fall upon Tom for nothing. He's halfway across the room already, and Slughorn must have spotted him approaching to achieve this brilliant solution. “Tom can escort you back, no?”

Tom (unforgivably) is beside you now, a very mean, very pretty smile on his face.

“Not too much to ask, I should think? You know the castle best. Head Boy — sometimes I still can’t believe it!”

You look up at Tom and your jaw is clenched where you’ve since put down your goblet. There is too much tension in you to know what to do with, and he looks positively thrilled.

“It’s hardly charity, sir.” He holds out his arm.

You wonder what spell would catch him most off-guard if you were to blast him in the face right now.

Slughorn claps his hands together. “Ha! Yes, well… perfect, then! Off now, the two of you, off now. Do have a good — ” He hiccoughs again — “rest!”

You don’t even bother the diplomacy of smiling at Slughorn as your arm loops through Tom’s and you’re exiting the party. 

Neither of you say a word on the journey, and that’s very well.

If you could just get back to bed without speaking to him you may still consider it a good night. You may be able to push his strangeness and his entitlement and the annoying way his hair falls to another day, when he pesters you about Godefrey’s nonexistent Quidditch practise, which — come to think of it — you do think he told you he'd be headed home for the holidays. You really fumbled that one.

And then Tom’s thumb is brushing the bare skin of your arm and your walk stutters a bit. But he doesn’t mention it, and so neither do you.

And then he’s drawing down your elbow to your forearm so softly it almost feels like he isn’t touching you at all. He doesn’t mention it. Neither do you.

And then your arm, without really meaning for it to, is slipping from his and his hand is holding yours instead, feather-light as his fingers clasp yours and your breath is not the same as it was when you left.

He doesn’t mention it. He just keeps going.

His fingers work back up your arm and you shiver as they drag across your shoulder, gaze searing your neck as the soft digits find their way to your jaw, and you get the sense he’s remembering just how much he liked the taste of it, and you’re… you’re allowing it all again. You’re leaning in, you’re seeking him out, you want him flush against you and even that might not be satisfactory.

You are, in the end, a half-decent observer and a terrible liar.

You’re grabbing his hand with a small amount of direction and a great deal of meaning. You suppose it's because, historically, you’ve proven to have trouble with words in moments like these, and you don’t really know where you’re taking him but god, you know where you want him. Somewhere soft, this time, thick enough that you can fist your hands around it and melt. Somewhere he can hover over you, maybe hold you down a little, just until — maybe, miraculously — you might make him break a little too. Clamber over his lap. Make him yours.

“Tom,” you mouth, some question in the way your eyebrows knit.

The moment you say his name — the instant — he’s pulling you in, crushing his mouth against yours. And, ah, right, that’s what his lips feel like. You’d almost forgotten. 

This kiss is not chaste, hardly tender. It resists in that it asks you to push, to plead, to take this for yourself to prove how badly you want it, and he smiles into it when you do. And then, sated by your efforts, he lets you have him. You’re gripping the collar of his suit in your hands as his wander appreciatively over the back of your dress, pulling you into him as the kiss deepens. He’s savouring you like you’re something religious that’s been offered to him, and there’s the taste of wine on his tongue and you’re still here, aware enough that the symbolism isn’t lost on you.

“I've been thinking," he says between kisses, “about the way you felt when I touched you. I've been thinking about how long it might take before you need it again." 

You gasp at the sensation, and god, god, you've been wondering too, haven't you?

You’re pulling him impossibly closer and something hard is pressing into your hip and you clutch tighter onto his shirt as you moan into his mouth. You need it off, you think, and — has your dress been clinging to you like this all night? You need that off too. You need skin on skin. You careen him backwards without aim, your mind a muddled mess of all the many things your body is screaming it needs, like this is fucking imperative; to give it up would be catastrophic.

You suppose, based on what you’ve read, that that’s how the Room of Requirement works, but it’s still funny to think it would apply to this.

It hurts to remove yourself from him to watch in dumb awe as the door forms in the stone (to see the dark, languid shape of his eyes bearing down on you, the wet, stained pink of his lips), and Tom seems to recover from the revelation much faster than you.

His mouth is on yours once more, a hungry kiss; his free hand at your waist, guiding you through the door and shutting it carelessly behind him. 

He’s like fire against you, radiating as he presses down on you, his hand tangled in your hair and his hips flush against yours. You shiver as his mouth starts to move down (a cheap trick — he hasn’t forgotten how much you liked it the last time) from your jaw to your throat, as his lips trail down your chest and you're shivering into the warmth of him.

You’ve heard it said before, in some romantic sense, that it’s sometimes hard to tell where you end and someone else begins. 

This is not like that.

You've never been more aware of anything than the point where you and him meet.

You’re tugging at him blindly again, trusting in the nature of the Room like this isn't the first time you've been in it, and then you're stumbling down onto a bed you're quite sure wasn't there a moment ago (people say magic is a neutral force but evidently this is not the fucking case), fingers carding through Tom's hair as his body pins you into the mattress.

His mouth is molten hot as you squirm and pant beneath him, your breath coming faster than it ever has. Everything feels sharper and deeper and more intense under his touch, every sensation heightened until it's almost impossible to tell pleasure from pain, his tongue from his teeth.

How did it take you this long to do this again? To need him like this?

And his — you should really have the mind to see the mistake in all of this but perhaps that's for later — his fingers are pulling your sleeves down, propping your back to arch as he reaches under you to unzip your dress, apparently too impatient to sit you up and take it off properly so he just bunches it around your waist instead. There’s a moment where he stops to look at you, your chest exposed to him in the dim sconce-light, and then his mouth returns to circle your breast and you're biting down on a pillow to hold back the whimpering gasp that seeks to escape you. He hums around your flesh, and then he’s at your sternum, kissing a stripe to your belly button before pushing past the dress he's left ringed around your abdomen.

You shimmy under the weight of him to prop your head up — to see past the mass of silk that obscures his face from you as moves lower and lower, hands spanning your hips to keep you still.

His face hovers above your thighs, and he doesn’t move.

“Did you enjoy my fingers?" he asks. 

At that you freeze, thighs pressing together to bury the hand that's rising between them. 

Tom smiles. “Hm, you did." 

And then he spreads your legs apart, one hand pushing your underwear aside and regarding you with delicate, shameless appetite — something that even be adoration: like this is all he ever wanted you to want.

“Do you think you'd enjoy my mouth, too?"

Words are gone. There's nothing left in you.

His head moves happily between your knees, holding them apart, pressing kisses to the base of your thighs. Your hands flail from the sheets, desperate to grip something else and you hold back a sound that feels like irritation and need at the same time. You need him closer, higher than this. He knows. You can feel his smile biting into your skin.

And then you manage a nod though you're not even sure he's looking at your face anymore (and what a picture to imagine he is) and you worry momentarily it won’t be enough for him — that he’ll ask you to be nice and say it out loud for him — but he hums with something merciful, and — his chin dips. You catch the smallest glimpse of his tongue before it’s on you, wet and slow and unrelenting and you say his name, but it’s a mewl; you choke on it. It sounds like a cry.

Pitiful, needy, undone. Just how he wants you.

You think all efforts to remain even remotely composed are thrown to the wind as soon as his tongue is lapping at you, fast and then slow, everything you want and not even remotely close. He sinks all his weight down as if he can predict the moment you'll writhe before you do — and you do. And with his grip he tells you to endure it. You only need him to say it with his hands and his mouth but he breathes back, licking his lips and he actually says it. “Be good.”

That makes your breath hitch and your cheeks swell impossibly hotter, and reality is a small glint in your peripheral where everything else is burning red. “Y-you’re—”

His mouth returns to you, tongue catching your clit in a drawn-out, agonising motion, and you gasp and lurch forward to inch through the sensation, craving more, more, more. Reason is lost on you, a throbbing familiarity forcing you to grind your teeth down on the pillow to stop yourself from telling him to — you don’t even know. Finish you. Abandon all reluctance. Just let you come as hard as you know he wants you to.

But he pauses, observant as he starts to work his fingers against you. Watching how your slick coats them like it’s the most enthralling sight he’s ever witnessed. Slowly, ever so slowly, he starts to push one inside of you, hearing your breath catch above him and the moan that comes tumbling out of your throat, pillow be damned.

You do your best to breathe through it, and you know he knows how to make you unfold like this, so the meticulous lightness of his ministrations tells you he’s trying to keep it from you now. You’re almost embarrassed about the fact that you’re dripping onto his hand regardless; his lips puffy, his gaze unnervingly, dizzyingly carving you in two.

“Just,” you rasp, clutching desperately at his wrist. “Tom, please.” 

Your begging must be music to his ears. (It’s a rare, unplanned fifth observation: that you think he’ll never get tired of hearing you say his name like that.)

He adds a finger. It’s encircling you, first, and no amount of restraint can stop the harsh gasp that leaves you, but then it’s his tongue and two fingers and he’s pushing into you how you wanted, and he makes a pleased sound against you, gripping you tighter with his free hand, still not allowing you movement and fuck, are you trying. What you're feeling now — the need, the want, everything —  is more than rational thought. Your mind goes blank, and all that matters is this, him, right here and now; nothing else exists, not even for a second. You moan, a low, throaty noise that's a little too loud, a little too intense; you can't recall if anything has ever come from you quite like it and Tom devours you at the sound.

More, you agree; it's almost an obsession in you now; more, more, please, anything and everything.

It’s the precision of his touch — not some bored, hurried transgression — that brings your hands helplessly to his hair.

“Tom,” you whine, holding him tight, and the purr of his mouth finding you again is something destructive.

As soon as you feel another swell of something deep down, your mouth is dropping open.

His tongue is sliding through you, fingers curling, and then your clit is in his mouth, and he’s watching you between your thighs as your eyes clench shut, and you’re coming.

Your voice breaks somewhere in the catastrophe of it. Your body spasms, electric down to every atom, and he pins you down through it. He doesn’t grant you the reprieve of escaping the frenzied, glorious torture of it. His mouth still lingers. His tongue moves thankful and unrelenting. 

He takes all of you, and you think this is destruction — creation — both. How terrifyingly similar they suddenly feel.

His lips are swollen and slick when he finally detaches them from you and you want to kiss him, but he’s leaning back to admire his work. You swallow, unable to blame him for it because you look down at yourself and — this is something else. You’re dripping down his chin. You're shaking. Your legs are still clenching around his torso. They’re holding him so tight you can’t imagine it doesn’t hurt.

But he just rolls off of you. Adjusts his trousers and your abdomen flutters and you think, don’t.

You don’t even realise you’re reaching for him until your hand is around his wrist and you’re still fucking sighing through the come-down, panting into the hot air.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, fingers damp on your chin as he holds you. You make a note that that’s the second time he’s done that. That you thought it was strangely intimate the first time and nothing’s changed other than how much more you like it.

And it doesn’t really feel like you can help it but crawl with gooey, trembling legs onto his lap. Doesn’t feel like you can help it when you lean in and capture his lips with yours, moan unabashedly into his mouth at the stiffness that presses against your core when you do, steal his tongue and the taste of you on it.

When he pulls away he’s looking at you like he doesn’t think you can actually do this. Like you’d just crumble the moment you tried.

A low, determined protest rises in your throat and you’re kissing him again. You’re unbuttoning his dress shirt, you’re trembling to reach for his trousers. 

When you can finally shrug his shirt off, press yourself against him, feel that skin on skin you wanted so badly, you find it somehow even more suffocating than its absence. You’re left wanting a more you aren’t able to even conceptualise, but you’re grinding involuntarily against him and his teeth are scraping your neck and he's hissing at the sensation, and — yes, there’s more.

Your breath is staggered when your hips stutter into a roll and you — fuck. You’re tugging desperately to remove his belt and he smiles against your throat as he takes your hands and guides them to him. You can feel his bulge against your thigh and you’re spreading your legs to usher him where you want, clawing at his chest without even meaning to.

Tom’s taking off his belt, and he’s pulling down his trousers just enough to bare himself to you, and maybe he’s right that you can’t manage it yourself but he stops his assistance like the intrigue of finding out is too good to resist. There's something both intimate and imperious, in a way, about the way he's looking at you now; it's a kind of focus and intensity and withheld hunger just for you; and you're more than happy to give yourself over to it, to let his hands and his eyes and his mouth claim you for his own. To claim him for yours, at last.

You do. You struggle for it. He’s very patient. 

But then it’s there — more — as you finally sink down on him and bite his shoulder and he shudders a low, pained exhale, his hands clutching your waist.

There’s a silent, suspended moment where neither of you move. The room feels entirely still. 

Your lips quiver over his pulse, and your stomach flips at the intensity of it, the undeniable rate of his desire beneath you. You smile against him now, like he always does to you, conscious enough to mumble into his neck, “Mine.”

Tom stutters inside you, fingers gripping you impossible tighter as you dare to think he even gasps. You dare to think he likes it.

And then one of his hands grabs your jaw and his kiss is searing. He thrusts upward and you cry into his mouth, searching to match his pace in a way that you appreciate, for once, he seems unlearned in. 

It’s all a bit messy, a bit new, palms in fists, in skin, in hair, digging for every part they haven’t already taken from. The sound in the back of Tom’s throat is divine, the feeling of him inside you as he slips his hand back between your legs — like he needs everything, like he knows you do too — it’s ineffable. It coils somewhere deep, touches something you didn’t know existed. Your hips are rotating, thighs still soft and slack from coming apart on his tongue, but you’re determined. It feels like finding even ground. It feels like something you deserve: to make him feel how you did.

Your head rolls back, eyes pinching shut in bliss, but Tom is there at your jaw again, forcing your blurry gaze back to him.

His hips are inching even further, the intensity of his pace as he adjusts to you making you dizzy. You think, realistically, there’s sound coming out of you, but you aren’t entirely sure when it’s so close to him, when your mouth is between his fingers and your ears are ringing and he’s looking at you like you’re made for him. 

“Mine.” And it isn’t a dismissal of your own claim but a confirmation that one will not be without the other. His voice is raw and breathy and something about the way he says it makes you contract inadvertently around him, hands swatting his chest like they don’t know what else to do. There’s just too much.

You recognize you’re trying to say something. Some plea, a moan, his name (is there anything else left?), but you’re just babbling into his mouth and he holds you there. He doesn’t kiss you. It’s your failing words against his lips. He swallows whatever syllables try to shape them.

It’s there again when you need it most; the heavy, swirling feeling inside you as he snaps his hips, his fingers returning to your waist with punishing firmness. His breathing accelerates, low in his throat, and you push harder against him. Your vision is gone again, head held in his hands to keep from rolling back so that, you suspect, he can watch defeat split you down the middle again — not over your shoulder, not with his head between your legs — with his eyes on yours, with every broken moan you let out so close to his face he can feel the breath of each one.

You’re grappling desperately at skin that doesn’t feel like enough, even though he’s rocking inside you, and you see the insanity of it, you see that it isn’t logical. Too much and not enough at once — you’re smart enough to know that doesn’t work, but it just is.

“Please,” you manage in a voice you don’t recognize. “Please, Tom, pleasepleaseplease —”

Had you said before it was foolish to call him forgiving? You take it back. He’s very eager to oblige you.

He finds some place inside of you and you don’t know quite what it is that he changes but it's new, uncharted, and you break there. You dissolve. You’re liquid in his hands as you sob, stuttering around him, trembling like you didn’t know was possible, and you swear — you swear you’re going to take him there with you. It isn’t that you could stop yourself if you tried but your body is gripping around him, fingers carving halved spheres into his skin, and you’re pushing down on him through the ecstasy — you’re forcing your eyes open so he can see you break, watch them flutter back all soft and pretty.

And you're sated by your ruin when it ruins him too.

The sound he makes is ragged. Undone. He can only bury it halfway with a kiss you think is actually more of a bite, twitching inside you as he fucks you through it.

You’re both lost in each other for a moment that feels detached from time, feeling his hips stutter to a halt, feeling your body soften. And he’s pulling out of you like it hurts, mouth falling open as he does. You wince at the loss, the sweet soreness between your legs, and you’re held only by the weight of him. You think — and you actually sway like the mere idea is too strong — that if it weren’t for his hands, you’d fall flat off the bed.

But he sort of lifts you off him, lays you down and watches you for a long time as if to decide something important before he's laying down beside you. You watch him too. His fingers brush your hair out of your face, and when there’s not a single curl left clinging to the sweat on your skin, he continues anyway. You let him trace your lips, your jaw, your nose, and somehow, a bit terrifyingly, your final observation: nothing about it feels unusual at all.

You did say he was yours.

[purplefox-writes]

2 genres of fanfiction:

1) put that guy into situations

2) take that guy OUT of situations for the love of GOD let them REST 

[purplefox-writes]

Ohhh PLEASE write anything about xeno Lovegood 🥵 i was the one that asked and it was because i wanted to read about him and find literally nothing😭😭 i NEED it

Good Weird

Xenophilius Lovegood x reader drabble

Notes: Alright here’s my Xeno x reader debut 🙈 please be kind! I’ve got a couple of Xeno requests, so although I said I might write just one thing… this is definitely the first of a short series of drabbles! The next one will be pure smut 😈 this one is kind of setting up how you’d meet him, and was a great way for me to find his voice. I hope it comes across ok!

Summary: you meet Xenophilius at Bill & Fleur’s wedding. You’re instantly drawn to one another, and he shares his first kiss in years with you

Warnings/content: It’s cute but there’s some angst, mention of death, slightly heated make out

‘Who’s that?’ You shouted to your new acquaintance over the thump of the music.

‘That nutjob? That’s Xenophilius Lovegood,’ she replied, concern crossing her brow as she glanced at you. ‘I might have only known you since this morning, but I wouldn’t advise-’

‘That’s Xenophilius Lovegood?’ Your mouth dropped open.

‘You… know him?’ She stepped away from you an inch. It wasn’t as subtle as she hoped.

‘Know him?! He’s the editor of the Quibbler… Merlin, I didn’t know he looked like that…’ You looked him up and down, biting your lip.

‘Like what?’ She sniffed, disgust gracing her features.

Your eyes dragged over his body as he danced, carefree, with a young girl who was the image of him. The song came to an end and Xenophilius kissed her lovingly on the forehead, watching her skip away to talk to her friends.

‘I’ll be right back,’ you half-heartedly lied to your eye-rolling acquaintance without taking your eyes off Xenophilius for a second as you moved over to him, hoping no one else would get there first.

‘Mr. Lovegood?’ You spoke softly, trying to negate the nerves threatening to weaken your voice.

He turned unhurriedly at the call of his name, his thick, untamed hair shining in the light as he spun to face you. At first, curious confusion danced across his features until he settled on your eyes and smiled warmly.

‘That’s me,’ he said brightly in response, a mildly vacant expression on his face for someone with such thought-filled eyes. ‘I don’t know you. But you know me,’ he said with intrigue in a soft voice that soothed you unexpectedly.

You cleared your throat, having got lost in his crystal blue eyes. ‘I just wanted to say that I adore The Quibbler,’ you said coyly, feeling a bubble of nervousness rise in your stomach as he listened intently to your compliment.

‘You read the Quibbler?’ He mused, more to himself than to you, going on excitedly, ‘Do you write? Seen anything of interest recently?’

‘Nothing outside of the odd nargle - and of course this place is teeming with wrackspurts, but that’s to be expected,’ you shrugged. ‘That’s not why I came over, though. I just wanted to let you know that I appreciate your work,’ you finished, disappointed that this would probably draw a close to his interest in you.

Instead, he stepped a little closer, humming in agreement about the wrackspurt infestation.

If you weren’t finding him so captivating, it might have been uncomfortably close, but it actually made you tremble with a pleasant sort of anticipation.

‘I would love to talk with you a while longer,’ he whispered, his eyes darting around the tent. ‘Ah there she is,’ he muttered, his eyes settling adoringly on the girl he’d been dancing with earlier.

‘My daughter, Luna,’ he explained proudly, smile widening as he stared off toward her. ‘My whole world… I’d do anything for her.’

Suddenly, he snapped back to you and hurried you out of the marquee tent, where the noise reduced to a distant muffle.

‘That’s better.’ He took a deep breath of the fresh night air and shook his hair as though he were trying to remove something from it. ‘How about some tea?’ He asked when he stilled, gazing up at the stars.

‘I could really do with some Gurdyroot, but I doubt they’ve got any,’ you muttered and followed him inside to the pleasant quiet of the Burrow.

‘I’ve got some,’ he said as though everyone should have Gurdyroot. He fished in a deep pocket to locate the little tub of tea leaves he carried with him, holding it up as if inspecting a rare gem when he found it. ‘We make it ourselves. Never know when you’ll be in need of some!’

He placed it down on the kitchen counter and eyed you again. If you weren’t already slightly taken with him, the way he was looking at you now was going a long way to making you swoon.

‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ You asked a little more seductively than you’d intended to, taking a seat at the long kitchen table.

He flicked his wand casually toward the kettle. ‘I’m not sure,’ he answered absentmindedly, ‘I just know that I like your energy and want to be around you tonight.’

He took a seat beside you as the water brought itself to a boil, his eyes falling over your features with an intense but somehow calming gaze.

‘Actually,’ he continued, ‘I’m not sure talking is what I want. I rather feel as though I’d like to kiss you... that’s odd isn’t it?’ He whispered, inches from your face as you’d unconsciously moved closer to one another.

‘Yes I suppose it is…’ you breathed, your lips softly grazing against his.

Xenophilius jumped back, startled.

‘I’m sorry, I thought you wanted me to-’

He brought his hand up to trace a gentle finger along where your lips had touched his. What you saw stopped you in your tracks.

‘Oh, you’re married!’ You exclaimed. ‘I should go,’ you mumbled, standing so fast you went dizzy and almost lost your balance.

‘I’m not actually,’ he replied quietly as you rushed to the kitchen door, ‘I was happily married once, but she died many years ago.’ He said it so simply, looking to you with absolutely nothing in his eyes where there had been so much life only a moment ago.

‘I’m so sorry,’ you muttered again, seeing loneliness and heartbreak on his face as plain as day.

He looked down at the thin gold band adorning his left ring finger. ‘I still wear it to keep her with me. Silly really. It’s just a piece of metal…’ he trailed off.

You could feel sadness radiating from him. It made your heart ache.

‘But I’d still very much like to kiss you, if the ring doesn’t bother you too much,’ he said dreamily, a sparkle returning to his eyes when they fell on you once again. ‘I haven’t kissed anyone for a very long time,’ he added, cheeks looking a little pink.

You nodded and he stood slowly, sauntering over to you.

The whistle of the kettle pierced the silence of the kitchen and without flinching, Xenophilius flicked his wand toward it again. The shrill noise stopped the second his lips pressed against yours.

A shiver ran down your neck, through your torso and to your legs, turning them to jelly as his lips moved languidly over yours. He pressed his body against you, sending a tingle to your core, his tongue lapping against yours. It was slow but so intensely sensual that every nerve in your body felt alight.

His hands skimmed down your arms as he broke away, leaving you breathless and needing more of him, leaning forward to remain connected as long as you could.

‘That was nice,’ he sighed dreamily.

‘Nice?’ You panted, struggling to remember any previous kiss you’d experienced now you’d tasted him. ‘That was the best kiss I’ve ever had.’

‘Really?’ He mused. ‘Would you like to do it again? I thought it was a good one, too.’

You didn’t answer. You simply threw your arms around his neck as your lips crashed against his, pushing him back until his thighs were pressed against the edge of the kitchen table.

This was a much more frantic kiss but no less passionate than the last, both of you desperately grabbing at each other, your hands gliding from his hair to his lower back and back up to his shoulders, the soft velvet of his yellow jacket feeling heavenly against your skin, the warmth of his body radiating from beneath, craving his skin.

He whined into your mouth needily as your hands explored him, giving in to your embrace and wishing he wasn’t wearing so many layers.

Then, suddenly, he swirled you around, his lips not leaving yours until you were sitting up on the table with him between your legs, the beginnings of his erection pressing into your inner thigh.

He growled as he dived back toward you and deepened the kiss, feeling you pull him closer by the chain around his neck. He pushed both of his hands into your hair to hold your head firmly in place as your lips parted and his tongue slid against your own once again. His affections still felt soft, but there was a firmness too; a hungriness that overwhelmed you and sent heat rushing to your core.

He whimpered as you dragged your hands down his chest, desperately wanting to feel your skin against his own but knowing this wasn’t the time or the place.

‘We should wait,’ he panted reluctantly, pulling away only enough to speak. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No. You’re right. We could even… oh I don’t know, get to know each other?’ You chuckled.

‘I’d like that very much.’

‘Is it weird that I’ve known you for mere minutes and I’ve already made out with you in the Weasley’s kitchen?’

‘Yes, pretty weird. Good weird,’ he responded simply, pecking you on the lips again as you laughed (he wasn’t sure why you were laughing at that; he was completely serious).

An idea flickered in his eyes. ‘I’ll make that tea!’

Before he could stand, blinding green light shone through the kitchen windows and the quiet of the Burrow kitchen was broken by the absolute dead silence outside, followed by a rabble of panic you feared you’d hear one day. The death eaters had arrived.

‘Luna!’ Xenophilius wailed, grabbing your hand as both of you ran for the door.

[purplefox-writes]

There is no good and evil; only power and those too weak to seek it.

Tom Riddle - one of my favorite things about the HP books.

[purplefox-writes]

Love and Love Potions (part 2)

Evelyn entered the Herbology classroom, immediately greeted by the lively and enchanting atmosphere. The space was filled with the rustling of leaves, the scent of damp earth, and the soft hum of magical plants. Sunlight poured in through the large greenhouse windows, casting a warm glow over the room and making the plants appear even more vibrant and alive.

As she approached the work station, she saw Tom chatting with Avery, one of the Slytherin boys from his entourage. She took the only empty seat across from them. Her eyes met his and she smiled softly. It was good seeing his handsome face. Her thoughts were in turmoil. She couldn't help but replay their fight in her mind. Was he truly content with the way he was, she wondered, or was he just too afraid to face the possibility of change? Could she have been wrong about him, about the connection she thought they shared? A sense of disappointment swelled within her, but she knew better than to let them show.

Professor Sprout, a plump witch with a warm smile, bustled around the room, her hands perpetually dirty from tending to her beloved plants. Today, she was teaching the class about the care and cultivation of Fanged Geraniums, fascinating plants with sharp teeth that could deliver a painful bite if not handled properly.

Despite the lively atmosphere, Evelyn found it difficult to fully immerse herself in the lesson. She couldn't shake the weight of her thoughts, the lingering tension between her and Tom. As she carefully pruned her Fanged Geranium, she tried to push these thoughts aside, focusing instead on the delicate dance of avoiding the plant's snapping jaws. But even as she worked, her gaze was drawn, time and time again, to the figure of Tom Riddle, and she couldn't help but wonder if there was a way to bridge the gap that had grown between them.

As the class drew to a close, Tom made his way over to Evelyn, a mix of determination and hesitation in his eyes. He stopped in front of her, opening his mouth as if to say something, but then paused. A frustrated groan escaped his lips, and in a moment of impulsive frustration, he reached out and gripped her arm briefly before releasing it. Unable to find the right words, Tom turned on his heel and left the classroom, leaving Evelyn to wonder about the unresolved tension between them.

“Tom…” she tried. But he was already walking away.

Evelyn stood there, watching Tom's retreating back, her arm still tingling from his brief touch. A whirlwind of thoughts raced through her mind. What was it that he wanted to say? Did he have a change of heart about their disagreement, or was he just struggling with his own feelings about the subject?

She couldn't help but feel a pang of concern for him, sensing the vulnerability beneath his tough exterior. Was he battling with the realization that perhaps they both had a point – that living without certain emotions might be both a blessing and a curse?

As much as she wanted to chase after him, to understand the complexity of his emotions, she knew she had to give him space. Tom was a fiercely private person, and pushing him might only drive him further away.

**

Evelyn took a deep breath as she entered the library, her eyes scanning the room for any sign of Tom. She spotted him in a quiet corner, hunched over an old tome, his dark hair falling over his eyes as he concentrated on the pages. Gathering her courage, she approached him with a determined stride.

"Hey, Tom," she said softly, not wanting to startle him. He looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly as he regarded her.

"Evelyn," he replied coolly, his voice barely above a whisper to avoid attracting attention.

Evelyn hesitated for a moment, then took a seat across from him. "I wanted to talk to you about...well, everything."

Tom closed the book in front of him, his expression guarded. "What's there to talk about, darling? I know your stance and you know mine"

Evelyn sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I know we don't see eye to eye on certain things, Tom. But I don't want that to drive a wedge between us. We've worked well together in the past, and I'd like to think we could still be friends."

Tom studied her face for a moment, as if trying to gauge her sincerity. "And what makes you think I want to be friends with you, Evelyn?"

She smiled, her eyes warm and genuine. "Well, for starters, I am incredibly talented which. And despite our differences, I believe we could learn a lot from each other."

Tom's eyes softened ever so slightly, and he seemed to be considering her words. "Is that all?" he asked, his tone almost teasing.

Evelyn chuckled, her cheeks flushing. "Alright, I'll admit, I find you quite charming. Sometimes. And your dark, mysterious persona can be...intriguing."

He leaned back in his seat. “Really now? And this sudden desire for amends isn't because you need my assistance in obtaining a certain book from a particular section of the library, is it?"

Evelyn met his gaze, her expression earnest. "I won't deny that I still need the book, but I'm resourceful enough to find other ways to get it if I have to. I admit, though, I would much rather embark on this journey with you."

Tom responded with a hint of amusement, “And they say flattery won't get you anywhere. Tonight, it just might land us in a bit of trouble. But let's be clear, I won't change my stance on certain matters."

Evelyn's face lit up with a huge grin as she excitedly asked, "So, you'll do it?"

“I owe you one, don’t I? Let’s go.”

“What, now?” she asked with a hint of concern in her voice.

Tom smirked, "Why not? There's no time like the present."

Evelyn hesitated for a moment, glancing around the library, but then took a deep breath and nodded. "Alright, let's do it."

Evelyn couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and apprehension. Tom's willingness to help her had caught her off guard, but she was grateful for his support. The two walked side by side, trying to avoid he librarian woman, in the dimly lit corridor.

“Now what? she whispered, “Alohomora won’t work on this lock.”

"I'm aware," Tom turned, revealing the key in his hand.

Evelyn raised her eyebrows, impressed.

She stepped aside as he carefully inserted the key into the lock and turned it. With a soft click, the door to the restricted section creaked open.

With a chivalrous flourish, Tom motioned for Evelyn to enter the restricted section ahead of him.

Evelyn looked at him for a second, swiftly planted a kiss on his cheek, and then darted into the restricted section. Tom, caught off guard, let out a surprised breath as he stood there, momentarily stunned. He shook his head then he followed inside, closing the door silently behind them.

Once inside, they tiptoed through the labyrinth of shelves, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet underfoot. A sense of foreboding hung in the air, the dimly lit area casting eerie shadows on the walls. The atmosphere was heavy with the promise of hidden secrets, long-lost knowledge, and the whispers of ancient magic.

They carefully searched the rows of dusty tomes, whispering softly as they tried to find the Amortentia book Evelyn desperately sought. Just as Evelyn's fingers brushed the spine of the book she needed, the door to the restricted section creaked open, and they heard footsteps approaching.

Panicking, they ducked behind a bookshelf, pressing themselves against the wall and trying to remain invisible. As the footsteps grew closer, they recognized the familiar stride of Professor Dumbledore. He paused near the bookshelf, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

"My dear students, I am well aware that you are both here," Dumbledore said softly, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Your enthusiasm for knowledge is commendable, but your methods are, shall we say, unorthodox."

Evelyn and Tom exchanged nervous glances before slowly stepping forward.

"It was my idea, Professor Dumbledore. I should be the one to serve detention."

"And which book has captured your interest so much that you felt the need to break the rules?" Dumbledore asked, his tone calm yet stern.

Evelyn hesitated for a moment before revealing the book on Amortentia. "I wanted to study the complexities and possible cures for the effects of Amortentia, sir."

“And why is that, miss Blackwood?”

“Because, sir, I was born under its influence. And I would like very much the option of a cure.”

“Ah, I see. And mister Riddle provided you with access to the restricted section for this purpose?”

“Yes, professor”, he simply replied.

Dumbledore studied them for a moment, then nodded. "Interesting. Very well. I appreciate your honesty. However, I must remind you both that the restricted section is off-limits for a reason."

"I understand, sir," Evelyn replied, her voice sincere. "I assure you, this is the only book I took."

Dumbledore gave them a meaningful look. "In that case, I expect a detailed essay on your findings, both of you. As for your detention, I will assign it accordingly. Now, you should return to your common rooms.”

Evelyn and Tom shared a quick glance before nodding in understanding. They both knew they had taken a risk, and although they were caught, the consequences could have been much worse.

As they left the restricted section, they walked side by side in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. The dimly lit corridor felt even more oppressive now, as the weight of their actions hung in the air between them. The shadows seemed to dance on the walls, echoing their quiet footsteps.

Upon reaching the library's main area, Evelyn turned to Tom, her eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and guilt. "Thank you, Tom. I appreciate your help, even if it got us both into trouble."

“Now, darling, you owe me one.” He gestured as he walked away.

**

[purplefox-writes]

Love and Love Potions (part 1)

The Potions classroom was filled with the soft murmurs of students as they gathered around their workstations, eagerly awaiting their assignments. Professor Horace Slughorn stood at the front of the room, his eyes scanning the assembled students with a keen interest.

"Now, class," Slughorn began, his voice resonating throughout the room, "today, we shall be brewing a particularly fascinating potion: Amortentia, the most powerful love potion in existence. It's a complex and delicate process, so I will be pairing you up to ensure success."

As he began announcing the pairs, Tom Riddle stood with an air of calm confidence, waiting to hear who his partner would be. Slughorn's eyes briefly met Tom's, and he paused for a moment before continuing.

"Tom, I will be pairing you with Miss Blackwood," he said, gesturing toward a girl seated in the back corner. She was a quiet but bright student who had mostly kept to herself. Her eyes widened slightly at the announcement, but she quickly regained her composure. Evelyn approached the workstation where Tom was already laying out the necessary equipment.

"Ah, excellent," Slughorn said, rubbing his hands together. "Tom, you have a natural talent for Potions, and Miss Blackwood has shown remarkable skill and intuition in her work. Together, I have no doubt that you'll create an exceptional Amortentia."

She hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Hello”, she greeted and started carefully arranging her book on the workstation.

Tom nodded. "Let's see if we can live up to our reputations, shall we?", he said with a small, almost imperceptible smile.

Evelyn: "Agreed. I've already taken the liberty of opening the book to the appropriate page so we can review the steps for brewing Amortentia. We should start by setting the cauldron to a low heat."

Tom: "Very good. I'll handle that. Can you prepare the Ashwinder eggs and the rose thorns?"

Evelyn: "Of course. We'll need three Ashwinder eggs and thirteen rose thorns."

As they continued to work on the potion, Evelyn reached across the workstation to grab a small vial of pearl dust. In doing so, her hand brushed against Tom's. He immediately retracted his hand, his movements so seamless that it might have gone unnoticed by anyone less observant.

Evelyn, however, caught the subtle reaction and couldn't help but wonder if Tom felt uncomfortable with physical contact. The idea intrigued her, as she had never seen any indication of this vulnerability in his otherwise confident demeanor.

Curious, she decided to test her theory.

Tom: "Next, we should crush the Moonstone into a fine powder, it's essential for the potion's pearlescent sheen."

Evelyn: "Yes, and we must be careful not to add it too early. Timing is crucial for this potion. I'll keep an eye on the cauldron while you crush it."

When Tom handed her the crushed Moonstone, she deliberately allowed her fingers to linger on his just a moment longer than necessary. She carefully watched his reaction, noting the slight tension that crossed his features before he withdrew his hand again.

“Thank you” she whispered. Evelyn felt a newfound curiosity regarding Tom, realising that beneath his poised exterior lay hidden insecurities. Interesting, she thought.

Slughorn clapped his hands. "Alright class, I'll see you tonight to check on the finished brews. I'm eager to find out how many of you have successfully completed the potion."

Tom glanced at the gently bubbling cauldron and turned to Evelyn. "Alright. I'll see you later."

She responded with a smile, giving him a side glance "It wasn't so bad working with you, Tom."

Tom couldn't help but reply cheekily, "Oh, just 'not so bad'? I'm flattered.”

Evelyn grimaced playfully, "Well, don't let it go to your head. See you”

Throughout the day, Evelyn couldn't help but reflect on Tom's reaction. She found herself increasingly curious about him.

At the end of the day, she returned to the potions classroom and found Tom already at the work desk, attentively examining their potion. She approached him and, without hesitation, gently ran her hand along his back as she sat at the desk, like it was the most natural thing to do.

Tom eyed her, surprised by her unexpected touch but not wanting to show any discomfort. Evelyn, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease, as if she hadn't just crossed an unspoken boundary between them. He couldn't help but wonder what had prompted her to do so, and what her intentions were as they continued to work together.

Tom, handing her the final ingredients to be added: "So, Evelyn, tell me about your interests outside of potions class. I'm quite curious."

Evelyn briefly met Tom's dark brown eyes before focusing back on their workdesk. "Well, as much as I'd love to say that I spend all my time brewing potions and hexing unsuspecting classmates, I actually have quite the passion for..." She leaned towards him, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "muggle mystery novels."

Tom's eyes widened in surprise at Evelyn's revelation. "Is that so?" he asked, his curiosity piqued by her unusual interest.

"What about you, Tom?" Evelyn asked, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Let me guess, your interests lie in the intricacies of the magical world and uncovering its hidden secrets."

Tom’s face darkened: "Perhaps.”

Evelyn: "Maybe we can trade book recommendations sometime. I'll introduce you to the world of Muggle mysteries, and you can share some of your favorite magical secrets."

He shook his head, humming.

Evelyn: "Well, Tom, it looks like we make a great team. Our potion is perfect."

They both took a moment to admire their handiwork, the Amortentia potion shimmering with an enchanting pearlescent sheen.

“Tell me, what does it smell like to you?" Tom asked.

Evelyn, grinning and leaning to take in the aroma: "Well, just like all the other girls in the school, I smell old parchment, pine, and... a hint of arrogance. Funnily enough, that last one seems to be particularly prominent today."

Tom couldn't help but chuckle at her witty retort. “Is that supposed to be me?”

Evelyn scoffed playfully at him.

As they prepared to bottle the potion, Evelyn decided to keep a small vial for herself. She quickly filled one and slipped it into her pocket, not anticipating that Tom would notice. However, his sharp gaze caught her actions.

Tom: "What are you doing?"

Evelyn: "What Slughorn doesn't know can't hurt him."

His demeanor darkened and he grabbed her wrist. Evelyn gasped softly at the unexpected contact, but she didn't falter as her eyes darted from his grasp to his eyes. He tightened his grasp.

Before Tom could respond, their moment was interrupted by Professor Slughorn's arrival to inspect the potions. Both Tom and Evelyn quickly composed themselves, but the charged energy between them lingered.

The professor’s eyes were immediately drawn to the shimmering Amortentia they had successfully brewed. A broad smile spread across his face as he inspected the potion. "Well done, Tom and Evelyn! This is an excellent example of Amortentia. You two have truly outdone yourselves."

Evelyn cast a concerned glance at Tom, worried he might reveal something to the professor.

Tom simply replied, with his characteristic charm: "Thank you, Professor. We certainly made a great team."

Slughorn: "Indeed! It's always a pleasure to see my students working together so effectively. Keep up the good work, both of you."

As Slughorn vanished the potions from the cauldrons and dismissed the class, Evelyn took her chance and slipped out of the room, her Amortentia vial safely pocketed.

Tom looking at her robe fluttering as she left, he wondered how he had never truly noticed her before. He had been aware of her presence, of course, but her quiet demeanor had caused her to blend into the background. He knew she was up to something and he was determined to find out what.

**

On Friday, during Transfiguration class, Tom came and sat beside Evelyn. As he glanced at her, he noticed the faint bruises on her wrist where he had grabbed her in the potions lab. A wave of… something washed over him, and he felt compelled to apologize for his actions.

“I'm truly sorry for grabbing you like that. I usually don't lose myself in that manner."

Evelyn: "It's alright, Tom.”

“You’re not upset?” he asked, his tone skeptical.

She skimmed through her book, looking for page 357. "At first, I was taken aback, but I have to admit that I was also intrigued to see that side of you. I'm not the kind to be easily deterred by a little roughness. Besides, now you have to make it up to me."

Tom clenched his jaw and did not say anything until the end of the class.

As the bell rang, signalling the end of the class, Evelyn shamelessly glanced at Tom's striking features, taking in every detail. His dark, intense eyes held a mysterious depth, as if hiding secrets she longed to uncover. His cheekbones and sharp jawline framed his face, giving him an air of sophistication and elegance. The way his dark hair fell effortlessly over his forehead only added to his allure. Of course he was everyone's favorite. She sensed there was more to him than met the eye, and she relished the prospect of discovering it.

He added his books in his bag and returned the look frowning: “What?”

"I'm pondering how you're going to make it up to me," Evelyn said as she brought her index finger to her lower lip. She then gathered her books and took Tom's hand. "Come with me."

Tom scoffed. “Don’t tell me what to do”, but he did not retract his hand.

“I am not. Evelyn replied. "Besides, if you really didn't want to come along, you wouldn't have followed me, right?" She flashed him a playful smile.

“Where are we going?”

She did not say anything.

“Evelyn!” he whispered yelled.

She kept on walking, tightening her grasp on his warm hand.

He halted abruptly, seizing both her shoulders and pinning her in place. He loomed over her, his eyes intense. "Darling, when I ask you a question, I expect an answer," he said firmly.

"Darling? I must confess, I like intense Tom," she said with a hint of amusement.

“Must you be so insufferable?” he said harshly, hands still on her.

She put her palm on one of his hands. “Relax, I just wish to discuss with you in private,”. She looked right and left and grabbed him in an abandoned classroom.

“Fine”. He entered and leaned against a desk in the classroom, casually sitting on the edge with his legs crossed at the ankles and hands in his pockets. "I'm all ears."

Evelyn stepped closer, her eyes locked with his. “It's time to settle that debt.” Raising her bruised wrist. ”I need your help to acquire a book from the restricted section.”

Tom's eyebrow arched inquisitively, "My, my, dare I ask what you need it for?"

"No, you will just get me in and I will do the rest" she crossed her arms.

Tom tilted his head. "Then I will not do it".

Evelyn swallowed: “Fine. I bank on you being discreet”. Tom nodded. "I've been researching love potions, specifically Amortentia. There's a book in the restricted section that I believe holds some tantalising secrets that could be incredibly useful for my studies."

He paused for a minute. “I must admit, I did not expect this.” You already have the potion, you know what it does, why do you need the book for? Just dose the poor unsuspecting fellow and be done with it.”

Evelyn: "Well, Tom. I do not need the potion to dose anyone."

He stood up, taking his hands out of his pocket. “What for then?”

She lowered her gaze and said nothing.

He closed the distance between them, gently grasping her chin and slowly tilting her face to meet his eyes.

"Go on, you can tell me."

She drew a long breath, feeling his smell and the heat radiating from his body.

She closed her eyes, her voice barely audible: "My mother was under the influence of Amortentia when I was born. I want to find a cure."

He scoffed, a hint of mockery in his eyes as he released her chin. "A cure? Why would you want a cure? We are better like this."

"We?" she widened her eyes and tentatively touched his right shoulder. "You mean, you're the same?..."

Tom sighed and leaned against the desk, his eyes distant as he began to speak. "Yes, and I like it this way. We may not experience certain feelings the way others do, but not being tied down by emotions has allowed me to focus on my ambitions, my desires. Some might say it's a curse, but I've come to see it as a gift. In a way, it's liberating."

He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "It's made me who I am today – strong, resilient, and determined. While others are weakened by their emotions, we have an advantage. We can make decisions that others would hesitate to make, act when others are held back by their feelings."

Evelyn looked into Tom's eyes, and responded with determination. "I understand your perspective, Tom, and perhaps it is a gift for some, but not for me. Yes, there is a certain freedom that comes from not being tied down by emotions, but there's also a cost."

She turned away from him, gazing out of the window. "For as long as I can remember, I've felt like I've been missing something essential – a connection to others, the ability to truly feel the range of emotions that make us human. I may not be weakened by guilt, love, or even sadness, but that also means I am disconnected from the very things that make life worth living."

Tom's expression turned cold, and he shook his head. "You don't understand, Evelyn. I thought you would.” With that, he pulled away from her, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and defiance. "I'm done discussing this," he said sharply, and without another word, he turned and stormed out of the room, leaving Evelyn standing there, bewildered and hurt.

**

[purplefox-writes]

Hello!!! I LOVE your writing! 🤭

-🫐

Hello! Then I shall write more *smirk*.

What should it be about? Longing? Aching? Touching? Falling in love *gasp*

[purplefox-writes]

“So… who’s next?”

Tom Riddle

[purplefox-writes]

Tom in Paris (T.M.R x singer)

Summary: Tom is exploring the muggle world and ends up in a jazz club in Paris, where he meets a sultry jazz singer.

Word-count: 1200

Content warnings: none

Tom stood in front of the unassuming entrance of a jazz club in the heart of Paris, hesitant to enter. He had never before stepped in such muggle establishment, but his growing fascination with their world had led him here. With a deep breath, Tom squared his shoulders, determined to take this first step into the unknown.

As Tom entered the jazz club, he was hit with a wave of warm, smoky air. The lighting was low and intimate, casting a golden glow over the patrons who lounged in plush velvet booths and at the bar. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol, perfume, and cigarette smoke, and the room hummed with the low murmur of conversation and laughter.

"Bonsoir, monsieur," greeted the French hostess with a warm smile. "Une table pour combien de personnes?"

“Bonsoir. It’s just me. May I sit at the bar?" Tom replied, feeling a flutter of excitement in his chest.

"Of course, follow me, sir," the hostess said, leading Tom to a prime seat at the bar with a direct view of the stage. "Is this to your liking?"

Tom met her eyes. "C'est parfait, merci beaucoup."

Tom sat at the bar, slowly getting lost in thought as he took in the atmosphere. The sultry notes of the saxophone filled the air, and he felt himself swaying to the rhythm.

His eyes were drawn to the stage, where a beautiful singer stepped in front of the microphone. She wore a slinky red dress that hugged her curves, and her long, dark hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders. As she began to sing, Tom felt as if the room fell away and he was transported to another world. He listened to the slow song about heartache and longing.

Her voice was smooth and silky, with just a hint of raspiness. He watched as she closed her eyes and swayed to the music, her body moving in time with the beat. It was as if she was lost in the music, and Tom found himself mesmerized by her.

"Excusez-moi, monsieur, would you like a drink?" the bartender's heavily accented English pulled him out of his reverie.

Tom turned to him and nodded. "Sure. What do you recommend?"

The bartender leaned forward, a twinkle in his eye. "I have just the thing," he said, reaching for a bottle on the top shelf. He leaned towards Tom as if indulging him in a secret. "It's not even on the menu."

He poured a small glass and place it in from of Tom, who took a sip and savored the smooth, smoky flavor. It was unlike anything he had tasted before, and he felt a warmth spreading through his body. The wizarding world could not hold a candle to the exquisite beverages of the muggle world, he pondered.

And then, his eyes fell upon her beautiful petite singer, her voice wrapping around him like a warm embrace. She was like a vision in red. Her voice was like some kind of magic, a spell that he was powerless to resist.

As the song came to an end, the room erupted in applause. Tom joined in, feeling a sense of awe and wonder. Her eyes met his intense gaze and he inclined his glass to her in a silent toast.

With a sultry smile on her lips, she made her way through the crowd and over to where Tom sat at the bar. As she approached him, Tom felt his heart race with anticipation, his eyes locked onto hers.

"Bonsoir," she said, her voice low and seductive.

"Bonsoir," Tom replied, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on her figure.

"I couldn't help but notice you during my performance," the singer said, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Tom felt a flush of heat spread across his cheeks, but he couldn't look away from her. She was like a siren, pulling him closer with each passing moment.

"You have an incredible voice," Tom said, voice steady.

The singer chuckled, leaning in closer to him. "Thank you," she said. "I couldn't help but notice the way you were looking at me. Do you have a name?"

"Tom," he said.

The singer smiled, running a hand through her hair. "I'm glad to meet you, Tom. “Je suis Amélie."

Amélie. It was like music to his ears.

"So, Tom," Amélie purred, her voice low and seductive. "Would you like to buy me a drink?"

"Of course," he said, gesturing to the bartender.

The bartender quickly poured Amélie a glass of champagne, leaving the bottle in the ice bucket on the bar. Tom watched as she took a sip, her eyes locked onto his.

Running her finger along the rim of her glass she asked. "What brings you to this part of Paris?"

Tom hesitated for a moment. He didn't want to reveal too much about his true intentions in the muggle world.

"Just exploring," he finally said, trying to keep his tone light.

Amélie raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Exploring? That sounds interesting. What kind of exploring?" He brought her glass to her lips, her eyes never leaving him.

"Oh, just trying to broaden my horizons," he said sipping as well from his glass.

Amélie chuckled, her eyes sparkling. "Well, I can certainly help you with that,"

"Is that so?" Tom said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Amélie chuckled, her fingers trailing over Tom's hand. "Oh yes," she said, a sly smile on her lips. "I know all the best spots in Paris. The hidden gems that most tourists never get to see."

As the jazz band played on, Amelie leaned in closer to Tom, her eyes fixed on his.

"So, Tom, you’re a man of mystery, aren't you?"

Tom chuckled, trying to keep his guard up. "I suppose you could say that," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "I'm just a man trying to live in this world," he said, his eyes dropping to her hand.

Amelie chuckled, her fingers trailing over Tom's hand. "Aren't we all?" she said, a sly smile on her lips. "I have a poem I'd like to recite to you."

With a sense of curiosity building within him, he gestured: "Please, go ahead,".

Amelie smiled, her eyes locked onto his, and began:

"Mystery unfolds,

Life's secrets lie hidden deep,

Unseen, yet felt whole."

"That was beautiful, Amelie, thank you”, Tom whispered, kissing the knuckles of her hand gently.

“It's a haiku, a type of Japanese poetry," Amelie explained. "It's typically composed of three lines, with the first and last lines containing five syllables and the middle line containing seven syllables."

"But it's not just a poem. It's how I feel about you right now."

"By the way, I'd like that," Tom said, his voice a low murmur.

“What that might be?” she asked.

“To explore the city together”, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Amélie leaned forward in her seat, her face so close to his that he could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin. "Then it's settled," she said, I'll show you all the best parts."

[purplefox-writes]

Pairing: yandere!Tom Riddle x gn!Reader

Synopsis: no one can take you away from Tom, not even Death itself

Warnings: yandere themes, obsessive behavior, non-sexual nudity, dark forces, mention of death and bodies, reader’s gender not specified

You felt weird. Your ears were filled with buzzing white noise, mind racing but also completely muddled up. You inhaled sharply, searing pain surged through all of your body at the feeling of your lungs expanding. It felt like your insides were set ablaze all at once. Rattling cough tore through your throat, filling your mouth with the some thick slime-like substance that you quickly spat out, gulping desperately on cold air in fast shallow breaths.

From what your overwhelmed senses could tell - you were laying down on some kind of flooring - which felt more like bare stone. You struggled to get yourself into sitting position, hard cobbles dug into your flesh painfully, causing you to shiver violently from both cold and discomfort.

You creaked your eyes open, blinking rapidly a few times to get the same sticky slimey stuff out of your eyes. It was very dark around- or was it your unstable state? Heavy steps could be heard, coming in your direction; your body tensed impossibly more, head snapping in direction of nearing man(?), hands roaming the ground underneath you, trying to find something - anything - to defend yourself with.

- Shhhhh, dearest, it’s just me. You’re safe, - a familiar voice spoke soothingly, your body relaxing at the dear sound of it.

- Tom? - you whispered, eyes flickering in all directions haphazardly, trying to distinguish male’s slim figure in thick darkness.

Tom fell to his knees next to you, muttering quiet ‘Lumos’, dim ray of light coming from the tip of his wand blinded you temporarily. You heard some soft shuffling before a thick woolen cloak was wrapped tightly around your shuddering frame.

You managed to creak your eyes open, finally being abele to look around. You peeked down at yourself - your body looked raw - as if you spent hours emerged in hot water - skin was a bringt pink color, extremely sensitive to the smallest of touches - just like an infant in first minutes of its life. You were completely bare, some weird slippery substance was covering every part of you, cooling your body down unpleasantly.

Your eyes wandered up to Tom. His face was gaunt - cheeks looked as hollow as ever; dark eyes you loved so much were unusually sunken, dark purplish circles you knew he got from sleepless nights were laying underneath them; his beautiful lips were chopped and pale, lacking their usual plushness; lush shiny waves of brown hair laying so elegantly on his forehead now looked bleak and brittle. Tom looked ill - as if he was struggling from protracted ailment. But even despite his miserable -you could’ve never thought of using this adjective for describing Tom Riddle- appearance, his eyes were sparkling maniacally, like diamonds in finest of the jewelry.

- Tom, what happened? I don’t understand… - you inquired quietly. Your throat felt way too tight, making your voice sound shaky and weak, and you struggled to get words out. You felt Tom wrapping his arms tightly around you, bringing you to his chest in a tight embrace.

- Everything’s all right now, my love. It’s okay, you are safe with me, - Tom muttered more to himself, rocking you from side to side gently.

You took a look at your surroundings - it looked like you were inside of a huge dark cave of some sorts, rough wet stones were forming walls and ceiling of the cavity, you could hear water dripping down the stalactites all around, hitting the rocks underneath with loud echoing sounds. What caught your attention were deep involute lines carved deeply into stone ground, forming an intricate designs all around you, slightest red glow was still visible emanating from them.

There were dead bodies laying all around. About a dozen of men and women, some of them you recognized as Tom’s devoted followers, were splayed around what seemed to be a transfiguration circle. There were no injuries nor blood on them visible. In fact, they looked fully normal if it wasn’t for their dull eyes and looks of absolute horror etched on their lifeless faces.

And then suddenly pictures flashed before your eyes - Tom’s face, still full of health and youthful beauty, covered in grime and blood, was gazing down at you, his eyes sparkling with shiny tears. What was that? Why was he crying? And then, like in some kind of drunken haze, you looked down at yourself - a huge crimson blotch was growing bigger and bigger on your robes, saturating soft cotton fabric in warm sticky blood. You looked back up at Tom - he was full on crying now, babbling “don’t leave me” and “please, don’t die” over and over again, trembling hands pressing down onto your chest, trying to stop the blood flow.

What was he talking about? Why would you die? You tried to say it, to console your silly boy, reassure that there’s no way you would leave him - but no sound came out of your throat, no matter how hard you tried. Your mouth filled with sickening metallic taste of your own blood, black clouding your vision rapidly.

And now you remembered. Those were your memories - your last ones - before you died.

But how was this all possible? Here you were, blood and flesh, warm and breathing and surely alive, in welcoming arms of your lover.

- Tom? What have you done?.. - horror mixed with shock slowly crept up your back, all the way to your chest and throat, making it even harder to breath than before.

- Nothing will ever hurt you again. I won’t let that happen, I promise, - Tom uttered next to your ear, his body shaking with soundless sobs as he held you even closer to himself,

- I will keep you safe, away from all dangers. You will know no worries nor fears. It will be just the two of us, in our perfect world we’ve always dreamed of. Forever.

Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! Feedback inspires writers on creating more content!💗

[purplefox-writes]

Tom: What's your favorite color?

Y/n: Grey.

Tom: That was a trick question. The only correct answer would have been none. Only a simple-minded fool has a 'favorite color'.

Y/n: It's the color of your eyes, arse.

[purplefox-writes]

Y/n: Why would you think any of this was a good idea?

Tom: Probably because I’m a dangerous sociopath with a long history of violence.

Y/n:

Tom: I don’t know how you keep forgetting this.

[purplefox-writes]

Not a request, just love your writing, hope to read more from you soon! @adeadlyobsession

I really appreciate it! Sure thing, I have several ideas I am exploring, will be posting soon. And thanks for the reblog, I received some love due to that.

Love your story with the bartender x TMR <3

I am glad we can share our appreciation (shh it is obsession, isn't it?) for our favorite lovable villain.

[purplefox-writes]

A Game of Chess (Tom Riddle x you)

Summary: You join a Slytherin party and end up playing chess with none other than Tom Riddle.

Word-count: 800

Content warnings: none

----

The sound of music and laughter echoes through the stone halls of Hogwarts as you make your way towards the Slytherin common room. You're nervous, your heart pounding in your chest as you wonder if you made the right decision to come to the party tonight. You're not even sure why you were invited in the first place, but when two handsome Slytherin boys approached you in the library earlier that day and asked you to join, you were intrigued.

You take a deep breath and step inside. The first thing you notice is the opulence of the room. The Slytherins have outdone themselves once again, with velvet curtains, plush couches, and an enormous chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The atmosphere is lavish, yet eerie, with dark shadows flickering across the room.

The party is already in full swing, and you're immediately struck by the intensity of the music and the volume of the laughter. The Slytherins are dressed in their finest clothes, and many of them are already quite intoxicated. You try to blend in, make small talk with the people around you and sit by them while they play drinking games. As the night wears on, you realize that this isn't the kind of party you enjoy. You're more comfortable in the quiet of the library or the peace of the Ravenclaw tower.

As you peruse the bookshelf of the common room, touching delicately the spines of the books, you pause when your hand brushes against an intriguing title on charms. Suddenly, you feel a presence towering behind you.

“Not your scene?” A soft voice addresses you.

You look up and meet Tom Riddles onyx eyes, his hands held behind his back. You've seen him around Hogwarts before, but you've never really spoken to him.

"No, not really," you reply, returning the book to its place on the shelf. "Not much of a party animal."

Tom Riddle nods thoughtfully, his eyes scanning the books on the shelf.

"I understand the appeal of books," he says, his voice smooth and measured. "But sometimes it's good to break out of our comfort zones and experience new things."

You raise an eyebrow at his words, surprised that he seems to be offering you some sort of advice.

"Are you suggesting I stay at the party?" you ask skeptically.

Tom Riddle smiles, a small, enigmatic smirk that makes your heart skip a beat.

"I'm not suggesting anything," he says, his eyes meeting yours. “Follow me” he directs, turns on his heel and begins walking away without checking to see if you're following.

Curious, you follow Tom as he leads you through the crowded common room and up a flight of stairs to a small, dimly lit room. The room is sparsely furnished, with only a few chairs, a fireplace and a large chessboard set up on a table in the center.

"Have you ever played chess before?" Tom Riddle asks, gesturing to the board.

You nod, feeling a bit more at ease now that you're away from the raucous party downstairs.

"Yes, I have," you say, taking a seat opposite him at the table.

Tom Riddle smiles, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"Good," he says, leaning forward to make the first move. "Then let's play."

The two of you engage in a tense game of chess, the pieces clacking against the board as you make your moves. Tom Riddle proves to be a formidable opponent, his sharp mind and strategic thinking evident in every move he makes.

As the game goes on, you find yourself getting lost in the thrill of the competition, the noise and chaos of the party downstairs fading away into the background.

It's only when the game is over, with Tom Riddle emerging as the victor, that you realize just how much time has passed.

"Wow, that was intense," you say, stretching your arms and legs after sitting for so long. "I had no idea chess could be so exciting."

Tom Riddle smiles, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Chess is one of my favorite games," he says, standing up from the table. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. "I wouldn't mind having a repeat of this experience," he says, extending a hand to help you up from your seat. "But only if you promise to give me a run for my money."

You take his hand, feeling a jolt of electricity at the touch.

"I will do my best," you say, grinning up at him.

"I look forward to it," he says, his tone playful. "I have a feeling you'll keep me on my toes."

As you both make your way back down to the party, you can't help but feel excited for what the future might hold between you and Tom Riddle.

[purplefox-writes]

A Past Curfew Encounter (OC x Tom Riddle)

Summary: OC character Violetta breaks curfew and bumps into prefect Tom Riddle making his rounds, who, she notices, holds a book from the restricted section. Word-count: 580 Content warnings: none

-----

Violetta’s blue school robe fluttered as she walked swiftly through the darkened corridors of Hogwarts, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. She had lost track of time engrossed in a book on ancient runes, and now she was well past her curfew.

As she turned the corner, she collided with the chest of someone, almost losing her balance. It was none other than infamous Tom Riddle, who was happening to be making his prefect rounds in this part of the castle. He quickly reached and steadied her, his hands gripping her elbows firmly.

"Violetta," he said sternly, his gaze fixed intently on her face "what are you doing out of bed at this hour?”

As he held onto her arms, his grip strong and reassuring, she felt herself getting lost in his alluring smell, of pine and cedar wood, with a touch of smoke. She inhaled.

She knew she should be afraid, but there was something about the way he looked at her that made her feel both safe and dangerously excited at the same time.

Only when her gaze fell upon his hands, still clasping her arms, did he release her, his throat clearing in an apologetic manner. With a sweet smile she said: "I'm sorry, I lost track of time in the library. I was just returning to the Astronomy tower.”

She held out the book, hoping that the prefect would be satisfied with her explanation. But as he reached for it, she noticed something strange in his other hand - a book with a black leather cover, with an intriguing title.

"Is that...a book from the restricted section?" she asked, a smirk forming on her lips.

The prefect's expression darkened. "That's none of your concern, Violetta. I suggest you return to your common room immediately.”

Violetta hesitated, torn between not wanting to get in trouble and her curiosity about the forbidden book. But something in the way the prefect was holding it, as if it were a treasure, intrigued her. Plus, she couldn’t resist pushing his buttons a little more. "Oh come on, Tom. You can't tease me like that and then expect me to just walk away.”

Tom's eyes flickered with amusement, despite his efforts to maintain a stern facade. "I'm afraid I can, Violetta. The rules apply to everyone, even the brightest minds in Ravenclaw."

Violetta looked into his dark eyes playfully, while straightening her school robes. "You know, you could at least pretend to be impressed by my dedication to my studies. I mean, not everyone would risk getting caught after curfew just to read."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "True. But not everyone would also go snooping around the library, trying to uncover dark secrets. How else you would recognise this book, hm?”

Violetta's smile faltered slightly, as she realised that he was on to her. "Hey, I wasn't snooping. I just happened to notice your little secret and deduct the obvious."

Tom's lips curled into a smirk. "My little secret? And what makes you think that I have any secrets, Violetta?”

Violetta stepped closer to him, her heart pounding with anticipation. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that you're clutching a book about the dark arts in your hand?"

Tom's expression softened slightly, as he gazed down at her. "You're a clever girl, Violetta. I'll give you that."

Violetta grinned, emboldened by his reaction. "So, what are you going to do? Turn me in?”

Tom shook his head, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "No. But you owe me a favour now. And trust me, I always collect my debts."