#tom marvolo riddle angst

[topoeiaz]

Am I Allowed to Cry? (HP) Tom Riddle x OC

18+ blog • minors dni

content: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

warning: infidelity, implied domestic violence

word count: 7.6k

summary: They weren't meant to be, not when she was arranged to marry someone else. That didn't stop them from loving each other. No, they couldn't help themselves.

a/n: does this count as a songfic if it's heavily inspired by Guilty as Sin by Taylor Swift? I'm not sure what a songfic means tbh.

hp masterlist • ao3

She had met him in the train to Hogwarts back in first year. No matter how hard he had tried to hide his excitement, his bright countenance and starry eyes had been honest as he asked to share her carriage, citing that the others were all full.

Tom Riddle, he had introduced himself.

Briana Selwyn, but you can call me Bree, she had reciprocated with a mirror of his polite smile.

When he had shown no looks of disgust nor mockery upon learning her name, relief had washed over her and she had allowed herself to ease the tension in her body – not completely, dear Lord, never completely. But life had never been her strongest ally, Briana had thought as the pair chatted during the ride – sharing their anticipations for their year ahead as firsties tended to do – and soon, her momentary respite had come to an end when dread had begun to haunt her.

He'll dislike me once he knows, a bitter taste on her tongue, just like everyone else does.

She hadn’t allowed herself to hope, no. He would leave her just the same and she would have only a couple hours’ worth of memory of their brief encounter to pine after – to fuel her ‘what if’s and ‘if only’s. Hence, when the semester had started and she had found herself as alone as ever as the year dragged on, she hadn’t been surprised; regardless of how her broken heart had shattered further, the shrapnel lodging themselves inside her. Hence, imagine her befuddlement now, when she found herself sharing a private space – despite the astronomy tower being a public space – with one Tom Riddle after four years of pretending they had never been friends, even if it had lasted only one day.

Instead of acting on his prefect duty and reprimanding her for being out of bed after curfew – during the first week of class, no less – Tom kept silent as he walked towards where she laid on the floor, legs propped up and hands fidgeting on her stomach, in the middle of the room. After years of practice, she was finally able to spell the ceiling to mimic the night sky, much like the castle’s Great Hall, but only for an hour. Briana forced herself to gaze back up and ignored the rapid thumping of her heart as Tom drew closer and closer. She prepared herself to cast a Shield Charm wandlessly, a feat she had been forced to learn on her own after her tormentor had successfully disarmed her on multiple occasions, and unknowingly held her breath in apprehension. She watched in her peripheral vision as Tom stopped a foot away from her and, after a short moment of hesitation, moved to sit on the ground right where he had stood, his body facing the same direction as hers.

The silence was dull to her ears as her thoughts ran a marathon around her head. The stars grew distant and blurry, her right hand had begun scratching her left arm to feel something – anything – to counter her fading senses, and she would’ve missed Tom’s voice interjecting the peace of the night if it hadn’t been for the fact that she had trained herself to register any sound regardless of how absent she felt in her own body.

Her head snapped to her right, casting the boy a doubtful look which he ignored in favour of leaning back on his hands to admire the ceiling expressionlessly. I won’t hurt you, Tom had said. It wasn’t rocket science to figure out why Briana didn’t trust that.

However, when he said nor did anything else as the minutes ticked by, her doubts became bemusement and she allowed herself to return her attention to the sky mimicry. No more words nor looks were exchanged between them, and when the hour was up and the stars had disappeared to expose the rest of the room, Briana steadfastly kept her gaze onto the ceiling beams even as Tom gave out a heavy sigh before getting up and leaving without acknowledging her presence beyond a murmur of, “goodnight, Bree.”

Briana’s heart stuttered.

Bree. He had called her Bree.

What did that mean?

Probably nothing, many would argue; and she would be wise to agree. However, it was the first time that anyone had called her by her nickname since she was seven – her first meeting with Tom unaccounted for, for he had not known the tales revolving her then. Not even her roommates had had the opportunity to refer to her as such before the rumours had spread and they, too, had turned against her; although they still kept up friendly pretences in public because – Merlin forbid – the entire school found out that Hufflepuffs were not all sunshine and rainbows. Hence, there was no doubt that Tom had heard of the gossips by now. And yet, he had called her Bree.

Others might have easily shrugged off a happenstance encounter from first year, but Briana couldn’t help but wish over the years that the moment had had a chance to flourish and given her a friend. Alas, it could never happen – or so she had thought until now. For Tom to regard her with familiarity after all this time, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had ever spared her a moment’s thought. Or perhaps their previous time together had only flashed very briefly in his mind when he had bidden her goodnight and he thought naught else about it. Surely, that must be it. It couldn’t be anything else. He didn’t care for her.

Tears prickled her eyes. She inhaled sharply.

No tears.

And that was that.

The weeks passed with the usual radio silence from Tom. He paid her no attention as always and it didn’t hurt her, not when she had been treated worse – treated horribly – she was just confused. Confused as to why Tom hadn’t treated her as a stranger would that night when he could’ve simply taken points off of her and sent her back to bed without any fuss. Confused at his intention when he had chosen to accompany her quietly without prompt and had even reassured her that he had meant no harm in approaching her. Confused at why she even cared. There was no hope in making friends at this stage – in fifth year – when all the cliques and friendship groups had been established and rooted to the ground. There was especially zero expectation that she should make any now considering how the masses looked at her; in pity, fear, disdain. Cursed, they sneered at her. Will only bring about doom and death, the stories painted her to be.

Why else had the dementor kissed her if not because Magic had wanted her dead?!

Like a rope, her mother’s words spun and tightened around Briana, rendering her short of breath when they locked around her lungs, giving her no room to breathe. Air escaped her in short gasps and she had to strain her energy to inhale without choking.

She heard the footsteps before they reached the top.

Already sat up, Briana quickly snapped her head to the left so that the approaching individual couldn’t see her face when they would inevitably make it up the tower and tried to restrain her breathing even further than it already was to keep herself still and inconspicuous.

The footsteps halted.

Unavoidably, her trembling figure gave away her distressed state and when the stranger picked up on their steps again, a nonchalant voice accompanied the foreboding sound of shoes tapping against the tile. “Should I call for Madam Flint?”

Tom.

They were back in the same place where they had met exactly one week ago.

As much as Briana would love to keep silent and shake her head to indicate her answer, her head had started to throb out of exertion of her strength. She took a shuddering breath in and managed out a quiet, quivering, “no,” only audible to Tom due to the lack of noises around.

Tom said nothing as she heard him set himself down at the same spot he had taken last week, giving her space to deepen her shallow breaths slowly but gradually until she felt confident enough that her face wouldn’t spell out her suppressed pain and discomfort if she were to reveal her side profile to the puzzling boy beside her. She opted out of gazing at the star-covered ceiling above her like Tom was doing and gathered her knees, folding and placing her arms on top of them and resting her chin on her arms, eyes casted onto the floor as she tried to regain control of her destructive thoughts.

Her mother’s shriek was still ringing distantly in her head when Tom shut Lady Selwyn down with a question aimed at Briana. “Does that happen often?”

Without facing Tom, she knew that he hadn’t turned to her either. In a low voice, she gave an assent, “frequently enough.”

It wasn’t a secret, people had seen her attacks in public – when they would stumble upon her after her encounter with the causal person of her panic, or when certain triggers had been activated either on purpose or not. Word, of course, had spread to the rest of the school population, and even going as far as the students’ grandparents, and more accusatory looks had been shot her way, as if her episodes had been a punishment bestowed upon her by Magic for deflecting her attempted murder at her seventh birthday and not a natural reaction that she had grown accustomed to due to the stress placed on her for many years. She didn’t bother rectifying the rumours; no one would believe her anyway.

Tom gave a hum of acknowledgement and said no more. Briana followed the silence with her own and kept her eyes downcast. It was a fair while later when he piped up again, a comment leaving his lips this time around. “He brags about it every time.”

Her body stiffened. But as the notion registered fully, she could only scoff out a breath of laughter humorously with her fist clenched tightly in an attempt to fight against her sorrow. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

“You’re good at Defence; far better than Yaxley. Why don’t you fight back?”

Briana turned to regard Tom with a bitter smile, who had also torn his eyes away from the glimmering sky to give her his utmost attention. With a single sentence that spoke volumes of her experience and her prior attempts in defending herself, she retorted softly, “what good will it do?”

There was a furrow in his eyebrows that she could almost mistake to be concern for her. His eyes traced her features, sparking in her bouts of insecurities in his wake. Even in the dim lighting of the cosmic life, there was no denying the paleness of Briana’s face. Sunken eyes that had seen too much, cheeks voided of the slightest hint of colour to liven her countenance, and lips that had smiled too few times in the past near decade of her life. These features were as unchanging as the sea and she had been plagued with them ever since that fateful day with the dementor. She was no looker, not one bit, especially not when Annabelle was everything she wasn’t – people liked to compare the two sisters as they would the sun and moon – and she resolutely turned away from Tom to avoid the inevitable scorn of her appearance.

“Bree.” She hummed. “Bree, look at me.” She did no such thing.

Next thing she knew, he had curled a finger under her chin while his thumb held her face unforcefully. The gentle nature of his hold, as if giving her the option to reject his touch, was the deciding factor for Briana to allow him to coax her into facing him once again. The unmistakeable tension filling the gap between them urged her to lock her eyes with his and – Helga knows – she couldn’t look away. The dark irises of his eyes that were usually guarded no matter how friendly he had postured himself in public – a feature of his that she had caught onto all the way back in first year – swirled with unfamiliar emotions that took her breath away. The concern that she had denied from him was clear to her now and she felt helpless in his hold, not knowing how to react when the only ones who cared to worry about her were the house elves at home and, sometimes, the head of the Hufflepuff house. It was the unnamed simmering sentiments in Tom that advised her to approach his concern differently, however, and while she had an inkling as to what these feelings he was presenting to her with were, she doubted herself. How could she not when the person who should be looking at her like Tom was, had turned out to be the one who would revel in her agony and terror?

Briana’s thoughts cut off when Tom gave her a smile, small – much subtler than any of the cordial ones he sported as he strolled down the hallways of the castle – but genuine. Nothing could prepare her for the next three words he uttered and she would find herself sleeping soundly later, for the first time in ages, as his voice repeated like a mantra in her head – a welcomed change from the usual taunts from her memories.

You’re beautiful, Bree.

Her wide eyes and parted lips once the words had left Tom’s lips didn’t even get a chance to embarrass her when his smile promptly turned fond as he took in her bewildered expression. He didn’t shame her wordless response, instead dropping his hold on her chin to place his hand atop her right hand that had fallen onto the ground. She didn’t retaliate when he took her hand in his, bringing it up so that he could catch Briana further off-guard by giving the back of her hand a short but firm kiss.

He must’ve caught her disbelief from her face and he let their hands fall, still clasped together, and reassured her of his honesty. “You’ve always been beautiful, Bree. I knew so four years ago and I know so now.”

“But- I- you’ve never…”

When Briana trailed off hesitantly, Tom offered with a regretful smile, “approached you ever since?” Her silence was all he needed. She followed his gaze when he looked down at their hands and watched him adjust his hold to weave their fingers together. When her eyes flickered back to his face, she was taken aback to see uncertainty crossing his expression. “That was a mistake that I wish to amend; I shouldn’t have left you just like that.”

She tried forming sentences in her mind, only letting them slip off her tongue when they sounded agreeable. “Then… why did you?” It had come out quietly and without accusations, tinged only with woe for all the time lost between them.

“What was a boy to do,” Tom started with a hopeless tone, “when he had found out that the girl he could only ever hope to want, had already been fated to another person?”

A hiccup threatened to escape her throat.

“What was a boy to do,” he continued bitterly, “when he had learned that the girl and her fiancé held a status so far out of reach, that he couldn’t even catch a glimpse of their standing no matter how hard he tried?”

“Tom, please-”

“And what was I to do,” the grief in his voice rang loudly despite his hushed volume, “when you have only proved yourself ever more beautiful and lovable over the years, that I could only dream to be worthy of your affections?”

A sob wracked through Briana’s body tearlessly. Her lips wavered as she held back her cries and Tom softened upon seeing the tears brimming in her eyes. His apology had barely left his lips when Briana shook her head firmly, her headache be damned. “No- no, please,” she tried to catch her breath, “I’m sorry.”

They were both sitting up with their body facing each other at this point and Tom lifted his other hand up to cradle her cheek gently. “There’s nothing for you to apologise for, darling.”

She, again, shook her head rashly. “I’m sorry that you had to learn it from someone else. I’m sorry that I’ve never tried to change things between us; I could’ve been the one to reconnect with you but I had thought that you- that you wouldn’t want me. I’m sorry that I- I can’t- no,” she shuddered. It was with absolute strength that she managed to pull away from his comforting touch against her desire. The flash of hurt in his eyes only singed her heart painfully and it took all her willpower not to cave into his tender care. She had to do this – she had to stop it before it was too late for the both of them. “I shouldn’t,” she corrected.

Her eyes had been shut tightly and she held her breath in anticipation of the sound of Tom leaving. The footsteps never sounded, however, and a heart-wrenching whisper instead left Tom’s lips. “Oh, Bree, my love...”

Never had anything sent her heart aflutter just like that.

Hesitantly, she blinked her eyes open to see Tom still sat up and patiently looking at her with eyes that the starry sky above could never compare up to. He gestured towards her hand with a soft, “may I?” To which, she relented without a fuss. He took both her hands in his this time, caressing them with his thumbs while smiling so softly at her. “You won’t even give me a chance? Am I that horrendous, love?”

His teasing tone brought about a watery smile on her lips and Merlin could not erase the fondness written on her face. “You know it’s not that, Tom. I just…” He spared her a look of understanding but she went on anyway. “I can’t risk getting caught engaging in infidelity. Helga knows what they would do if they found out- what he would do.”

Tom frowned at this. “That’s… true. I can’t have you risking your safety for me.”

Briana gave a grin, feeling the happiest she had ever been in years despite the heartbreaking situation she was in simply because she had Tom. “Top of the year and you hadn’t thought that far? Whatever happened to you Mr. Riddle?”

He let her easy-going lilt charm him and reflected it back at her. “I’ll admit, I hadn’t even been confident that you’d grace me with a second of your time, much less been sure that you’d even accept my advances.” Merlin, she could die a happy death in this moment. “I had meant it when I said that you are worth more than I deserve.”

“Oh, Tom.” No tears, no tears. She bit her lower lip momentarily to suppress her next words, but they came out of her quietly anyways. “I want this too- us. I want us.” But we can’t, went unsaid but echoed in their ears regardless. But when their eyes met, they knew what they had was unavoidable – that sparks flew. Her hands felt right in his and that was all that mattered in that moment.

And so, in the privacy of the calm night, they were content to pretend that all else existed not; that their worries were simply nightmares and that they could be together. Live the moment for it could never be anything more. Except, the moment turned into two.

Then, two to three.

A fourth time happened.

Then, a fifth.

And more.

Each time they met under the same circumstances on Friday night, the outside world and its troubles were forgotten and Briana and Tom got to live a dream – a wish. The footlong distance between them stood no chance by the third week and, by the sixth, Briana felt comfortable in letting Tom wrap his arms around her as she sat with her back against his front torso. Beyond that, she felt safe. Two months into it, they had grown close – far too close, her conscience added – enough that she put up no arguments when Tom had started to pepper her skin with lingering kisses. Her wrists, her neck; she allowed herself to bask in his touch – a mistake.

Then, when his lips would trail up to her jaw and near her lips, she’d pull away. The festering guilt ate her up whenever he was inches away from kissing her lips and she’d recoil from him, her scars underneath her glamour spell burning in phantom pain. Tom would take no offence with her choices and would simply connect their foreheads together in silent apology. Was it cruel of her to withhold a proper kiss from Tom if she allowed everything else? Was it cruel of her to excuse her infidelity by never placing her lips onto Tom?

Was it cruel of her to indulge in this in the first place?

Besides announcing their relationship publicly and engaging in physical intimacy beyond innocent kisses from Tom aimed anywhere but the lips, they did everything that a couple would do. They confided in each other, talked of futures and marriages, and even went on dates – that was, if they counted their late-night trysts as dates. Briana was there for Tom when he had week-longs fixations on ‘nerdy’ topics like unicorns and warding spells, or when he had trouble grappling with his true birth history, and she had also patiently dealt with and redirected his misguided frustrations against all-things muggle. Tom had cared for Briana during her attacks and their aftermaths, he had soothed her worries of academics, self-esteems, and life in general. He had even, at multiple points, sent Yaxley to the Hospital Wing hidden under the guise of tragic accidents while ensuring that Briana wouldn’t receive the brunt of her fiancé’s anger by keeping track of Yaxley’s whereabouts and instigating distractions to get rid of the snake’s tempestuous nerves.

Briana had never been happier.

Autumn gave way to winter.

Winter turned into spring.

The seasons flew by and they found themselves back in Autumn of the next year, when they had become sixth-years, and reality caught up to them in the form of Briana and Yaxley’s wedding invitations.

They were due to marry on New Year’s Eve – a cruel birthday gift to Tom, indeed. Briana had stolen one of the invitations for Tom in a whim, knowing full well that it was unlikely that he would want to attend. She insisted he kept it anyway, in case he ever changed his mind, and it took immense conviction from Tom not to incinerate it immediately.

In the weeks leading up to the wedding, Briana and Tom grew solemn. Chatters were quiet and sparse between them and the air held them tense. Gone were restful nights and Briana could count on one hand the nights where she didn’t cry herself to sleep. Her hopes for a miracle depleted with every passing day and it had become a habit to rein in her tears whenever her sights fell upon Tom. Tom, himself, held her in his arms stronger and longer, unwilling to part himself from her that they had, thrice now, ended up staying in the astronomy tower until the sun had begun to peek over the horizon – not that she had complained. All that, and they had yet to verbalise the elephant in the room. Ultimately, the task was unavoidable and it was a wonder that they had managed to postpone it until the final week before the winter holidays.

They didn’t bring it up as they settled themselves on the floor, not even as they talked lowly about their winter plans, nor did they acknowledge Briana’s early birthday gift to Tom as, quite possibly, the last thing she could ever gift him. Her present was a flower, a single stem of forget-me-not, spelled by her to never wilt, scent and vibrancy to never fade, and overflowing with her magic because she had used Patronus Magic to envelop the flowers with her joy and love, her feelings for Tom – while she was unable to call on her patronus like her accidental magic had done all those years ago due to the dementor’s kiss, its magic went beyond merely summoning a guardian. They skirted around the issue, ever present and intimidating, and it was only when they had stood up to retire for the night that it all came to a head.

Briana and Tom stood with their bodies facing each other, her hands clasped in his and hanging in the tiny space between them.

This was it. There would be no more ‘Briana and Tom’ after this.

Their eyes spoke of their sentiments wordlessly, shiny and stricken with heartbreak, despair, and love. They had never said the word, had never said the three damning words for fear that they could never return from it ever. Regardless, they knew it floated around them, clear as crystal, and Briana was, at this point, only mildly guilty of feeling such a way for a man that wasn’t her contracted fiancé.

Briana searched Tom’s eyes for regret, peeking into every nook and cranny as he laid his feelings bare for her. She found none, not a single speck of it in him that told her that he would ever wish that they had never happened. When he reciprocated the action, she let him search her just as vulnerably as he had been, knowing with utmost certainty that he would come to the same conclusion as her – that she felt no regret; no, never regret. No matter how short their time had been, no matter how sad their ending was always going to be, no matter how much they knew that indulging in this relationship had only intensified their love for each other and made it infinitely harder for them to move on with their lives. They had been Happy. They had laughed, argued, loved, and nothing else they had could ever amount to what they had meant for each other. It was a bittersweet love but love nonetheless. So, no, there wasn’t a smidge of regret in them that their time had come to an end like they always knew it would eventually. No, they were proud to have loved each other.

People said that time heals.

Now, as they had their foreheads planted together, surrounded by the moonlit sky and silent as the sleeping castle, Briana and Tom knew for a fact that the saying wouldn’t hold true. Not in one year, five, a decade – not even until life itself had rotted away and the cosmic universe had fallen dead. No, time could never put together the little pieces of their hearts as Briana and Tom had done for each other in the past year. Nevertheless, there was no room for regret.

One minute; the hands of the clock ticked by.

Two minutes; words escaped them like the sun from the sky every nightfall.

Three minutes; their hands grasped each other tightly to cling onto their dreams for a while longer.

A beat.

…

Briana pulled back.

Their eyes met each other one last time.

She let her tears fall.

Tom was conflicted. Her eyes told him to leave, to make things easier for her; yet the unfamiliarity of the situation – Briana crying in his presence – made it hard for him not to gather her in his arms to comfort her.

He took a step forwards; she took a step back.

She shook her head frantically, a small, broken plea leaving her lips that he had almost missed it. She wanted to shout, to scream at Tom to leave – walk away from everything that they had built and loved because she couldn’t do it; not now, not ever. She didn’t want to break down in front of him because she knew he wouldn’t leave her in this state, not when she needed him, and that would only make it harder for her to leave than it already was. She wanted to curse Fate, yell at Her for damning the one thing that made her happy after all the misfortune She had already bestowed upon her. She wanted to close the distance between Tom and her so that she could feel at home once again. She wanted to kiss Tom after a year of denying themselves. She wanted to be with Tom. She wanted Tom.

But life had never been her strongest ally.

Briana had her hands brought together in front of her lest she surrendered to her desires and reached out to Tom. Her eyes had been shut in hopes that by erasing the boy present in the room visually, it would make things easier for her – it didn’t. And so, just like the first night they had reunited all those times ago, Briana relied on her ears as Tom took his first step away from her.

One step.

Two steps-

She sobbed.

-halt.

Briana pressed her palms against her eyes desperately and another weak plea escaped her subconsciously.

A plea for what? To beg Tom to stay? To leave?

She didn’t know.

The footsteps started up again and she covered her mouth physically to prevent another sob from sounding out. The sound grew distant, further and further away, and she only dropped her hand from her lips once she couldn’t hear it anymore. Immediately, a heart-wrenching cry ripped out from deep inside her and she could do naught but clutch her chest as her legs gave out beneath her. Tears streamed down her cheeks freely and she had to gasp to breathe, hiccups cutting off her airway occasionally.

She didn’t know how long she was curled up there, on the floor of the astronomy tower, crying her heart out like she had never before. All she knew was that she had regained enough composure by the first glimpse of daylight to drag herself back to her dorm, casting the room a final look because she knew it would be the last time she would voluntarily come near the tower if it wasn’t to be with Tom. She kept herself locked behind the shut curtains of her area in her shared room for the entirety of the day – no one care at all about her to question her wellbeing – leaving only for the bathroom and to pay a visit to the kitchens during dinnertime to seek food. She slept restlessly and woke up before the sun did, taking her time to prepare for the train ride back to London later that morning. Her head was kept angled downwards and she looked at nobody, something that her parents were quick to reprimand when they caught sight of her at King’s Cross station.

Your wedding is less than three weeks away. Behave like a lady.

At the reminder of her situation, the tears threatened to fall again and she had to force herself to reel them back. It couldn’t come any faster, she bitterly thought. By the time New Year’s Eve had arrived, Briana had become empty, soulless. Her dreadful countenance reflected how she felt – dead.

She felt spiritually absent as her body moved on its own with years of etiquette training to guide it. She didn’t bother faking smiles and everyone was happy to brush it off as the effects of her curse. She tuned out the officiant as he spoke of love and promises, stayed silent when it was her turn to share her vows, bit her tongue when the rings were presented.

Finally, it was time to sign the marriage contract that would legally bind herself and Alexander Yaxley together. The groom had gone first and done it. It was now her turn to step behind the podium with the officiant beside her to witness her signature. A rumble of cries lodged itself in her throat upon seeing all her details already filled out and ready, and at seeing the details of her husband-to-be and finding none belonging to Tom. She felt the expectant eyes around her when she hesitated, her hand already gripping the quill harshly.

She took a deep breath.

She drew the first stroke of her signature.

She was almost done.

She-

-heard the footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Swiftly, her hand stopped its movement before the completion of her signature and her head snapped up to eye the doorway down the aisle. Everyone else looked to her in confusion for the briefest second before they, too, turned to regard the double doors when it had slammed open with a loud bang that elicited a few shrieks of surprise from the guests.

There, in the doorway, stood Tom Riddle.

Briana’s heart started beating harshly against her chest and the smallest, the tiniest, flame of hope flickered inside her. His name left her in a whisper and she couldn’t care less how love-stricken she must’ve looked as she took in the sight of the man she loved – not even when some people had glanced at her accusatorily, her parents and in-laws included.

Tom walked in imposingly, face set in determination and eyes locked straight onto Briana’s shaking form. He only got to cover a quarter of his way to her when Lord Yaxley stood up roughly and raised his voice at Tom. “And who are you to interrupt my son’s wedding?!”

“An invited guest, sir,” Tom quipped back without missing a beat, lifting up his hand which held the wedding invitation Briana had given him months ago.

Those who had recognised Tom, namely their schoolmates, were unashamed to mutter under their breaths as they expressed their astonishment as to why he had shown up when he had no direct relations to the bride and groom, nor power in society to be invited to the union of two members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight in the first place. Yaxley, having caught Briana’s call of Tom’s name earlier, stared down the latter man who shot back a cool glare of his own. “And who are you here as today, Riddle? A cousin from the bride’s family?” The Selwyn family bristled at the suggestion.

Briana and Tom knew what Yaxley was trying to do, to expose the presumed scandalous relationship Tom had with the bride. Whilst Briana had no idea as to what Tom was planning, she allowed herself to ease her nerves slightly when Tom glanced at her reassuringly.

“Not a cousin, no.” His lips quirked up into a saccharine smile, eyes voided of any semblance of cordiality as he spoke to the groom. “I’ve come here to object the wedding as the bride’s legal husband.”

Unquestionably, the room erupted in chaos.

The Lords and Ladies of the houses of Yaxley and Selwyn drilled Tom with an unending speech of questions filled with accusations and suspicions while the rest of the guests had started to whisper amongst themselves at the turn of events the wedding had taken. The reporters had been forgotten as the parents of the bride and groom lost their cool and they were having a field day. And Briana? She could only gape at her apparent husband cluelessly.

When Tom caught her stare, the fake, overly sweet touch to his smile softened and she could feel her heart thump stronger, her nerves still easily affected by Tom even after all those times she had spent with him. He then pulled out his wand, ignoring the gasps from his audience and the defensive stance some had taken with their wands, and conjured a scroll in the air, tied close with a red ribbon. The paper unfurled when he had spelled the ribbon away, and he levitated it towards the podium where the officiant stood with an expression just as bewildered as everyone else. “Here is Briana and I’s official marriage document. You are free to check it for any fraudulence, sir.”

“R- right…”

Taken aback, the officiant did as Tom had suggested and retrieved his own wand to cast spells upon spells on the floating scroll to investigate it for any deception. With every spell casted, the voices around grew louder and louder until finally, the room quietened when the officiant dropped his hand that held his wand and adjusted his glasses helplessly. Briana’s breath had halted at this point and she looked to the old man with anticipation thrumming in her blood.

“It is legitimate. Tom Marvolo Riddle and Briana Tristine Riddle née Selwyn have been legally married as of half past eight this morning.”

All eyes snapped to the clock in the hall.

8:37 AM.

Briana and Tom had legally wedded seven minutes ago.

…

What?

Briana looked at Tom, more astounded than ever, and the flame inside her grew and travelled to her eyes, letting the world see the first sighting of life in her that day. He returned her surprise with an affectionate smile, relaying to her words that he hadn’t uttered but she knew he would say all the while if he had been beside her.

You’re safe. I’ve got you.

“But the contract! The one from our ancestors! Your marriage is null because our contract takes precedence unless you’re one of us!” One of the Sacred Twenty-Eights, Yaxley had meant. It was a stupid and classist law, one that Briana and Tom had accounted for when they had once dreamt of running away and eloping to avoid her duty towards her family. When Tom showed no signs of faltering under Yaxley’s words, Briana quelled her worries silently.

Tom extended his hands, showcasing the unfamiliar rings on both his index fingers; green and silver on the left, and black and white on the right. “If you could be so kind to refer to tomorrow morning’s paper, you will find that I have officially inherited the titles of Lord to the House of Slytherin and Heir to the House of Gaunt. Your officiant can also refer to the paper in front of him to see that I have claimed these titles prior to my marriage to Briana.”

Upon receiving flabbergasted stares from the masses, the officiant sighed audibly and confirmed Tom’s words. “It is true.”

“Oh, Merlin- Tom.” Briana’s voice had come out breathlessly and shakily, and she was beginning to feel her lips wobble and vision blur.

“But- how- there’s no way-” Yaxley was cut off when more footsteps sounded beyond the open door and more gasps sounded when everyone caught sight of the four men in robes that were unmistakeably the aurors’ garbs. Keen eyes watched with bated breaths as the aurors marched past Tom and headed straight for the front of the room. A pair of them parted from the group once they had reached the end of the aisle and steered towards Yaxley, each grabbing hold of one of his arms and holding them behind him despite his loud, panicked protests. “What in the- what the bloody hell is going on here?!”

“Alexander Yaxley, you are under arrest for suspicion of physical violence against Lady Briana Riddle on multiple accounts.” More gasps echoed and the chatter had no hopes of dying down.

“Release him at once!” Lord Yaxley’s voice rang throughout the hall as he rushed towards the nearest auror to face him toe-to-toe. “My son has done no such deed to warrant such treatment! I say, release him!”

The auror took on the infuriated man with stoicism and shot him down easily with a levelled voice. “That, I cannot do, Lord Yaxley. We have received Lord Riddle’s reports of Heir Yaxley’s actions against Lady Riddle.”

“And what evidence have you?!”

“I’m sure Lady Riddle is more than willing to provide them.”

At that, Lord Selwyn circled to join Lord Yaxley in releasing his fury at the auror. “If you’re talking about submitting her memories to you, I absolutely forbid that!”

The auror gave the pair of fathers a dangerous look that dared them to argue any further. “I think you will find, Lord Selwyn, that as the Lady to the houses of Slytherin and Riddle, authorisation of Lady Riddle’s participation in the investigation by providing her memories falls onto the decision of Lord Riddle and not you.” Speechless, the auror’s words left Lord Selwyn stuttering and stumbling after himself.

In the middle of the havoc, was Briana. All eyes placed her in the spotlight as they anticipated her reaction to all this commotion.

She was still stood exactly where she had prior to Tom’s arrival, behind the podium with a quill still held in her hand. She looked down to the paper she had dreaded to sign to see that ink had gathered at where the quill’s tip had touched the paper and had left a huge mess on the paper and her right hand when she lifted the quill up. With trembling hands, she wiped the excess ink on the paper and dropped her hold on the writing utensil. Her eyes returned to Tom to see him staring back at her, having wrapped up his hushed conversation with the an auror while she had been fussing with herself.

The situation fully registered in her mind at that moment and she realised with a start that- it didn’t have to end. She could have Tom.

It mattered not that the circumstances were far from her ideal wedding, nor did it matter that she had ink smudged on herself and her dress haphazardly as hundreds of people who disliked her gazed up at her judgementally. How could she care for these trivialities if it meant that she could have Tom?

Briana sidestepped the podium and the hall fell silent at her sudden movement. She took a step forward, eyes still on an anxious-looking Tom who was sporting a besotted look on his face.

Another step forward. And another. More.

“Briana Tristine Selwyn, don’t you dare take another step forward!”

Her mother’s cry fell onto deaf ears and Briana ran.

She gathered her dress in her hands and cared not that her tears had begun to fall. A relieved smile was etched onto her lips, a sight new to everyone else bar Tom, and her expression was one that mirrored Tom’s unabashedly.

The tap, tap, tap of her heels against the carpet resounded throughout the hall as she flew down the aisle towards her beloved. Tom had started forwards once he had been sure that Briana was as happy to see him as he did her, and met her halfway down the aisle. To his delighted surprise, her arms reached up to wrap themselves around his neck, his arms going around her waist, and pulled his head flush against hers so that she could connect her lips onto his firmly. Their eyes having fallen shut, they had missed the first glimpse of blue light emerging from the space between their hearts, understandably much too taken with the long-awaited feel of each other’s lips, and they only parted with a gasp, eyes snapping open, when they felt the warmth engulf their chests out of nowhere. They watched in amazement as the blue light grew brighter – not blinding – until it suddenly shot out to the side, separating into two, and taking the form of winged creatures – two swans. There was no mistaking what they were:

their Patronuses.

It had been over a decade since Briana had seen her Patronus and the swan had thrown her off her loop because- her Patronus had been a dove. The wonder in her face was just as prominent in Tom’s and she was reminded of the fact that he had never been able to conjure a Patronus, ever.

The swans flew around them, flapping their wings gracefully as they took to the air while emitting a sense of joy – Briana and Tom’s – onto the surrounding people along with its blue glow. Choked up with emotions, Briana reflexively grasped Tom’s shoulders harder and caressed him in apology when she realised upon gaining his attention. “Sorry, love.”

“That’s alright, Bree.” Tom took a hand to hold her cheek gently. “You feeling alright?” It was then that she remembered that she was still crying. Distractedly, she realised that she felt better than ever, her chronic pains that had started up since her seventh birthday had faded into nothing and she felt light on her feet.

Briana gave a reassuring hum and pulled his head down to plant her forehead with his. “Very- I’m Happy.”

He wiped away her tears with his thumb. “So am I, my love.”

Then a thought struck her. “How did you get my signature anyway?”

A scheming grin plastered on his face, he leaned down and placed his lips beside her ears. “I may or may not have broken into here much earlier to peek at the drafted-up marriage contract between you and Yaxley to steal your identification number.”

“Tom!”

“And your gift for me, your forget-me-not – you had left a strong trace of your personal magic on it with the Patronus Magic that it sufficed as an authentication of your identity because it had been willingly provided by you.” Then, Tom raised an eyebrow. “You ought to be careful with your magic, love.”

“Hey!” She slapped his shoulder weakly in protest. “I gave it to you in confidence!”

He shot her a teasing smirk. “Oh? Should I not have used it to wed us, then?”

“Now, I didn’t say that.”

Tom laughed and pulled her in for another kiss, both only vaguely aware that they were still in a room full of hundreds other people – although, their Patronuses were providing fairly good entertainment. When they parted again when a giggle of mirth had bubbled up Briana’s throat, bringing about a tender smile in Tom at seeing his beloved so Happy, they brought their heads together again for comfort, never straying too far away from each other now that they could help it. A whispered confession left Briana with an affectionate sigh and Tom was quick to reciprocate it.

I love you.

Nothing else mattered.

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[megwritesriddles]

Tightening the Knot ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Reader is captured at the end of the war as the Death Eater's celebrate their victory. She is told she is to marry Tom Riddle, but can't figure out why he'd want her or why she isn't trying harder to escape…

Tags: Forced marriage, P in V, Unprotected sex, Fingering, DarkLord!Tom Riddle, Set after a vague Wizarding War, Not canon or timeline compliant, Voldemort wins, Reader is a member of the Black family, Enemies to lovers (?), Imprisonment, Implied age gap (but i was thinking of it as like 10 years at most, again, not timeline compliant).

Word count: 2.6k

all fandom masterlist | hp masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: This was based on a request that I changed a bit to make myself more comfortable writing it (e.g. making the age gap smaller but vague enough so you can imagine whatever you like while you read it). Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

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It wasn’t what you would picture as a prison. The plush furnishings, grand windows and monumental bookcases suggested an atmosphere of comfort and luxury, but make no mistake, this palatial room was your holding cell. The order had fallen, and the writing had been on the wall for some time now, however, there was no giving up in the fight against evil, so they fought until the bitter end. You were one of the lucky few still alive after the battle on the grounds of Hogwarts, although you hardly felt lucky given the circumstances. You stared at the ridiculously ornate, but admittedly beautiful, wedding dress hung in the small walk-in-wardrobe across from your bed, wishing it would light on fire from the anger in your gaze alone. But of course, it doesn’t. You have been stripped of your magic, your wand is who knows where and your room is enchanted to allow no magic inside it, all to prevent your escape.

Why he chose you, you can’t understand. Sure, you were from a well-established pureblood family with a deep history as he’d explained to you the one time you’d seen him since your capture, but there were many girls like that for him to have his pick of. You were angry and defiant, you didn’t wish to bend to him, you spoke back and you lashed out when he tried to touch you. Why would he choose that over, say, your relative Bellatrix, who seemed to constantly be vying for his affection and shared your heritage? Throughout the war, you had constantly found yourself facing against him. He had even commented on occasion that it was always you in his way. Perhaps, this was merely his final revenge.

“I don’t even like you!” you’d protested, sitting across from him at the grand dining table of the Malfoy or Nott or Lestrange manor, whichever of his snivelling followers house this was, shackled to the tall-backed, velvet upholstered chair.

“You do,” he’d smiled smoothly, sipping his red wine, eyes drinking you in with something like amusement. “You think I’m handsome, you can’t deny that,” he added with a smirk. Your cheeks bloomed red and you scoffed, looking down at your shackled hand, the other free to allow you to eat. He’s right, you can’t deny it, you’re aware of his skill at legilimency and you’re sure he has watched a few of the dreams you’d had since you’d got here and been told you were to marry him a few weeks ago. Filthy dreams about what your wedding night might look like, how rough he might be with you or how gentle. Later that night, a dream of him bending you over this very dining table, unaware of how close he had been to really doing so. Avoiding his eye, you continued.

“That is hardly enough to base a marriage on,”

“I have known marriages based on less,” he mused. “You will like it more than you think,” The smile that followed those words stirred your stomach in a way you don’t wish to try to interpret.

The wedding is a few days later. The decor in the manor is much darker than the decor for a usual wedding might be, feeling more mournful than anything else. It fits your mood, although from what you gather it’s merely an aesthetic consideration for the death eaters that put the event together. Your dress is beaded in intricate designs, black beads twisting around a white silk base, painting a design of thorns and roses across the fabric that almost reminds you of chains. Beautiful chains. How very fitting. Your veil is black, as is the bouquet of roses you are given to carry down the aisle. You wonder who designed everything, it was beautiful, presumably one of the death eater’s wives who had an otherwise unused eye for aesthetics. Bellatrix, the only relative you have around, is the one to walk you down the aisle, holding your arm oppressively the whole way. She is clearly bitter that she is not in your shoes, but still eager to please Riddle, who waits, standing tall and proud in front of all his death eaters in a pressed, pitch-black suit.

When you reach him, he slides his arm around your back and holds you tight, making sure you couldn’t possibly leave if you tried. He’s never touched you before, his hand is cold, large and imposing, making you want to lean in and away all at once. You are not asked to recite any vows or to say ‘I do’, the decision has been made for you. Once Riddle has agreed that he will take you as his wife, he turns you toward him by your waist and lifts your veil carefully, tutting at your unhappy expression underneath. He cups your chin and tilts your face up, leaning down to kiss you to seal your marriage. The kiss is forceful and possessive, but despite yourself, you lean in just a little, heat shooting through your veins as his lips press to yours. He is handsome and powerful, and as much as you want to resist, as much as you hate all he stands for, your body is weak. His fingers tighten into your dress, gripping the small of your back. You know what it means. You’re his now. 

Riddle keeps you held captive at his side throughout the reception as he talks and drinks with his followers. You can tell from the way they glance at you at his side, that they are as confused as you are about why he chose you to be his bride and not one of the many willing girls and women amongst his followers, but have clearly been told not to dare question his decision. Trying your best to distract yourself, you play with the wedding ring on your finger. A thin serpentine silver band winding around your ring finger, inset with emeralds and black star sapphire. Once again, you wonder who might have picked it out for you. Surely, not Riddle himself? To your surprise, Riddle also wears a wedding band. A plain one with a subtle carving of a serpent, complimenting yours without being anywhere near as ostentatious. It’s a surprise that he would want to advertise himself as being married, you hadn’t expected it, but you aren’t sure what to make of it, so you don’t dwell. At least the food at the beginning of the reception had been delicious, and the cake your favourite flavour, decorated with the same thorny patterns as your dress. 

You find yourself incredibly annoyed to stand around and listen to these men talk and laugh, wanting to retreat to your room, despite knowing what will follow. It’s your wedding night, and Riddle made it clear that he expects you to comply with traditional wedding night activities with him. At first, you were angry and disgusted, but now you just feel like you want to get to it as soon as possible, only to get it over and done with. His ever-present hand on your waist or lower back doesn’t help this feeling. Finally, once he is also sick of listening to his followers' drivel, he guides you out of the hall in which the wedding was held and up the stairs, not towards your quarters, but his own. You’re tense as you walk, knowing what is drawing ever closer and closer. His hand softly rubs your waist as he escorts you, presumably trying to ease a little of your tension, not wanting your apprehension to ruin his wedding night. 

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, which was somehow even larger than the one in the room you’d been staying in, you watch him loosen the tie at his neck, pouring himself a little champagne. 

“Want any, darling?” he smirks, sipping the drink, his eyes roaming the flattering figure your dress gave you. Part of you wondered whether you should drink to numb the experience, but all the same, you wanted your faculties about you. You shake your head silently and he shrugs. “Later then,” Once his drink is finished, he comes to sit beside you. You stiffen as his cold hands gather up your hair and move it out of the way, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your back. He waits a moment before popping the first clasp on your back. Goosebumps erupt across your skin and your muscles tighten, drawing in a breath. “You’re surprisingly willing, I told you that you’d like this more than you thought,” he ponders aloud with a hint of teasing, continuing to pop the clasps down your back. “I almost miss the fight,” he slips the sleeve of the dress off of your shoulder and bites down gently on the bare flesh. “Almost,”

The feeling of the cold air of the room meeting your skin sends a fit of shivers through you, the fabric of the dress pooling at your waist and baring your breasts to the air, your nipples hardening to peaks in an instant. Riddle hums, watching like a hawk over your shoulder, his hands caressing your skin just beneath your breasts, drawing yet another shiver from you. He slowly bites up and down your shoulder, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp, to leave behind small possessive marks. His warm chest presses to your bare back, the soft fabric of his dress shirt brushing against your skin, his suit jacket shed much earlier in the evening. 

“What has you so willing now, darling? You were so… incensed before,” he taunts, just gently brushing his thumbs on the underside of your breasts, his breath tickling your neck. 

“I just want to get it over with,” you mumble, observing as his large hands move across your skin. He chuckles.

“I’m sure,” he hums, clearly not believing you. You wouldn’t believe you either. “Be a good girl and stand for me,” Very hesitantly, and fighting against several tonnes of pride, you rise to your feet, jolting as he gently eases your dress down over your hips, taking caution not to rip the dress or damage the beading. Once it passes the swell of your hips, it falls easily to the ground, leaving you in only a pair of panties. You remain facing away from him, too sheepish to turn. His fingertips trace the edge of the material on your hips, down to your rear. You twitch away from his touch and he tuts. “Come now, you’re only prolonging this,” he gently grips your hips, guiding you back toward the bed, his hands skimming over you as he twists you around and lays you down against the pillows. Staring up at him, you notice a disconcerting predatory look in his eyes, despite the otherwise uncharacteristic softness in his expression. Even more bothersome is the way your stomach flips upon seeing it. He crawls up the bed to loom over you, a smirk decorating his handsome face. “Such a pretty picture you are, my beautiful bride,” he husks, leaning down to nip at your pulse point. You close your eyes. Bride. You couldn’t believe that word was real. This time, you feel the bite of his teeth and you know he’s leaving a proper mark. A whimper leaves your throat despite your reservations and you feel him grin against your skin, pleased to have evidence of your enjoyment of this, despite your performative protestations.

You keep your eyes closed as you feel him withdraw from you, hearing the rustle of fabric as he removes his dress shirt and the clank of metal as he reaches for his belt. Your thighs clench as the reality of what’s coming washes over you properly. Despite everything that you know should have you running for the hills, you are curious, too curious for your own good. So curious that when you feel his fingers hooking into the fabric of your underwear and beginning to softly tug downward, you wordlessly lift your hips and allow him to bare you to his gaze. He growls softly, presumably noticing the arousal that has gathered as he spreads your legs. 

“You don’t like me, darling?” he scoffs, repeating your words from a few days before.

“No,” you murmur. He brushes his thumb against your lower lip, which makes you part them obediently and clench around nothing. He notices your reaction instantly and gives a smug laugh.

“You are a terrible liar,” he purrs, placing his thumb on your tongue. “I think you like me very much,” he watches, enraptured, as you suckle on his thumb for the briefest of moments before you collect yourself once more. 

“I do not,” you protest weakly, finally opening your eyes to look up at him again, but you know you aren’t remotely convincing. “There is a difference between liking and lusting,” you huff. He rolls his eyes, though he looks amused.

“I suppose that is true, I’ll give you that,” he hums, using his now moist thumb to come down and begin gently circling your clit, drawing a ragged gasp from you. “You don’t like me, but right now, I reckon all that matters is lust, don’t you, darling?” Your head falls to the side as you avoid his knowing gaze, breaths coming short as he continues his intoxicating circles, the sensation enhanced by how worked up he has you. Your hips squirm lightly and he just seems to find it entertaining. You hear the rustle of fabric once more but pay it no mind, eyes fluttering shut at the syrupy pleasure he’s providing you.

You shoot up in surprise when you feel him prodding softly at your entrance, your eyes flying open to meet his. He shushes you gently, pushing you back down to lie and despite yourself, you go. His thumb never stops circling, making you more compliant than usual. He’s hot and hard against you and it makes you moan. It’s awful to realise just how badly you want him to press inside.

“You knew it was coming, just relax, we don’t want it to hurt, do we?” he soothes with his slightly patronising tone, but you just give a shaky nod. “There we go, you can be so good when you want to be,” he coos. After a few more calming circles on your clit, he’s pressing inside of you slowly. Your eyes roll back and your lips part, your walls fluttering as you do your best to accommodate him. He shifts, looming over you even more, propping his hand at the side of your head to support his weight. 

His eyes are dark as he stares down at you, growling in pleasure, finally inside of you like he has wished to be for so long. All those years of your infuriating scheming and fighting, only to end up a whimpering mess beneath him in your marital bed. The grin that graces his lips is downright devilish. He has you where he wants you, completely, rocking his hips a few times to draw those rousing mewls from your lips once more. Your hand grips his arm, the cool metal of your wedding band digging into his skin. Finally, he has you here and you’re willing, no matter what you assert. The sinful pleasure he’s giving you feels like sweet revenge as he begins to fuck into you properly, hips slamming into yours, slick sounds filling the room, claiming you entirely, consummating your marriage. The marriage you had claimed not to want, but never once tried to disrupt as it happened.

“You know what I think, darling?” he grunts, you don’t answer with anything other than a cry of pleasure as he angles himself to thrust even deeper inside you. “I think you do like me, and you will forever, whether you want to or not,”

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[cardansriddle]

Bound by the Ball- Tom Riddle x Fem!Reader

Summary: Tom is determined to make you his date to the ball. The only problem? You have a boyfriend—and you absolutely cannot stand Tom Riddle.

warnings: banter. like a lot of banter. sexual tension. tom threatening reader to get his way? infidelity. 5.5k words i got carried away :)

A/N: I know i disappeared from the face of earth, but got inspired to write this one this week. Love u all, hopefully I won't go MIA for too long again (i probably will).

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Unattainable was not a word in Tom Riddle's dictionary.

He had never bothered to familiarise himself with the word. Why would he? If Tom Riddle was to be described with one word, it would be determined. Had he decided to set his sight or mind on something, he would go to any length to obtain it. He had sicarded the notion of "impossible" long ago.

So it came as a slap in the face when what he thought the easiest of attainable things, became not so easy. Truthfully, Tom had not even wanted a date for the stupid ball in the first place. However, when the Headmaster insisted that the Head Boy must have a date, it was not as if Tom had any choice in the matter. He had begrudgingly began his search. His requirements for his date were simple: Not dimwitted, an adequate dancer, and witty enough to keep up with him.

He was mentally going over the checklist when the sound of his name amongst excited chatter broke his reverie.

"Have you heard? Apparently Riddle is looking for a date for the dance."

The wizard halted and slowed his steps so he could listen to the conversation of the girls in front of him. The redhead squealed at the information.

"No!" She said in disbelief. "Imagine being asked by the Tom Riddle to the ball." The girl sighed as if imagining the scenario in her head. The wizard was suppressing his urge to smirk when suddenly the witch who had been silent all through the entire exchange scoffed out a laugh.

"Would not wish that misfortune on anyone."

The redhead gasped, affronted. "Misfortune? Have you hit your head? It is Riddle we are talking about. The charming, smartest boy in the school Riddle?"

"He might be the smartest wizard in Hogwarts but he has the emotional intelligence of a rock."

The two girls beside you gasped your name in unison but you brushed them off with a chuckle.

"I suppose you think your Montague is better?" The redhead giggled again and the other witch joined her in what Tom realised to be their teasing.

He watched your profile as you rolled your eyes at their antics. "At least Montague has human emotions and is not stone cold. The only thing Riddle has feelings for is his textbooks."

"Yeah, the only emotion Montague shows is drooling after you like a lovesick puppy."

The ginger was quick to correct her friend. "Hungry dog you mean."

"I am not saying he is perfect. He is handsome enough and has the approval of my family. That should suffice."

The redhead groaned audibly. "Ah, yes! The traits which define the very notion of romance!" She exclaimed sarcastically. Before you could retort, Tom's attention was pulled to the call of his name.

"Oi! Riddle!"

Tom abruptly halted in his steps, the echo of his name reverberating down the dimly lit hallway. A low curse escaped his breath as he realized the three girls in front of him had also come to a stop, their shoulders tensed with anticipation. He turned his head sharply to find Lestrange hurrying towards him with determined steps. When the younger boy finally stood before him, a mischievous grin played on his lips.

"We found the perfect candidate for your date." Lestrange's eyes shifted momentarily behind Riddle, prompting him to turn and inspect the source of their newfound audience. Three pairs of eyes were locked onto them, two wide with a mortified fascination, and you, who had recently questioned his emotional intelligence, regarded him with indifferent eyes. It was as if his very presence left you unaffected, perhaps even bored.

Tom arched an expectant brow, though his gaze remained fixed on you. Your brows furrowed briefly, and he could see the realization dawning on you—you knew he had overheard your conversation. Yet, even then, you managed to morph your features into an expression one of displeasure and tugged on your girlfriends' arms.

"Can I help you, ladies?" Tom's voice cut through the hallway, a subtle challenge lingering in his words. His gaze remained fixated on you, waiting for a glance or acknowledgment.

"No. Excuse us," you curtly replied and pulled your friends away. Tom watched your retreating back, waiting for the moment you might glance back at him, but you did not grace him with a second look.

He turned his attention back to Lestrange, his curiosity evident. "Well, who is it?"

"Er... well, she just left..." Lestrange's weak gesture indicated the direction in which the girls had disappeared. Tom's gaze lingered on the empty corridor.

༻♛༺

His gaze had begun to seek your figure amongst the crowded hallways. He was waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike so he could have a plausible excuse to talk to you. But it was as if you had vanished from the castle. He would see your two friends who you were inseparable with walking around without you. It confounded him. Where had you disappeared to?

"Lestrange."

The boy startled at Tom's voice, tripping over his own feet before righting himself. He turned to meet the Prefect's sharp gaze. "Yes?"

"The girl. What do you know about her?"

Lestrange's brows furrowed thoughtfully. "The candidate for the ball?"

Tom heavily resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, Lestrange. Who else?"

"Well, she's very reserved, and is very...picky with who she keeps in her circle, so I have not managed to talk to her. But from what I have gathered, she's from a good, respectable family, excellent grades, and the ball gown she has chosen is not ridiculous."

Tom rose an inquisitive brow. "How do you know about the ball gown?"

Lestrange shrugged. "Shagged her redhead friend the other day and saw her dress laying on her bed." He said as if it was the most obvious explanation. "You would approve." He winked.

Tom resisted the tempting urge to roll his eyes yet again. Depraved and idiotic as Lestrange was, Tom could not deny his questionable ways were effective. "Anything else?"

The boy scratched the back of his head, suddenly looking sheepish. "Er...she may or may not have a boyfriend." At Riddle's heated glare, Lestrange threw his arms up in defence. "In my defence, I knew it would not be a problem for you!"

Tom decided it was not wroth wasting his time to curse the younger boy, so he sighed tiredly. "Get me her schedule."

"Oh, no..."

༻♛༺

He had not anticipated that while on the quest of hunting the girl down, she would come looking for him herself.

"Riddle!" A feminine voice yelled out his name from across the empty corridor. He heard the hasty approaching footsteps behind him as he turned around, and was surprised to see you storming towards him with fury on your face.

He rose a brow in acknowledgement, which seemed to make you angrier. "What the fuck are you doing?" You seethed.

"Taking a peaceful stroll?" He deadpanned.

Your glare intensified at his mannerism, and you crossed your arms over your chest in indignation. "Care to explain why your little Lestrange has been following me around?"

Tom kept his expression neutral, although internally he was cursing Lestrange's lack of talents for being inconspicuous. "Do I look like his father? Why do you assume me responsible for his actions?"

"Do not play dumb with me Riddle." You huffed, pointing an accusatory finger in his face.

"Perhaps he has taken a fancy. How am I to know?" Tom simply shrugged. His nonchalant demeanour only fused your anger more, and you took a step closer to him as you seethed.

"First you eavesdrop on our private conversation—"

"Which was about me, so it's a little contreversial—"

"—and now you've got your goon following me around—"

"Again, why him following you is my problem?"

You threw your hands in the air, seemingly done with his behaviour. "You are insufferable! Merlin's beard, it's like talking to a—"

"Go to the ball with me."

Whatever you were about to say died in your throat, leaving you to blink up at him in stunned silence, trying to process his words. "What?" Was the only coherent thing that you were able to croak out.

This time it was Tom who stepped closer to you, hands stuffed in his pockets as he casually repeated his earlier statement. "Be my date to the ball."

You managed to gather enough of your wits to let out an incredulous laugh. "Have you gone mad? Do I need to help you into the Hospital Wing?"

"I'm perfectly fine." The corner of his lips curled into a smirk as he leaned in, his presence invading your space. "Now, say yes."

"You can't just demand that I be your date, Riddle." Your voice was sharp with exasperation, still grappling with whatever was going on in his head. "Besides, I already have a date. My boyfriend. Naturally." You added.

"Ah, of course. The dimwit that you can barely tolerate?" He asked smugly, a pointed jab at the conversation he'd overheard days before.

Your lips parted, indignation flaring as you struggled to formulate a rebuttal. "I tolerate him just fine," you finally managed, though even to your own ears, it sounded weak and far too defensive.

"Reputable enough to please your parents, but not skilled enough to please you I would wager." He countered.

"How dare you!" you hissed, your voice rising despite yourself.

Tom tilted his head, his smirk unfaltering. "Did I strike a nerve? My apologies. It’s just hard to watch someone of your... caliber settling for mediocrity."

Your jaw clenched, and despite fighting it, heat flared in your cheeks. You might have not liked Tom Riddle, but that did not mean you did not know just how rare it was to receive a compliment from him. And his words had been a compliment. So of course, it was only natural for you to get flustered. But you would not concede to him so easily. "You are delusional, Riddle. The only thing that matters is that he is far better company than an arrogant, self-important—"

"A self-important what?" Tom interrupted, his tone low and sharp enough to cut. His dark eyes bore into yours, leaving the retort stuck in your throat.

You stepped back, trying to put space between you, but Tom mirrored the movement, closing the gap effortlessly.

"You’re deflecting," he said smoothly, his voice laced with quiet amusement. "If you truly cared for him, you wouldn’t feel so unnerved, you would not struggle so needlessly to list his likeable traits, and you most definitely would not be so willing to have this conversation."

"Willing?" you echoed, the word tumbling out before you could stop it. You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. "Oh, Riddle, it is not my fault you mistook my utter disdain and aggravation for you as interest." You taunted. "As a matter of fact, before you are more mislead, I am done indulging whatever this is." You turned on your heel, intending to storm away, but you barely took a step before a hand shot out, catching your wrist.

"We are not done yet" Tom’s voice was low and composed, but there was a dangerous edge to it, one that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Let go, Riddle," you demanded, attempting to yank your hand free.

Instead, he moved faster than you anticipated, stepping in front of you and backing you up against the wall behind you. Your back hit the cool stone, and you instinctively braced yourself with your hands against his chest, trying to push him away.

He didn’t budge.

His arms caged you in, palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. The smirk on his face was gone, replaced by something darker, more intent.

Your breath caught in your throat, and your eyes flickered around the empty corridor for any passerby. Were you to be caught in this compromising position with a boy, alone in an empty corridor, while courting someone else, you would be utterly ruined.

"Riddle, this is hardly appropriate. Let me go."

"Why should I?" he murmured, his voice velvety smooth as his face hovered far too close to yours. His head dipped slightly, and you froze as his nose brushed against your cheek, a slow and deliberate motion that sent a shiver racing down your spine. "I have got you right where I wan."

"Riddle," you said warningly, though the word came out more breathless than you intended.

His nose trailed downward, skimming along your jawline and then the curve of your throat. You inhaled sharply, your hands curling into fists against his chest, unsure if you were bracing yourself or preparing to push him away.

"Stop it," you tried again.

"Why?" he asked again, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just below your ear as he spoke. The warmth of his breath against your neck made your heart race despite yourself. "Because you might start to enjoy it?"

Your breath stuttered when you felt his fingertips grazing along the hemline of your skirt. You knew this was outrageous behaviour, and you really should have screamed for someone, but his fingers left a fire trail and you felt as if you were being put under a spell. You had never felt this alive, this hot, this desperate for—

His lips hovered at your ear, his breath hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. "Say yes to the ball," he murmured, "and I will make you feel things you’ve never felt before... and never will again."

Your resolve almost faltered, your breath coming in shallow pulls as his words coiled around you like a spell. You could feel the walls you’d so carefully built beginning to crack under his relentless pressure.

Just as the word teetered on the edge of your tongue, a sound broke through the haze. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, drawing closer. The sharp reminder of reality snapped you back to your senses and your eyes snapped open.

Summoning every ounce of strength, you shoved him hard in the chest. He didn’t stumble, but he let you go, a sly, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he straightened to his full height.

"You’re impertinent and unbelievable," you hissed, your voice low but trembling with leftover emotion from what you had just experienced. Without waiting for his reply, you turned and bolted, your hurried steps echoing as you disappeared around the corner.

Behind you, Tom’s laughter followed, low and rich, like a predator enjoying the chase. After all, this was just a game for him. But he had not expected it to be so entertaining.

༻♛༺

Breakfast was a usual affair as you sat across from Adam Montague in the Great Hall, his voice a constant hum in the background as he rambled about Quidditch and the upcoming match schedule. Normally, you’d feign enthusiasm or at least muster the energy to listen politely. Today, however, your thoughts were consumed by a pair of dark, calculating eyes and the memory of hands that had left a trail of fire in their wake.

Tom Riddle. Of course. Somehow amidst your determination to avoid fawning after him like everyone else in the castle did, you had become just like them— with thoughts plagued by him.

Even thinking of his name itself felt like a forbidden secret, heavy and dangerous, lodged deep in your chest and an ache in your head. Yet no matter how much you tried to keep it at bay, the memory of him refused to fade.

You could still feel the ghost of his breath against your ear, the heat of his hand as it crept beneath your skirt, and the way he’d whispered those words—low, commanding, and laced with desires you shouldn’t want to hear.

You shifted in your seat, your skin prickling with awareness as the memory played over and over in your mind. It wasn’t just what he’d done— it was how he’d done it—with utter confidence, as though he already knew how you would respond, how your body would betray you before your mind could catch up.

And he had been right.

The thought made you burn with equal parts shame and longing. You shouldn’t crave the way his touch had made your pulse race, the way his voice had wrapped around you like silk.

"...and if the Harpies can pull off another win, they’ll have a real shot at the Cup this year," Adam said, his voice rising with excitement.

"That’s... great," you murmured automatically, like you always did, though your mind wasn’t even in the same room.

You remembered his face when he’d pinned you against the wall, his smirk infuriating and his proximity suffocating in the best possible way. You’d told him to stop, but deep down, you hadn’t wanted him to. Not really.

The truth clawed at you. The horrifying realisation that no one had ever made you feel the way Tom did in those fleeting minutes. Not Adam Montague. Not anyone.

You glanced at Adam, who was still talking, utterly oblivious to the war waging inside you. His blue eyes sparkled with excitement as he gestured animatedly, still drolling on about Quidditch. He was everything a good boyfriend should be—dependable, safe, respectable enough for your parents.

But safe wasn’t what you wanted.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t just crave Tom’s touch or his words; you craved the way he made you feel alive. The way he challenged you, unraveled you, almost pushed you to the edge of something you didn’t quite understand but desperately wanted to explore.

And what vexed you the most was the fact that he had done all of that in a matter of minutes. He had made you feel all that with one interaction. Perhaps everyone around you had been right about him and his irresistible charm.

Damn you, Tom Riddle. You thought bitterly.

You realised you needed to escape and clear your head when Adam launched yet into another analysis of Quidditch tactics Harpies could employ to secure the Cup and you felt the walls closing in around you. 

"I just remembered," you blurted, cutting him off mid-sentence. "I wanted to ask Professor Slughorn something about the essay due tomorrow. I will head to class early."

Adam blinked, surprised at being interrupted so abruptly. Then he shrugged, muttering a befuddled 'okay'. Grabbing your bag, you stood, planting a quick kiss on his cheek before turning on your heel and heading toward the exit. The moment you stepped into the corridor, a wave of relief washed over you, though it was quickly overshadowed by the devil himself.

You had not even made it far when his voice cut through the air. "Running from something, or someone?"

Your stomach dropped. Turning your head, you found Tom walking toward you, his stride calm and assured, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.

"Go away," you said sharply, quickening your pace.

He didn’t miss a beat, easily falling into step beside you. "That’s hardly polite. Especially since we’re headed to the same place."

You frowned, glancing at him. "What are you talking about?"

He arched a brow, his smirk widening. "We have the same class. Surely you haven’t forgotten?"

Your lips pressed into a thin line. Of course he would find a way to make your morning even more unbearable. "Fine," you muttered, clutching your bag tighter. "Walk wherever you want, just don’t talk to me."

"Such hostility," he said, his tone light but laced with mockery. "I wonder if Montague would approve of your temper."

You shot him a glare. "Adam has nothing to do with this."

"Doesn’t he?" Tom asked. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were avoiding him just now. Tell me, how does it feel to lie to your boyfriend so early in the day?"

Your cheeks burned, but you refused to dignify him with a response. Instead, you quickened your pace, hoping he’d get bored and leave you alone.

He didn’t.

By the time you reached the classroom, your nerves were frayed, and you stormed inside, determined to put as much space between you and him as possible. Sliding into a seat near the middle, you silently willed the rest of the room to fill with other students.

But of course, Tom wasn’t finished. With a deliberate smirk, he crossed the space and sat down in the chair beside yours.

"You’ve got to be joking," you muttered under your breath, refusing to look at him.

"Now, now," he drawled, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Shouldn’t we at least try to get along? After all, we’ll be spending so much time together."

You turned to him sharply, your irritation bubbling over. "What are you talking about now?"

He leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, though his eyes gleamed in amusement. "Oh, nothing." A pause. "Just that the ball is approaching, and I’m a man of my word."

Your stomach flipped, his implication clear. You opened your mouth to respond, but the professor’s arrival cut you off, forcing you to bite back whatever retort you had planned.

"Ah, Mr. Riddle!" Slughorn’s jovial voice boomed as he clapped his hands together. "I trust you’ve been giving the essay topic some thought. I’m particularly eager to hear your take on the use of powdered asphodel in calming draughts. Such a fascinating ingredient! Might you indulge me in what your take is?"

Tom inclined his head, his expression the perfect craft of false modesty. "I believe powdered asphodel is essential for crafting a truly effective calming draught. Without it, the potion’s efficacy in more severe cases is significantly diminished."

You couldn’t stop yourself from scoffing. "Essential? That's an overstatement. Asphodel might enhance the effects, but it risks leaving the drinker overly reliant. A calming draught should ease anxiety, not render someone unable to cope without it."

Tom turned to you, and you immediately regretted speaking up upon seeing the amused smirk plastered on his mouth "An interesting argument, but overly cautious. Without asphodel’s potency, the potion becomes too mild to address real crises. A weak solution is no solution at all."

You narrowed your eyes. "There’s nothing weak about proper balance. Valerian root and peppermint, for instance, can achieve the same calming effect without the risk of long-term harm."

Slughorn looked between you with visible delight, like a spectator at a match. "Ah, how I delight in a healthy debate! Keep at it, you two. This is precisely the sort of engagement I hoped the topic would bring. I look forward to reading both of your essays." He winked and sauntered off towards his desk just as the students began filing into the classroom.

Then, Adam Montague walked in, his steps faltering the moment he spotted Tom sitting beside you. His eyes widened, and his lips parted in confusion. "What the hell are you doing there, Riddle?"

Tom, utterly unbothered, leaned back slightly, a smug smile tugging at his lips. "I wasn’t aware this seat was reserved. Perhaps you should have labeled it, Montague." His tone dripped with mock innocence.

Adam glared, his jaw tightening. "It’s my seat. I sit there every class—next to my girlfriend."

"Ah," Tom replied coolly, glancing at you with deliberate slowness. "Shame you didn’t put a label on her either." He drawled.

Adam’s face flushed, his hands balling into fists. "Get up. Now."

"I do not think I will."

Adam took a threatening step forward, but Slughorn suddenly clapped his hands again. "Settle down, everyone! Time to begin." His cheerful tone left no room for argument.

With a frustrated huff, Adam reluctantly moved to a desk across the room, his glare burning holes into the back of Tom’s head. Meanwhile, Tom leaned slightly toward you, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Bit possessive, isn’t he?" He hummed quietly. "Though perhaps not enough. Were it me who had you, I would not let you out of my sight."

You gaped at him, wondering if he had lost his wits. "Excuse me? I am not something to be owned, Riddle."

His hand dropped under the table and you barely suppressed a gasp when you felt it land on your thigh, grazing dangerously high under your skirt. "And yet...I would treat you as if you were my greatest possession."

Heat surged to your cheeks, and you quickly averted your gaze, utterly flustered by his words. The quiet intensity of his voice and the sheer audacity of his statement left your heart racing in a way you couldn’t explain. You quickly pushed his hand away without drawing any attention. Desperate to put some distance between you, you shifted your chair an inch or two away from him, the scrape of wood against stone louder than you intended. You kept your focus firmly on the front of the classroom, determined to concentrate on Slughorn’s voice as he began explaining the potion you would be brewing.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the faintest flicker of his smirk, as though he knew exactly how much he’d unsettled you—and relished it.

You gritted your teeth and stared resolutely at the blackboard, clutching your quill tightly. There was no way you’d let him see just how much he had gotten under your skin. You told yourself you only needed just enough willpower to get through this class and then you would be free.

And when finally the bell rang, signaling the end of class, you bolted from your seat. You didn’t want to give Tom any more time to—to do whatever it was he was doing to you. You headed straight for the door, but before you could make your escape, you heard Adam’s voice behind you.

"Hey! Wait up!"

You sighed and turned around reluctantly. Adam was quick to catch up, his brows furrowed in confusion. "What the hell was that back there?" His eyes flickered from you to the empty seat beside Tom. "Why didn’t you say anything? You just let him sit there."

You tried to offer a casual shrug, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your pulse was still racing. "It’s not a big deal."

"But he was all over you," Adam said, his voice low with irritation. "And you just—"

"Adam, you're a big boy. I'm sure you do not need me to stand up for yourself." You cut him off, a bit sharper than you intended. "Really. Let’s just drop it, okay?"

He stared at you for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but he finally nodded. "Alright, but this isn’t over. We will talk during dinner." He stated with a frown before turning to walk to his next class.

You had a free period, so you decided you would head to the library to get ahead in your studies. But as always, peace and quiet did not come easily to you. Not when Riddle was concerned.

When you saw him leaning against the wall, patiently watching you, you almost screamed from frustration. "No! Absolutely not. I am not having any more interactions with you. Whatever was going on, is done. Go ruin someone else's life with your presence, and fuck off from mine."

He pushed off the wall, crossing the distance between you slowly, as if a predator trying not to startle its prey. You took a step back with bated breath with each step he took forward, and in a blink, he grabbed a hold of your hand and began leading you away from the corridor. You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but the action just encouraged him to tighten his hold.

"Riddle!" You tried, but he shot you a dark look shadowed by a loose strand of raven-black hair over his eyes. The dangerous glint in his stare sent a chill down your spine.

Before you knew what was happening, he pulled you into a dark alcove, hidden from the gaze of any potential prying eyes. Your pulse quickened at the way he cornered you, feeling his breath against your skin.

"I'm starting to think you have a thing for dark hidden corners." You muttered, trying vainly to distract yourself from his close proximity.

He ignored your comment. "One kiss," he murmured, his lips barely brushing your ear. "And I’ll leave you alone."

You narrowed your eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of control. "One kiss?" you scoffed, taking a step back, though he followed, keeping you trapped against the wall. "And what do you think is going to make me give in to this nonsense you're asking me?"

Tom chuckled softly as he slowly grazed a finger along your collarbone. "I don’t think you’ll give in. I think you’ll want to."

Your heart skipped a beat at his touch, but you refused to show it. "I don’t want anything from you." You shook your head, trying to remain defiant. "Stop playing games, Riddle. I’m not some toy for you to use and discard."

Tom smirked, one eyebrow raised. "If I wanted a toy, I’d choose something less... challenging." He stepped in even closer, his body fully touching yours now, and you could feel the heat radiating off of him. "But you, you’re more interesting. So, here’s the deal—one kiss, and I’ll leave you alone. After all, you don’t seem to be able to resist me, do you?"

For a weak moment, you hesitated. He was close, too close, and the air between you crackled with an intensity you couldn’t deny.

"I’m not some damsel who will fall for a cheap trick, Riddle," you retorted, though the words were hollow, even to you.

Tom’s eyes darkened, and he reached out, cupping your chin with his fingers, forcing you to look him in the eye. "And yet here you are, trapped in my web, pretending you don’t want this just as much as I do." His voice was low, intimate, and it sent a shiver down your spine. "One kiss and I promise, then I will let you go."

You inhaled sharply, torn between the desire to push him away and the overwhelming temptation to give in. For the briefest moment, you wondered what it would be like—just one kiss, one taste of what he was offering. He would not back down until he got what he wanted, and you knew that, so you decided to end your own torture by giving in.

"Fine," you muttered, almost against your will, your voice low with frustration. "But just one."

Tom’s smirk deepened as he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a slow, almost teasing manner. It started gentle, a light pressure, before he deepened the kiss, and you felt your resolve start to slip away. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer, canting your bodies together, and the action almost made you whimper.

You were not supposed to enjoy this.

Frightened by your own pleasure at the way he had kissed you, you placed your palms on his chest and pushed him. When he pulled away, his eyes gleamed with triumph. "I’ve changed my mind," he murmured, his voice silky. "Go to the ball with me. And I’ll leave you alone."

You blinked, momentarily stunned. "No. No, Riddle, you promised you would stop."

Tom’s smirk was sharp, almost cruel. He suddenly stepped away from you, his form no longer caging you against the wall. "I promised I would let you go. And I did just now. I did not promise anything about the ball."

Your breath caught, your chest tightening. "You can’t—"

"I can," he interrupted, his tone final. "And I will. So, say yes, and I’ll leave you in peace. But if you don’t..." He let the threat hang in the air for a moment. "Or I’ll tell Montague about this little... encounter."

You stared at him, your heart racing, in disbelief over what he was saying—no— what he was threatening you with. Your breath hitched as he leaned closer again, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "And I think Malfoy would be very interested in knowing that Adam’s place on the Quidditch team is up for discussion. One word from me and he’s off the team for good."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he silenced you with a soft, teasing kiss—brief, but enough to make your heart race even faster. When he pulled back, his gaze was firm. "Say yes. Or everything he values will slip right through his fingers."

The silence stretched between you as you hesitated, but deep down, you knew there was only one choice. "Fine," you muttered, your voice small, but the fire in his eyes made your chest tighten. "I’ll go. But only because you’re threatening him."

Tom’s smirk returned, but there was something else there now—satisfaction, and perhaps a touch of something else you couldn’t quite place. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, darling." He said as he pulled away completely. You watched him walk away, slumped against the wall, completely helpless as his chuckle echoed down the hall.

༻♛༺

[viperify]

Oneshots | ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ X ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Daddy‘s home.

Short summary: Tom Riddle was not easily distraught. Though, since the birth of your daughter, things seemed to change. He was torn – torn between loving her or pretending not to care. Just after he had left for a gathering with his Knights, you and your daughter find yourself in a tense situation. Will that night change the man you knew?

Warnings: slight mentions of child abuse ig, angst, fluff

A/N: Tom is such a girl dad, change my mind.

wordcount: 3,2k

Tom had just woken from the horrors of yet another nightmare and sighed softly. Steadily, he lifted himself from the firm mattress, his feet touching the polished wooden planks of the floor as he got up. He took a quick glance at you, his beautiful wife, who was still fast asleep by the time he woke up. No wonder, he thought, it was quite early after all, not a single ray of sunshine visible on the pitch-black horizon when he looked out of the foggy window. Without causing too much noise, he exited the bedroom, heading towards the small room on the other side of the hallway. He enjoyed doing it like this. It meant he could visit the nursery without being disturbed, watching over his sweet little daughter while she was sleeping peacefully.

A freshly lit candle led his way, and after taking a deep breath, he opened the wooden door with a small creak, peeking inside. Tom sat down on the cushioned chair you nursed her in and just like he had suspected, the little girl’s eyes were closed, chest rising and falling calmly under her woollen blanket. A relieved sigh escaped his lips, slowly sinking back against the chair, always watching over her.

He did this almost daily, at least when he was home, which happened to be quite often lately. The mere thought of something bad happening to you or his daughter sent shivers down his spine. He found himself having nightmares quite often since you had given birth, which was mostly before he then went to check on her. Never had he, Tom Riddle, leader of the Knights of Walpurgis, expected to grow a soft spot for such a tiny human being. In fact, he didn’t fathom ever feeling anything for another person. But there he was, with his small family he would do anything for.

She was six months old by now, and slowly her hair started growing in. Gorgeous brunette curls blossomed all over her tiny head, the same color as Tom’s. Even her facial features resembled her father’s, forest green eyes and puffy lips making her her dad’s twin. He cherished every little moment he got to be alone with her, and ever since the first time he met her right after she was born, he secretly promised himself something.

No matter what happened, he would always take care of his little girl. Protect her from harm and raise her like he would have wanted to be raised. Give her the love she deserved and prevent her from growing up like he did. At any cost. However, he hadn’t really been able to fulfil his promise yet. Every time he wanted to actively become a part of her life, something in him stalled. He couldn’t bring himself to even look her in the eyes.

Today, he would have to attend yet another meeting, discussing the future of the Knights. While it was of great importance to him, at that time he would have much rather stayed home. There was something so peaceful about the presence of his daughter. A place where he could truly relax for once, where nobody was watching or judging him. Just him and his precious girl, only their soft breaths breaking the comforting silence of the room. How could he feel so many things for such a tiny being? Her nose smaller than his thumb, fingers so fragile yet so sweet when they were all scrunched up. He yearned to caress her soft skin, hold her, love on her. Yet, he rarely did.

In fact, he had never held her before. You had offered it multiple times, even encouraged him to. He had always declined. You knew it wasn’t because he didn’t love her, that there must be something else. You didn’t want to push him, give him time to get comfortable. It was all new for both of you – becoming parents. Certainly not an easy task, especially with all the changes your body went through during and after pregnancy. Emotionally though, you knew Tom was struggling more. He was torn, torn between loving and accepting her or pretending to not care. To your surprise, he was quite awful at the latter.

Sometimes when he sat there next to her, he reached out slowly, mostly halting and pulling his hand back again. In very rare cases, like today, he didn’t. His thumb softly caressed the back of her tiny hand, watching her for any signs of discomfort, of disgust. Well, he knew she couldn’t yet feel like that for him. But as the days and weeks passed, he increasingly got the feeling that she would one day. That she would be afraid of him – her own father.

She was still so little, so vulnerable. Tom couldn’t trust himself holding her. He was terrified of hurting her, just like he had so many other people.

When the first rays of sunshine emerged on the horizon, he slowly got up, and after checking one last time whether she was breathing fine, he exited the nursery. Tom then returned to your bed, carefully lying down next to you. He swiped a strand of hair out of your face and closed his eyes, waiting for either you to stir and get up or your daughter letting you know she was hungry.

A small smile formed on his lips at that thought.

Only a few minutes had passed before the soft cries of your daughter woke him again. Tom’s eyes shot open immediately, though he remained calm. He always let you check on her, even if he had the urge to do it himself, like right now. It stirred something in him - hearing the continuous cries of his daughter. Something he recognized from his own childhood at the orphanage. Back then his cries were left unanswered, nobody ever there to soothe him, tell him everything would be alright. Sometimes all he wanted was to be held, to be comforted by someone. Just like all these happy kids that used to walk past with their parents outside the gates of the orphanage when he stood there, looking out of the barred windows of his room.

He grew to despise the monsters, or “nurses” as they called themselves, at his residence. The worst part about it was that he didn’t act any differently toward his own daughter now 20 years later. His thoughts started consuming him and just as he was about to get up to check on her, you woke, yawning.

“I am sorry. Has she been crying for long?” You asked, voice still thick with sleep, sitting up. Tom shook his head slightly. “A minute, I guess.”

“You could always go check on her too.”

He huffed softly. “You know I can't.”

“Try it. She is your daughter. She doesn’t know what love or hate is yet. Make it right before it is too late.”

He didn’t answer, avoiding your gaze by staring at the ceiling.

You sighed and got up, heading to the nursery to feed your daughter. Sometimes he would come too, watch you two with a stoic expression, eyes locked onto the baby in your arms. He never spoke, though. Then, when she had finished nursing, he would turn around to leave before you even got the chance to ask him to take her from your arms, almost like he had suspected what you were about to say.

This time, he didn’t join you but rather walked past the nursery without paying you any attention and descended the stairs, probably to fetch the Daily Prophet which arrived every single day at exactly 7:38 am.

When your daughter was satiated, you stayed with her for a while, helping her digest. She loved being baby-worn when you completed chores around the house, so that is what you did. You too entered the kitchen, having her comfortably wrapped against your front. Tom sat there, eyes fully locked onto the newspaper in front of him while he sipped his lemon balm tea. As always, he had prepared another cup for you, with one spoon of honey and your favourite biscuit.

You sat down next to him, your daughter’s head resting on your chest, staring right at her father. “Thank you.” You said, taking your first sip of the tea he had made you. He turned his head to reply, but your daughter’s eyes caught his. He froze for a moment and as her mouth then curled up in a little smile, his facial expression dropped and he stood up in an instant, clearing his throat. “I am going to Rosier’s. Not sure if I will return tonight.”

You nodded, taking another sip of your tea. “Good luck.”

Tom grabbed his coat and put on his black leather shoes, reaching for the handle of your front door before he halted and turned around once more.

“The wards are intact. Take care. Keep the door locked, don’t open any windows and stay inside until I am back. Got it?” He said, eyes flickering between you and your daughter.

“I will. Don’t worry about that.” You replied, shooting him a small smile.

He nodded and left the house, making his way towards Rosier Manor, where the Knights now normally held their meetings. He could have apparated, however he found a strange sense of solace in the beauty of nature, the contrasting colors of flowers and trees, birds chirping, sky blue without any cloud in sight. A perfect summer day, you could say.

Just a mere kilometre later, two men from further down the road passed him, the smell of alcohol thick in the air. Tom shook his head. How could someone be this drunk at just 11am?

Without turning around, he continued his path, not too far away from his destination now. When he arrived, most of them were waiting already, greeting him as he entered the building. He sat down on his designated chair on the short side of the banquet table, resting his hands on the dark, polished wood. Then, only when everyone had gathered around him, he started talking. Their heads shot in his direction, listening intently to what he was saying, never interrupting him when he spoke.

In the meanwhile, you prepared lunch for you and your daughter, slowly introducing her to solids. You carefully cut up cooked carrots, potatoes and broccoli and watched her closely while her small fingers tried grabbing the vegetables, though often smashing them in her hand before she got the chance to eat them. You smiled softly at the determined expression on her face, just the same as Tom had when he was focused on something. She really was her father’s twin after all.

After both of you were done, you cleaned up. Normally around this time you would go outside for a little walk, Tom joining you two. He told you to stay in the house though, and you respected that. The neighbourhood you lived in didn’t have the best reputation and to be honest, you didn’t feel too safe going outside alone with your daughter anyway. As you looked out of the kitchen window, you saw dark clouds gathering on the otherwise bright blue sky. It was July, so often after a hot summer day thunderstorms would strike, heavy raindrops falling from the dark grey sky.

You sighed and decided to retreat to the nursery, letting your daughter crawl around and play with some toys you two had gotten her. You sat down on the chair and watched her movements. You really were lucky with how easy going she was, rarely crying or complaining, definitely a trait she didn’t inherit from her father. Soon, your eyelids slowly fluttered closed, until a loud thud jolted you awake, eyes immediately searching for your daughter.

-

“We considered getting one of our own into the registry for muggle-borns. What do you say, my Lord?”

Tom might have been present physically during the meeting, however mentally he was far from that. With a sizzling noise the lightnings split the otherwise dark sky, casting a faint glow on the pale faces of him and the Knights. He couldn’t concentrate on what they were saying by any means. All he could think about was her, how scared she must be, her sensitive ears not yet accustomed to the horrors of thunderstorms. He questioned whether you were alright, if the house was doing its duty protecting his little family. Then Tom remembered the two men he had seen a few hours ago, who, he now realised, were heading in your direction. What if they meant harm? Seeing him leave, they must have known you were home alone with your daughter. He had checked the wards on the house before leaving, but what if they found a way? A strange feeling erupted in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. A sense of panic, helplessness.

It reminded him of his own childhood, the first time he experienced a thunderstorm of that extent. He could still see the memory to this day, how frightened he was. When he was banging on the door, crying, begging for someone to open it. They had a habit of locking him in his room until the morning for “disciplinary reasons”, or, as he assumed, because they were afraid of him and his “strange” behaviour.

Nobody came that night to comfort him.

His breathing quickened at the thought of his precious girl going through the same and without another thought, he stood up. “I need to leave. Meeting is postponed.”

They shot each other concerned glances, yet nobody dared to ask what was going on, confused by his sudden change in demeanour. Tom though couldn’t have cared less at that point.

“My Lord?” Rosier asked quietly, carefully watching the brunette’s expression.

In a quick fashion Tom fetched his black coat and left the manor, stepping outside into the pouring rain as another loud lightning bolt came down with an electrifying crack, followed by a deep, rumbling thunder. All he wanted to do was check if you two were okay, apparating back to your shared home.

At first sight, everything seemed to be alright. Though, after taking a closer look, he spotted a shattered window. He felt his heart skip a beat, and without thinking twice he entered the house, his wand pointed. At first, he didn’t hear or see anything, the house being completely dark apart from the occasional lightnings illuminating the room for a split second, the sound of the heavy rain muting anything else. He called your name, searching for you downstairs. Nothing.

Then, he heard something. Faint cries of a baby, the ones he recognized so well. He didn’t waste another second and rushed up the stairs, heading towards the nursery.

A small source of light shone onto the hallway from the room and when Tom entered, all his worries faded. There you were, trying to comfort your daughter, softly cradling and shushing her. When your eyes met his, you saw his anxious expression and the way his chest rose and fell quickly, gasping for breath. His damp, brunette locks stuck to his forehead as he exhaled sharply, fingers swiping through his messy hair.

“Are you two alright?” Tom asked softly, coming closer to press a kiss on your forehead.

“We are fine. She is just really scared of the loud noises.” You said, still trying to calm her down.

He nodded, looking down at his daughter’s scrunched-up face while she was crying. Tom had always thought nothing could affect him after what he had been through, but this? It hurt him. For a moment, he just stood there, watching over you two, glad you two were well. Though, he needed more. Tom wanted to comfort her, give back to the broken child deep inside of him. He wanted to give her what he didn’t have. A loving family.

“Can I-“ he breathed, hands reaching out, “Can I hold her?”

Your eyes met his, smiling reassuringly at him. “Of course. She has been waiting for you.”

He took her from your arms and almost in an instant, she stopped crying. His eyebrows drew together as he held her, watching his little girl intently. The way he cradled her and calmed her down could have you think he had been doing this for Merlin knows how long. You watched them, a feeling of relief washing over you. Tom had finally overcome his inner demons and both of you knew there was no going back now. After a while she fell asleep as he walked around the room with her, whispering sweet, yet for you inaudible words to her.

“You go to bed. I will stay here with her if that’s alright.”

“That’s totally okay. Thank you for coming back.” You responded, getting up to head to bed.

Tom walked over to you and leaned in for a tender kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You replied with a warm smile and planted a soft kiss on your daughter’s cheek before heading to bed.

He then sat down on the cushioned chair, still holding her close to him. Until the storm was over, he wouldn’t leave her.

The candle on the nightstand flickered steadily, shining a faint light on her sleeping form. For the first time since he had gone out that day, a sense of peace washed over him. The rain and thunders had calmed down after a while, yet he didn’t think of returning to his own bed yet. Tom didn’t only do this for her, no, also for himself. The little boy from the orphanage needed this just as much as she did.

Sometimes she would stir slightly, making soft sounds. Tom would then shush her, tenderly swiping over her soft cheek.

She looked so peaceful like this, and he started telling her stories about his childhood, how he met you, and his plans for the future. His daughter was a big part of his life after all, she deserved to know, even if she couldn’t yet understand the meaning.

“Daddy’s going to become the most respected wizard in the whole world. Everyone will listen to me, and one day, my sweet girl, they are going to follow your commands. You will forever be my little princess. For them, though? You will be the reigning Queen. I will make sure of it.”

He stayed with her until he was on the verge of falling asleep himself, only then carefully laying her into her crib. He placed a light kiss on her forehead before he silently exited the nursery, lying down next to you. For the first time in his life, he fell asleep with a smile plastered on his otherwise emotionless face.

Never would he have thought allowing himself to love such a tiny human would heal parts of his inner child. But it did.

requested by:

@dream-your-own-way @boohbear19

[nepentheansea]

Pacify Her

© nepentheansea all works are my own and contain mature content!

𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ・𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝑷𝒐𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑼𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆

premise: The devil was real, and you were prepared to do anything for him.

pairing: Professor Tom Riddle x Fem!Reader

warnings: dark elements, toxic obsessions, possession (but not the scary supernatural kind) smut (p in v-fingering-etc) tom riddle (his own warning) there is probably a lot more...

wc: 4.2k

a/n: this is beautiful and I don't care if you don't agree. shoutout to @demiguisemoon for keeping me company throughout this ride.

enjoy the playlist that I made for this story!

He never truly knew what you were capable of, or more so what his influence would do to you, and that was the problem. He had completely underestimated you, and that would be not only your downfall, but his as well. Pretty and pliant, that's what you were to him, the perfect match, not only intellectually, but emotionally as well. You suited him. From the moment you stumbled into his compartment on the train, down to the moment that you sat down in front of him, not a word muttered, but yet a conversation was had. You understood him, and quite frankly, he understood you, or so he believed.

No one understood him the way you did, the way that you clung to his every word like gospel. Feeding into his absurdities, but never once looking at him as if he was wrong. You supported him. Truth was you were obsessed. Incomplete and broken without him, much like a wounded bird, someone he could fix, take care of, mould into something he wanted, and you lived for it. Lived for the moments that he taught you, helped you, controlled you. The moments where he needed you and only you. At his beck and call in the late hours of the night, or for the favours that could ultimately get you expelled, for anything he wanted, and you’d do it, obediently. You were his. You belonged to him from the first moment, and though neither of you knew it, he belonged to you. 

“Is this seat taken?” You asked, slipping into the compartment faster than he could respond, but he didn’t. He pulled his nose from the daily prophet to study you. He had never seen you before, which was odd considering you were in his house, the green and silver snake adoring your breast, a Slytherin, and a pretty one at that, an old soul and kindred spirit…of sorts. There was something in the way you looked at him, that dutiful look in your piercing eyes, a look as if you could see into the deepest darkest depths of his soul, something he was certain he had well hidden, and yet what you saw didn’t alarm you. Somehow it didn’t scare him, it intrigued him, you intrigued him. He watched as you slid the door closed behind your back, before sliding into the seat across from him, hands trapped behind your back, and your head cocked to the side as you studied him. The slightest of smiles on your face. He should have known then, known what you would become to him, but he could never have suspected you to be as such.

Frail and malleable, obsessed and devoted, and you were his. His star, his pet, his property. You grew to need him, unable to do without the moments you shared with him. You found yourself lingering in the back of his classes, hoping that he would catch a fleeting glimpse of you, needing you for something, anything, to utilise you, need you. For the moments that he’d call for you in the late hours of the night, for the small favours that could leave you expelled or worse, with the promise that nothing bad was going to happen to you, he wouldn’t let it. The hours that you spent with him, soon turned to days, weeks, stealing away any moment that you could, eager to please, to be close. Somewhere in the dim candle light of his office, stolen glances, gentle touches, words exchanged. Finding yourself desperate for the after hours of study in the library, the ones where you could find him making his way from the restricted section, his pretty nose stuck within the pages of his books. Knowing you were there, dutifully watching him, waiting for the right opportunity to seek him out or for him to call for you. 

Your life had become dull. Classes lacked challenge, you found little to no enjoyment in day to day activities, your friends became distant memories, dramatic, but even your mundane routines lost flavour. All you had was him, and the little periods of time you spent by his side. At his beck and call, seduced by the ways he consumed you. Your mind, your body, and most definitely your tainted soul. He knew it too, knew that he could use you for anything his heart desired, that you would do nothing but obey him, follow blindly if he requested it of you, no questions to be asked. A perfect pawn, follower. The more eager you became, with the incessant need to do more, be more for him, he took to it. Giving you more and more to do. It had soon become a list of tasks, simple favours as he would call it. Hide this, seek out this, do this…And you did, you did all of it. 

Your blood rushed as you closed the office door behind you, back pressed against the firm wood, hands clasped behind you, as your eyes scanned the dimly lit room until you found him. In the centre of the room, sat plainly in his chair, eyes roaming your eager figure. He looked as though he sat on a throne, one of his own creation, his arms extended out on the sides of the chair, comfortable and yet cold, observant. “Did you get it?” was all he said, leaning forward over his desk, the faintest traces of a smile on his face when the stifled giggle of yours fleas from your lips. You held it up, in the palms of your small hands presenting it to him, the book he had sent you to find. Restricted, forbidden even, and you had managed it, with his help of course. “Of course.” you whispered. He beckend you over with the bend of two slender fingers, and you moved on your own volition, approaching him with such eagerness. He took the book from your palms, his fingers ghosting over your soft skin, and you wonder if it was on purpose. “Good girl.” There it was, the praise you strove for, the praise that came from him and him only. The slightest flick of his wand had the door clicking locked, as his eyes came to study you once more. There was a fascination in his gaze, the way his eyes softened to you, desperately trying to hide the hunger that he felt towards you. You had something that he had never quite found in anyone else, something that made him crave you more than he had for anyone else…and there it was, the thought that you were his and only his. 

His eyes left you, meeting the pages of the book you had stolen for him, consuming every word on the stale worn parchment. While he was entranced, devouring the text, you were devouring the sight of him, leaning over the desk, eyes droning over the pages. He was stunning this way. The crease in his brow, eager to learn, and you were right there with him, desperate to know just what held him so captivated, leaning over his desk in hopes of catching the slightest bit of the contraband he had tasked you with stealing, no concern for what could have happened to you if you had been caught. But you knew that somehow, if that had been the case, he would have protected you, always, he would be there. His eyes darted up from the page, a lustful hunger to them, but for you or for the knowledge he had been enthralled with, you weren’t sure. “Look.” he instructs, slumping back in his chair, gesturing to the page, the hints of a smile on his lips. Clasping your hands behind your back, you leaned over the mahogany desk, feeling the hem of your uniform riding up in the back, exposing yourself to him as you did your best to read what was before you, eyes focussing on the text of ancient runes. It wasn’t of much use, you simply couldn’t read it. “I can’t read it, sir.” you mutter, chancing a look back at him. His eyes were shamelessly crawling up the length of your bare legs, and to the swell of your ass. He had looked at you like this before, that strained look in his eyes, like he was in deep thought but those thoughts were ones that he would never quite say aloud, the smallest of smirks on his lips, as he dragged his tongue along them. “I see..” he remarks, slowly pulling his gaze away from your ass, to meet your much more innocent gaze. It was one of his favourite things to do. To teach you, to watch you learn from him. It gave him the sweetest sense of power and meaning. “And what would you have me do about that, darling?” He leaned forward, his eyes cold and narrowed, but that flick of amusement dancing across them.

“Read it to me?” It was a simple request, your voice strong and confident. You wanted to know, wanted him to show you, and he seemed to like the idea. Tom hummed, a sweet sound of satisfaction, as his slender fingers wrapped around your dainty wrist, pulling you down onto his lap, a gesture he had never quite done before. He was confident in his motions, calculated and collected. He knew what he wanted, and that was you. His hands remained on your hips, fingers drumming on your thighs. “Read it to you, hmm?” He hums, delicately brushing a strand of your hair away from your neck, the tips of his fingers ghosting over your throat. Goosebumps lining your skin, while his other hand trailed slowly up your bare thigh. Gentle touches that were purposeful, and well measured. Even in this, he was in control. In control of himself, and of the situation. “How will you ever learn if I just read it to you?” “Teach me then..” you blurt, your voice had never been so soft, so demanding and yet desperate. “Sir..” you add, looking back at him. His thumb had started to draw soft slow patterns on your inner thigh, dangerously close to your cunt. “Teach you….” You could see that he was mulling it over…”teach you…” he cooed in approval, a sinister grin consuming his face. “Very well, darling, teach you, I shall.” He gave a hearty squeeze to your thigh, your breath hitching and your body tensing for a brief moment in his lap, shifting your attention back to his face. Pretending as if he couldn’t see the way your eyes studied him, the way they seemed to have heart shaped iris that were only for him.  

His own gaze was casted past you, eyes scoured the pages before him, looking for something suitable to turn into a lesson. His hands still wandering aimlessly on your skin. “Here…let's start simple…” He leaned back enough, turning to look at you, his breath fanning across your lips from being so close. His eyes trailing up your features until his eyes met yours. “This rune here…” he starts, grasping your jaw with his index and thumb, turning your face, back to the book. “This rune…’othilia’ corresponds to the Latin letter…?” “o.” you state, looking to him for approval, his approval. A soft smile was all he gave you. “And what do you think it means…” His hand, resting under your skirt, had found its way to the crease of your hips and thighs, squeezing at the supple flesh, while his thumb thrummed against your clothed cunt. You found it hard to concentrate, to really look at the shapes on the page, but you had to. “Um…power, wealth?” you tried, letting out a breathy sigh, when his thumb found its way into the damp fabric of your panties, rolling soft circles into your swollen clit. You felt his lips against your ear, your head lulled back against his shoulder. “It means, heritage, possession..” he punctuated the last word with a flick of his thumb, a gesture that had a sweet moan falling from you. With precision he gently rolled his finger over your bud, nipping at your ear with each sweet sound you let out. “Focus….” he coos, drawing your half lidded eyes back to the book. “This one, ‘mannaz’,  tell me its correspondent…” Your mind was muddled. He had pulled the wet fabric away from your cunt, traipsing his slender fingers through your folds, collecting your sweet arousal, teasing your entrance as he waited for your response. “Go on…what is it.?” You hummed softly, searching your mind for what it could possibly be. “Um..it’s ‘m’ the latin ‘m’..” you whimpered, feeling the intrusion of a single digit slipping into your sopping heat. He was rewarding you, with each correct response you gave him. “And what does it mean?” 

You weren’t sure how much of this he really thought you could handle, not with the way that his finger was slowly thrusting in and out of you, his thumb languidly massaging your tender clit. He was watching you, his own gaze lidded, dark. Hungry. He was enjoying this, enjoying the way that he had you, pulling answers from you with simple touches. “Don't make me stop, what does it mean?” he teases, and yet somewhere in the pit of your stomach, you knew that he would. That he would leave you high and dry at a moment's notice. Your eyes had fallen closed, summoning all of your strength to answer him, as he slipped another finger into you, curling them against your sweet spot, just to feel your breath hitch and your body shutter in his grasp. You could feel the way that his cock had hardened beneath you, kept from you by the confines of his trousers, and it did little to help you focus any, it was cruel. “It means…ma-man?” you gasped out, his pace increasing. His lips met the side of your neck, tenderly kissing every bit of exposed skin that he was presented with, careful not to leave a single mark on that delicate skin of yours. “Very good..” he coos, his hot breath felt on your neck and ear. His fingers toyed relentlessly with your aching cunt, his thumb circling your clit gently, and his lips littering chaste kisses to your exposed skin. He had quickly given up on the lesson at hand, now far too consumed in the way that you were writhing happily in his grasp, soft sweet sounds escaping past your lips. Your back arched into him, your head resting on his shoulder as you lost all coherency. Lewd sounds left you like a sinful prayer, trickling past your lips with no real power to stop them. 

You whined, feeling the emptiness in your cunt as he pulled his fingers from you, only to have them brought up to your chapped lips, as he slid not one but both fingers into your mouth, pressing down on the pad of your tongue. A silent order, to taste yourself, to clean up the mess that you had made, and you did without hesitation, closing your lips around them, letting your tongue lap up any and all of the arousal that coated his fingers. He cooed, sweet and simple praises, between delicate chaste kisses to your neck. His free hand wanders the expanse of your neck, down to the top of your blouse, deftly popping the buttons one by one. His touch was featherlight, a mere ghost over your skin, and such a thing allowed for goosebumps to litter your skin. His thumb circles your nipple through your thin bra, smiling against your neck as it perks at his touch. He loved the possession he had over your body, the way you would let him do whatever to it as if it was his own, and you would argue that it was. That it belonged to him, that you belonged to him. 

You weren’t sure when it changed, the suddenness of it all, but you found yourself being gently laid down against the hard polished wood of his desk, your back draping over the materials he had been studying, and your skirt pushed up your waist. His body hovered over yours, his hands gliding up under the blouse that he had worked open, greedily exploring the exposed skin, his head ducked and lips ghosting over the spot his hands had touched mere seconds ago. Your eyes had fallen shut somewhere along the way, relying on your other senses completely. Gentle kisses, soft bites, and languid movements of his tongue as he dragged it up your sternum and neck, taking in the sweet smell and taste of your delicate skin. You arched into his touches, soft sweet sounds escaping you at every one. Each of your senses flooded with nothing but him. His lips were pending over yours, a silent acknowledgement, that everything would be on his terms, and you were okay with it. 

He didn’t bother to kiss you, and you didn’t request it of him either. 

Tom made quick work of removing his trousers, before his hands slid up your thighs, fingers ghosting over your cunt, teasing you just enough to keep you present in the moment. He hooked his fingers over your panties and pulled them aside, the cool air hitting your bare cunt, a soft hiss escaping your lips.  With his free hand, Tom wrapped his slender fingers around your chin, using his index and thumb to pull your face up to his. His eyes were cold, animalistic desire dwelling past the dark shade of brown. He tilted your head down so that you could watch the way his swelling cock slid into your tight cunt, forcing you to understand that he owned you, now in body as well.

Your mouth hung open in a silent gasp, the unrelenting feeling of him stretching you out was nothing shy of pain, but a sweet sweet pleasure. He watched your face, mocking the way you fell silent, with a sly smirk to his perfect lips. He forced you to watch every sinful inch of him disappear deep into your greedy cunt, time and time again. He wanted you to understand, to grasp the claim he had on you. You were being rewarded for your diligence, for your obedience, and he wanted you to know that you were his, only his. No one else could touch you like this, that's what he was saying to you. 

Tom let go of your face, as he gripped your hips, jerking you towards the edge of the table. Your hands fall back to support you, arching your back slightly as you watch him with lidded eyes. As he moved, his pace picking up with each passing moment, you began to lose yourself to the delicious drag of his heavy cock, your sinful mantra of moans and whimpers filling the dark empty spaces of his office. His fingers gripping onto the soft pliable flesh of your thigh and hip was bruising, another simple yet effective reminder of who you belonged to. 

He watched each little tick of your face, each pleasure filled twitch of your lips as you fought off a smile at the feeling of him, taking in each little puff of air that left your parted lips, each pant and moan of satisfaction. He coaxed nothing but the best out of you, building your release at his own desire, his own pace. Your head fell back, your eyes falling closed as you did. You were consumed by the feeling of him and your body was reacting to it in the only way it knew how. 

You felt his hand leave your thigh first, before feeling it wrap around your throat, his long slender fingers wrapping around the curve of your jaw, as he willed you to look at him once more. 

“You keep those pretty little eyes of yours…on me,” he whispered forcefully. There was no room for mistake, you would watch him as he possessed every part of you. He controlled it all, and you’d let him, you’d let him do it forever. 

That's when it all changed. 

He had been sweet seduction, and the thought alone drew you closer….until she came along. Professor. Hawkethorn had never been his match, not the way you were. She didn’t understand him, she didn’t see him for what he truly was. She had fallen trap to his charm, and that was only the surface. You watched it happen, your late night sessions with him faded, he seemingly didn’t need you as much, and he gave not even the slightest inkling why. He said nothing, entertained nothing, did, nothing. His time seemed occupied, but not by you, by her. Selvine Hawkethrone, the new history of magic professor. 

Fine, checkmate. He didn’t want to see you? then you would make him. See you at your fullest, see that you were always there, that you had never left, and more importantly, that you were still very much his to possess. 

He needed to see you, not her. He had no business with her, she wouldn’t do the things that you did for him, you were certain of that. She was only a disruption, a threat to what you guys shared, and she had to go. You wanted to show him your devout loyalty, the extremes that you were willing to go to keep him, to protect him, to *serve* him, and so you would. 

You sat in *his* chair, his office dark and cold, nothing that you minded, as you waited…waited to hear the sound of polished heels clack on in the smooth stone outside the door. You pulse steady as the door opens, a small sliver of light filling the room. 

“Tom?” her soft voice echoed off the shelves of books, as she warily stepped inside. Once the door was shut, you waved your wand lazily, the candles that surrounded his office springing to life with a dull crackle. Her eyes met yours immediately, and they widened almost as if they had seen something they shouldn’t have. She looked fearful. You had a crazed look in your eyes, as you looked over her in silence. She was pathetic, dressed in her best clothes as if she was expecting to meet Professor Riddle, and that's exactly what you had told her, in your little letter. Told her to meet you here, that you desired to see her, all pretending to be your dear dear professor, and she fell for it. Pathetic. 

“You don’t deserve him….” you said, your tone hollow, as you watched her flinch slightly. “Did you really think that he would want you? Send for you? Come on Selvine…you have more sense than that…” you continued, pulling yourself to stand up, walking around the desk, your fingers taunting the flame of the candle. “Professor…you were never going to be his match, his equal…he is destined for great things and you were never going to be the one to help him fulfil that…your just….” You gestured to her with the tip of your wand as if to say something cruel, your face contorted in disgust. “Weak, you're just plain….ordinary…” you said, a mock tone of pity, your face in a frown. 

Selvine said nothing, but reached for her wand slowly, not sure what to expect from you, but you saw it…”ah ah ah, don’t do that..” you warned. You were now pointing your wand directly at her, your grip firm and unwavering. You take a deep breath, tired of this moment…Selvine opened her mouth to say something but you were quick to silence her, ”Save it professor, you shouldn’t touch things that aren’t yours.” 

You flicked your wrist and a green jet of light bursted out of the tip of your wand without remorse. You watched with glassy, transfixed eyes as her lifeless body crumbled to the floor with a thump. The simple unforgivable curse stealing what small pathetic life she had out of her. She was gone. Dead. you lowered your wand to your side, and stood there, slightly shocked by what you had done. 

Tom had slipped out from a dark corner of his office, one where he had stood, watching the entire thing transpire before his eyes. His cold gaze watching you as he approached. Your eyes snapped up to meet him, startled, and unaware that he had been watching the entire time..but that meant that he had seen it, seen the lengths you would go to just for him. You had used the unforgivable curse, for him, something that you had never done before.  

You felt yourself soften, at his appearance, as he stepped over the lifeless body like it was nothing but scum beneath his foot as he approached you. Gripping your chin like a child as he pulled you to meet his gaze. He almost looked pleased, a small sense of approval in his tepid gaze.  

“You can't tell anyone, Professor, I did this for you...she was a threat, and I took care of it, I killed her for you...for us.” you pleaded softly, scared that you had upset him. 

The darkness he lurked in had always been seductive, and when he held out his hand to guide you, how could you say no. You followed, eyes never leaving his, entranced by the beauty of it all, the beauty of the power and knowledge that he possessed. And he was going to share it all with you. It was then that you knew, the devil was real, and you were prepared to do anything for him. “I won’t tell anyone, it's our little secret.”

[iamgonnagetyouback]

Hiiii! May i have 🍂 Enemies to lover trope with Tom riddle please? (possible hufflepuff reader where she's the opposite of Tom, cheerful, sweet, she's naive, but snaps at him one day because she's tired of him being passive agressive.. if that makes sense) thank you so much my love!

COME TO AN UNDERSTANDING.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ T. RIDDLE

SUMMARY ৎ୭ you finally snap at tom riddle in potions class, tired of his constant belittling—only to find yourself confronted by him afterward. but instead of more cruelty, he offers something unexpected: respect

WARNINGS ಇ. emotional distress, reader overwhelmed A/N ಇ. hey angel ♡ thank you so much for requesting! <3

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 1,137

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A soft sigh escaped your lips as you tucked the letter from your parents into your robes, trying your best to push the weight of its words aside. They meant well, you knew that, but it didn't stop the sting from settling in your chest. Your brother was always the top of his class. We expect nothing less from you.

You bit your lip, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay as you made your way to Potions class. You had always been the type to keep a smile on your face, to greet everyone with a cheerful demeanor—even when things felt overwhelming. But today… today was different.

As you slipped into the classroom, you spotted your potions partner: Tom Riddle. His sharp gaze flickered toward you briefly before returning to the textbook in front of him. His usual cold and indifferent expression never wavered.

Great. Of all days…

Professor Slughorn began the class, instructing everyone to pair up and begin the day’s assignment—a tricky potion that required precision and teamwork. You glanced at Tom, hoping for some semblance of civility between the two of you. But of course, it didn’t take long before his usual comments began.

“You do know dragon blood isn’t part of this, right?” Tom’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he watched you with narrowed eyes, clearly unimpressed by your every move.

You gave a forced smile, trying to maintain your usual upbeat attitude. “I know that, Tom.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying how much he was getting under your skin. “And those roots—don’t chop them. Crush them. Honestly, do you even pay attention in class, or are you too busy making friends with everyone?”

Your hands trembled as you crushed the roots, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Not today, not today, you chanted in your head, trying to keep calm. But he just kept going.

“I don’t know why Professor Slughorn keeps pairing us together,” Tom muttered. “It’s clear you’re more suited to Herbology than Potions. Or perhaps Charms—something simple enough for a—”

“Enough!” You slammed the pestle down onto the table, your voice shaking with emotion. “I’ve had enough of your stupid comments, Tom!”

"I’ve had enough of you!" you burst out, voice breaking. "I might be cheerful and positive, but that doesn’t mean I’m weak. I’ve been trying my best, and you—" You jabbed a finger at his chest, "you don’t get to tell me what I am!"

Tom blinked, momentarily taken aback. It was rare for anyone to stand up to him, let alone you—the ever-smiling, ever-naive Hufflepuff. But you weren’t finished.

"You think you know everything, don’t you? You think being cold and calculating makes you superior, but guess what? Being kind takes strength too. And maybe if you weren’t so consumed by your own darkness, you’d see that!"

The room went silent, every student turning to look at you. Even Professor Slughorn paused in his lecture, his eyes wide with surprise. You never yelled. You were the happy, positive one. The sweet Hufflepuff who always had a kind word for everyone. But now, the tears you had been holding back were threatening to spill over.

Tom stared at you, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. But he quickly masked it with his usual disdain.

Without another word, you grabbed your bag and stormed out of the classroom, ignoring the whispers that followed you. The second you were out of sight, you let the tears fall, your pace quickening as you hurried through the empty halls.

You had tried so hard. Your parents' expectations, your constant need to prove yourself, and then Tom—the boy who always seemed to find a way to belittle everything you did. It was too much. You couldn’t take it anymore.

You found yourself in an empty corridor, leaning against the cold stone wall as you tried to steady your breathing. The tears still flowed, but you didn’t care. For once, you let yourself feel the weight of everything.

“Running away isn’t going to fix your mistakes.”

You turned to see Tom standing a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, that same infuriating smirk on his face. How had he found you so quickly?

“Leave me alone, Tom,” you whispered, wiping at your eyes.

“Why should I?” he replied, taking a step closer. “You’re the one who stormed out like a child.”

Your temper flared again, and you shot him a glare. “Because I can’t stand you!” The words came out harsher than you intended, but they were true. “You think you’re better than everyone else. You constantly belittle me, make me feel like I’m useless, and I’m tired of it!”

For the first time, Tom’s smirk faltered. He took another step toward you, his voice quieter this time. “You’re not useless.”

You blinked, surprised by his sudden change in tone. “What?”

Tom’s jaw clenched as if he was struggling with what to say next. “You’re… infuriatingly cheerful, yes. And naive. But…” He paused, his dark eyes locking with yours. “But you’re not useless.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. This was not the Tom Riddle you were used to—the one who constantly mocked you.

“I only criticize you because you could be better,” he continued, his voice low. “You have potential, but you waste it on trivial things.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “So, what? You’ve been insulting me because… you think I have potential?”

Tom let out a frustrated sigh. “You’re not as dull as the rest of them. That’s all I’m saying.”

You stared at him, unsure of how to respond. The tension between the two of you was palpable, the air thick with unspoken emotions. You could still feel the sting of his words from earlier, but there was something else there now—something softer, almost vulnerable.

“Tom…”

Before you could say anything else, he stepped closer, his gaze intense. “I don’t hate you. But your optimism—it’s infuriating.”

You let out a small laugh, despite everything. “I’ve noticed.”

There was a long pause as the two of you stood there, the silence between you heavy but not uncomfortable anymore. Finally, Tom spoke again, his voice softer than before.

“Perhaps… I could tolerate it. Your cheerfulness.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. Was he—was this Tom Riddle trying to make peace with you?

“And maybe,” you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips, “I could tolerate your endless criticisms.”

Tom’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile, and for a moment, you thought you saw a glimmer of something warmer in his cold demeanor.

“Well then,” he said quietly, “it seems we’ve come to an understanding.”

You nodded, the weight on your chest finally lifting just a little. Maybe things between the two of you weren’t so hopeless after all.

©iamgonnagetyouback౨ৎ please refrain from copying, translating, or reposting any of my work

[peachigummi]

bite 𓆚 tom riddle. p1.

summary: dearest tom made a promise to celebrate your birthday, but ends up forgetting. you low key give him the cold shoulder and threaten to break things off.

pairing: tom (if you squint, he's rather sensitive! and insecure!) x fem!slytherin! reader

warnings: nothing too crazy that I can think of. moderate angst. mentions of alcohol, intoxication.

note: reader is almost a like female version Tom in terms of being a brat with feelings. baby nagini appearance! no mention of "y/n", actually just once. indirect mention of Dune by Frank Herbert! (Read Part 2 here!)

word count: 6,554

(trust i will never perfectly proofread my work at this point)

please reblog, like & comment ! my god. ive had major writers block. but hey...please talk to me...tell me how you feel!

You hurriedly made your way down to the dungeons after your last class. You were excited to see Tom. You hadn’t seen him throughout the day and that wasn’t too unusual. Actually it was quite normal, but today was your birthday. 

Over the recent years, the celebrations dwindled for you. There was barely anyone who congratulated you, let alone acknowledged it. Everyone was so engrossed in their own hectic lives, including yourself. There was no place to blame. It was something you cared less and less about. 

Although, this year would be different, you had Tom. You had someone! You had been together for a handful of months, though it felt much longer than that. It was difficult to tell when it was official, especially with Tom, he never wanted to make it known if it was exclusive or not. He was always hesitant, distant even. 

There was a point where you couldn’t handle the pull and push games, so you would try to move on from him. You quickly found that after you went on dates, the other person would miraculously turn up injured or afraid to approach you the very next day. It was a very stern talk with Tom after that pattern emerged.

It was your first serious relationship, hell it was probably his too. You cared for him, and you were pretty sure he cared about you even if he wasn’t the best at showing it. You would even go so far as to try and even say you loved him. Tom always stopped you from talking about your feelings aloud especially if it pertained to himself. 

You had been studying with Tom on some mundane day when he suddenly asked when your birthday was. You looked curiously at him, no one had asked about it in a long time, but you didn’t hold out on informing him. “Good. Clear your schedule that day. Let’s do something special, just us two. I want to celebrate the day you graced this forsaken planet. I want to do something for you.” That was almost a confession of love from him. You had nearly lunged at him across the table to smother him in kisses. Instead you just nodded and continued on your paper, with a not so subtle smile. 

Ever since that day you felt excitement for your birthday to come. You had your own personal countdown going in your head. 

...

Tom opened the door, you almost could see the faint smile he had, fade. “Oh, hey. What are you doing here?” He starts to close the door, not so subtly. Alarms go off in your head. 

“What?” You place your hand on the door, counteracting his movement. 

He doesn’t even fight it, letting you open it. “Invading my space I see..” He mutters, and takes a slight step back, you see Mattheo and Draco, with what looks like shot cups in their hands. Mattheo raises his other hand to greet you. “Doesn’t matter, we’re about to leave.”

“Oh?” You say dumbfounded. You look around the room subtly, maybe this was an idea of a joke. He was horrible with jokes. You really had expected him to be alone, so you were surprised. You try to shake off the feeling. “Where are you guys off to?” You ask blandly, waving to his younger brother and nodding to Draco.

“Hogsmeade. To drink.” Tom, looks out into the hall before closing the door and facing you.

“Hmm…really?” You walk towards his desk, picking up a random item and just looking at it from different angles. “And the occasion?” You almost rolled your eyes at the item.

Tom eyed your every movement. The corner of his lip twitched, but he maintained his usual bored expression. “Is having a reason a necessity to drink?” 

Draco snorted, “someone’s in a sour mood.”

“Just curious.” You ignore Draco. You hated the feeling you got in your chest. It was as if a cold gust brushed up against your heart, scrunching it into a raisin. There was a pause. “Can I take Nagini out for a walk then?” You ask changing the subject, “you hardly ever let her bask in the sun.”

Tom’s eyes almost softened at the mention of his precious snake. He looked at Mattheo and Draco briefly before returning to look at you, “I suppose. Just be careful and don’t go out too far.” 

You push past Tom to get to the dresser where Nagini’s enclosure was settled on top of. You smile at the rather little but chunky snake. “Hi Nini, let’s get you some fresh air. Just us two.”

Tom couldn’t help but love watching you talk to Nagini in that way, but it irritated the way you emphasized ‘just us two.’ Almost as if you were deliberately pushing him out. It was his snake. 

“C’mon Tom. She’s just taking the snake for a walk. What? Think she’s going to run off with it?” Draco breaks the silence once more. Tom shot Draco a look that made him pour himself another shot and turn his whole body away. Mattheo nearly smacked him.

“Might just.” Your back was still turned towards them. You got on the tips of your toes so you could open up the top of the tank and let Nagini wrap herself around your hand and up your forearm. “Since he’ll be out drinking on no special occasion.” You nearly roll your eyes again, but you do snort.

Clenching his jaw at your snarky comment, the anger began to brew inside Tom. He was about to bite back until he was interrupted by Mattheo. “Alright, we’re going to miss happy hour.” His younger brother put a hand on his shoulder and practically dragged him out of the door. Tom pushed Mattheo’s hand away from him.

“Don’t get into trouble.” Tom turned around, looking at your back.

“Ditto.” You mutter dismissively, not turning to look at them. Your full attention on Nagini, stroking her soft under chin where she liked it the most. Still, your chest ached. You hear the door shut with a bit more force than usual, making you flinch.

While the guys walked to Hogsmeade, Tom’s mind began to race. He couldn’t explain why he felt so irritated at that moment. He suspected it might be because you came barging in and asking too many questions, already seeming accusatory. 

You on the other hand had stayed in Tom’s room for just long enough to make sure you didn't bump into his group while you thought of a route to take Nagini on. 

You sigh, leaving your bag, then walking out the door. You watched as the little snake peered around in the hall curiously, “when was the last time little Tommy fed you?” You ask. “Let’s get you a nice field mouse shall we?” 

Nagini looked up at you, her long tongue flicking. She coiled herself in a way so she would be more comfortable in your arm. She hisses in a way which you assume would be to say ‘thank god someone is going to feed me soon.’

You open your eyes and lean up on your elbows when you hear a rustling. You watch as Nagini makes her way back to you, the blades of grass slightly parting as she comes along. Her middle was much more full than before after her free hunt. “Looks like you got a good one.” You smile when she lifts her head up. You set your hand down so she could climb back up onto you. You sigh. 

Nagini seemed to study your face. As even a snake could tell that you were upset. She flicked her tongue out, giving a soft and sweet little hiss.

“Would it surprise you to know that it’s my birthday?” You ask, petting the top of her head. You noticed a bit of blood on her mouth, with your sleeve you wiped her clean. “Our Tommy said he would plan something for me today. But I guess it was a lie. Or he forgot.” You knew, he wasn’t one to easily forget.

Raising her head slightly, Nagini gazed with a mixture of knowing and sympathy. Especially when you mentioned Tom.

You shrug, looking off into the distance. You were running your finger from the top of her head to her belly. “I mean, I don’t expect anyone to do anything grand…or anything at all. Especially for me, my birthday. But…” Sitting up straight, you take a deeper breath, an attempt to self regulate. “Tom said he had wanted to do something for me, and just poof he forgot it was my birthday.”

Nagini seemed to pick up on the change in your tone. She looked up at you with concern in her little reptile eyes. She let out another soft hiss. Curling up tightly against your wrist like a bracelet, she seemed like she wanted to provide comfort in a way only a serpent was allowed to. 

The sun finally settled and disappeared, “I mean… imagine if I could be like the sun? Disappear for a while.” You shift on your knees and carefully get up. “We should get going, without the sun you’re going to get terribly cold.” You hold open the pocket of your hoodie, carefully inserting your arm inside with her clinging on. You smiled as her head poked out, keeping a watchful eye on you as you walked back into the castle.

...

It got colder as we descended back into the dungeon. You heard familiar laughs and snickers. “Speak of the devil.” You whisper, sticking yourself in a darkened dip in the wall, waiting for the guys to pass.

Tom, Mattheo, and Draco were making their way back to the Slytherin common room after maybe a few too many drinks. They were all laughing and stumbling, holding onto each other for dear life.

They turned down the same hall where you were hiding, you could hear them getting closer. You dared to take a peek, Tom looked somewhat cheerful, happy even. You felt guilty with how much it irritated you. You couldn’t make out the snippets of their conversation, despite how loud they were being. It was much too slurred. You ducked back in the corner, turning your face away from the light so they wouldn't notice you as they passed. Once their footsteps were past you you turned back. Tom movements were replaced with one that is loose, that he rarely lets show, much too fluid. Clearly he was inebriated, not so precise. You watch as they disappear through the Slytherin common room door.

You felt Nagini nibble on your finger, pinching it. You almost let out a sound, silently cursing. You knew the reason why she had done that. She was growing impatient, uncomfortable. “Alright, alright I’ll go now.” As much as you really didn’t want to, Nagini needed to get back to the warmth. You didn’t want to see Tom, not now.

Stubbornly making your way through the same door, you watch as they clumsily go up the stairs to the dormitories. You tensed, sensing how Tom would feel upon noticing that Nagini wasn’t back in her tank yet. What about me? You thought, if he’d even care to notice that too.

You carefully and lightly tapped on his door, not wanting to take him by surprise again. Looking down at Nagini, she barely had her head out of your pocket. One little ember eye, peering back at you. 

The door opened. 

Tom looked at you with an annoyed look, as if he was trying to process your presence. He studied you, not saying anything, taking in the sight. His eyes landed on Nagini’s little head. Tom turned his head to look at the empty tank on his dresser. Seemingly like he totally forgot you had taken her. So unlike his usual self. He turned back to you, his features hardening. 

You didn’t say anything back to him, you only glanced behind him. Mattheo and Draco were near to the point of wrestling to take over Tom’s bed. You barely touch him when you slide into his room. 

Tom didn’t like that you wordlessly walked past him, watching as you pulled Nagini out of your pocket. How you pull open her habitat, how you softly smiled at her as she slithered back down. He felt a mix of annoyance and something else he couldn’t pinpoint. 

“Thanks for listening.” You say to Nagini. She flicked her tongue out, as if saying ‘you’re welcome.’ You watched as she coiled up comfortably under the lamp, settling for a slumber. You turn around, Tom was still standing near the door. “What?” You feign obliviation, “have a nice night out?” You ask him, noticing how he is trying to disregard just how drunk he was. You could tell by how he kept slightly swaying on the balls of his feet. His eyes were slightly glossy.

He smirked, but internally he felt like you were almost accusing him, as if you were challenging him with that question. He didn’t like it. “Nawh da it’ss any of yourp buzzziness, but yes.” His voice came out more slurred than he expected, he shook his dead and tried to really focus on the oncoming ordeal. “I did have a nice night.” He tried again, successfully locking in.

“Ouch, okay then.” You hold your hands up defensively, saying ‘my bad for asking.’ “I had a nice night too. Thank you very much.” You hold back a snort.

“Oh, did you now?” Tom took a step closer to you, not amused by your attitude. “Do, pray tell, what did you do on this ‘nice night’.” His voice began to drip with sarcasm.

He set himself up for this. “Not that it’s any of your damn business.” You copy his own words, but you still respond to his question, “I watched the sunset with Nagini on my birthday.” You cross your arms tightly. In your peripheral vision you saw that Mattheo pushed Draco in a manner to shut up and pay attention. 

Tom’s eyes widened ever so slightly at the mention of your birthday, realizing dawning on his inebriated mind. “It’s your birthday?” he repeated.

“Yes, Sherlock.” You look up at him annoyed.

“You don’t need to be such a smartass.” He looked down at you, amused with how you weren’t afraid of being a bratty with him. Amused, but alas, he didn’t like it. “I knew it was your birthday. I just forgot to mention it. Big deal.”

“Oof.” You dramatically grab at your chest in outward pain, as if you had been impaled, “clearly.” You were actually hurt, irritated with how he turned against his word that he wanted to plan something special. Fucking liar. 

You had cleared yourself of your schedule, of course beside your classes. Tom would never let you miss a single one. You could have attended one of your many clubs. You could have had dinner for one. You could have just spent the day, so much better off than how it was turning out. Day wasted indeed. You would have been much happier even had you both just ended up studying in the library, not acknowledging that it was your birthday. At least then you would have spent it together. Not fighting. 

Tom rolled his eyes at your gesture, “Oh, don’t be like that.” Words coming out a bit sharper than usual. Mattheo and Draco remained silent, eyes bouncing back and forth.

“I’m not, but whatever.” You shoulder bump him a bit roughly this time, walking towards the door.

Tom stumbled a bit as you went by, he was already unsteady by how much alcohol he’d consumed. Scowling he turned, “where do you think you’re going?!” He snapped. 

“To my room, it’s just another day after all, hm? Just any other regular night.” You rolled your eyes despite him not being able to see it, your back was facing towards him. You didn’t dare look back or else you might actually break this careful facade. That it didn’t bother you as much as it really did.

“Oh, so now you’re going to just storm off like a petulant child?” He taunted, his jaw twitching. He wouldn’t admit it ever, but you definitely had a way of getting under his skin.

“Fuck off.” You whisper, grabbing your bag and sling it over your shoulder. “‘Night Draco, Matty.” You say just to point out that they were still there, and that Tom was making a scene in front of them.

Tom’s eyes narrowed as you completely dismissed him, while addressing the other two in the room. It started to crawl up to him, that he was basically being challenged in front of them. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Happy bir-” You heard Draco begin to say, before a muted thump followed. Mattheo had smacked the back of his head, clearly taking his older brother’s side. You ignore Tom’s comment while fighting the urge to just slam the door behind yourself, so instead you carefully clicked it shut.

Tom wasn’t one to chase after someone, but he did debate whether or not to go after you. Though, with his mind and body not being at peak condition, he struggled to make a decision. 

You quickly went down the stairs and up the other side to the girl’s side of the dormitories. Your eyes began to sting. Merlin, why did I bother with Tom? You thought all the way to your room. We were such a weird couple, but he was even more odd by himself.

...

The next morning you headed off to breakfast as soon as you could just to avoid Tom. You went to your usual classes without so much notice, even taking different routes to each. Not wanting to risk bumping into him. 

All that effort just for nothing since you shared the last class with Tom. It was one of the few classes you shared with him throughout the week. It was potions and Tom was your only partner, everyone else was too afraid of him to share the brewing table. But it was their loss, you two were the best in it. You hoped he would ruin his perfect attendance. 

Class had begun and Professor Slughorn looked curiously at the empty spot next to you, but began anyway. The sliver of hope you had dissipated when you heard the door barely creak, virtually unnoticeable to anyone who isn't expecting it. You felt the hair on your arm prick as you continued to stare at the front of the class. It was Tom. Of course it was him. Who else? It was a stupid hope to have. Mr. Perfect. You look down to rearrange your station as Slughorn kept talking. 

Tom made his way over to you, a shadow in the midst of his peers. Tom’s own irritation flared up once more at your sight, acting as if you hadn’t noticed his arrival. He took the spot next to you, his presence ever so looming. “Why are you avoiding me?” he didn’t hesitate to ask, voice low and slightly hoarse from the previous night's drinking.

You didn’t bother to look, nor answer him. You just pull out a vial from your pocket and push it to his side of the table. “Drink it.” You mutter.

Tom hated that you continued to refuse to address him directly. He looked down at the vial, already knowing what it was. Tom begrudgingly snatched it and downed its contents, trying his best to keep a neutral expression. He nearly slammed the empty vial back down.

Despite how pissed you were, you were glad he didn’t question what he just was ordered to drink. You snatched the empty vial back. 

“Mr. Riddle, if you were trying to get answers from a person who is avoiding direct questions, what potion would you make them consume?” Professor Slughorn brought Tom’s attention forward, walking towards our station.

Now that the effects of the hangover subsided, thanks to you, Tom was able to return to his usual razor sharp focus. “Veritaserum, sir. The truth serum.” He replied without missing a beat. 

“Correct. How can one counteract its effects Ms. [Y/L/N]?” Slughorn looked expectantly towards you. 

“Taking an antidote or being a gifted Occlumens.” You curtley answer. 

“Precisely!” He smiled wide, “how many know about Occlumency or Legilimency?” He turned to face the class as a whole. A few of the students raised their hands. Tom, of course, knew about both and was beginning to be well practiced in each, but he chose to not raise his hand. 

Slughorn briefly explained both, before continuing the lesson. “The truth serum can be dangerous if used for the wrong purpose. Not only that! But it takes a month to brew, and it’s critical that the conditions must be right.” He laughed. 

Tom glanced over at you, yet you weren’t giving him the time of day. He wished he didn’t vow to keep himself out of your mind. How ironic that Slughorn would bring up Legilimency. You were the only one who knew he could do it.  He would use it to get to know you better, up until you realized how he was getting the information. 

Tom so badly wanted to use this power at this moment to know how you were feeling. What was keeping you away from him, apart from his fuck up. He hated this. How you were being cold to him. He wanted to see your smile. He wanted to be the reason behind it. 

“For today, I would like each table to develop a potion to your liking that could be an alternative to the antidote to Veritaserum.” Slughorn pulled the chair at his desk so he could sit. “Once you present it to me, you are dismissed from today’s class.”

The class stirred with excitement. It was a rare opportunity to be able to work on their own potions, to experiment, and it was a bonus to be able to leave early.

Tom leaned slightly towards you, his voice low as he spoke. “Ideas?” He already had a couple, but he wanted to hear your voice. To follow your lead.

You closed your eyes briefly upon feeling his warm breath hit the side of your face. You almost hummed. “I don’t suppose you’d be able to sneak a wand in a scenario where you’d be forced into taking Veritaserum.” You began without looking at him so you didn’t notice how Tom’s shoulders slightly relaxed when you answered him. “Maybe something that will cause the same effects as Silencio. Something that could semipermanently shut the user’s mouth, or something to cause them to go mute.” You kept your voice low, it was a habit you two had. You both liked to keep your voices down so others wouldn't be able to follow your lead, to copy you. It almost felt like a regular day. Almost.

Tom raised an eyebrow, impressed by your slightly dark natured suggestion. He nodded, his mind already formulating ideas and ingredients based on your suggestion. “Temporary muteness could be useful. What about something to make their tongue swell? Might be quicker.”

“Quicker? More like risking the user in causing themselves to choke the whole time and eventually asphyxiate by blocking their own airway. So no.” You bent down to get your textbook, you hated using your textbook, usually you’d share Tom’s. He had amazing notes in the margins. Added pages dedicated to things he’d created and discovered by himself. It was incredibly helpful. 

When he saw you open your own textbook, a small, almost unnoticeable smirk played on his lips at this decision of yours. He took his out and pushed yours out of the way. You roll your eyes, but open it up to the page you were looking for, “here this one.” You point at the page, shoving the book back towards him so he wouldn’t have to get in your space again. “Though, I think we can alter it. If you’re going to be in a situation where someone might dose you with Veritaserum…they can’t know that you will try to temper beforehand.” You explain, getting out the appropriate ingredients. 

“Right. Something fast-acting. Imperceptible.” He nodded following where you were going. “Almost like a-”

“Tablet.” You both say in unison, causing you to look up at him before telling your body not to. Your eyes met, Tom’s softened immediately. You looked away, but you did feel the tips of your ears start to heat up. 

“Yes, a tablet form instead of a clunky vial. It only takes a single drop of Veritaserum to work, and that’s a complex potion. So in theory, for something to just make you mute, you need even less of a dose.” You shrug, but it kind of made sense. “Even something small as a sprinkle on a cupcake could work.” You felt like Tom was about to interrupt you, but you didn’t allow it. Remembering a book you read once in which a character had a fake tooth that could release a poisonous gas to assassinate his enemy, if he were ever captured. “Something that the user can bite into at a given time, something that won’t dissolve until that moment.” You finish. 

Tom was lightly drumming his fingers on the tabletop, “we’ll need some sort of binding agent.” You felt him look back at you.

“Yeah, don’t think about it too deeply. It’s kind of like making candy.” You finally say, it shouldn't be too complicated to do. Not at all. “We follow the regular steps, but then yes, add the binding agent at the end. Then figure out the correct dosage and then shape it.”

“We’ll need to test it.” 

“I wouldn’t mind if you took it.” You snort.

“Very funny. You’d enjoy that wouldn’t you.” He grumbled, starting to handle the ingredients. But he actually was always the tester between the two of you. He didn’t dare make you take anything that could possibly make you sick or make you suffer through undesired effects if a potion was made incorrectly. 

You begin to crush and roll some of the ingredients before adding it to the cauldron he had started. You become aware of how some of your peers were looking at you two. You look up, the majority seemed to still be at a loss to find something to brew for the assignment.

“Ignore them.” He muttered, his voice low. You nod, but it wasn’t a new thing. With how fast you and Tom worked, either in ideas or just brewing, people were jealous. 

You conjured what looked like a piping bag, similar to what is used for pastries. “Do you remember what this is?” You dared to look up at Tom as he stirred the cauldron. It was a gamble to remind him of the muggle world.

Only his eyes moved to look over at you, “Of course I know what it is, id-” He almost called you an idiot but stopped himself, remembering how you aren’t on the best terms currently.

Your eyes narrow at him, “Well once the potion is finished, and after you add the binding, pour it in the bag and i’ll do the rest. I have a much steadier hand.”

He was going to challenge you, but it was nearly a fact. He was nearly always buzzing with anger that it minutely affected his movements. You had more of a delicate touch than him. The cauldron began to simmer, the liquid taking on almost a metallic appearance. He whispered something into the cauldron to let it rapidly cool down. He held the cauldron out towards the bag you held, “are you sure?” 

“Pour it, Riddle.” With that, he did. The potion slid down slowly like honey, already coming together.

Professor Slughorn went to your station in curiosity, he didn’t ask anything, just watched. Once Tom pulled the cauldron away, you leaned in to tie the bag off and squeeze its contents towards the narrow end, cutting the tip off with a knife. With a steady hand, you start to make small steady rows on the surface of the work top. You heard Slughorn finally ask what you were doing, Tom briefly explained while you concentrated. 

Tom looked away from Slughorn, watching you with satisfaction.

Since they were so small, the rows dried quickly. Tom handed you a small jar, just as you finished scraping them off the work top. They really did look like silver sprinkles. You gathered and poured them into the jar, returning the lid. Tom took it from your hands, slapped a label and handed it over to the professor. Not before holding a single small tablet, Tom was already anticipating Slughorn’s question if the little wonder worked or not.

You watch as Tom placed the tiny tablet between his front teeth, showing Slughorn and the class, who was now watching, before biting into it and swallowing. He opened his mouth to show it was gone. He made a motion that he cleared his throat, then his lips parted, as if he was explaining something, but not a single sound came out. 

“Fascinating!” Slughorn said excitedly, looking down at his own personal jar Tom had given him, he held it up. “Class! Class!” He turned and explained to the class what you both had done once more. Returning to look at the pair of you, “I have to say, this is certainly ingenious.”

“Thank you professor.” You reply for the both of you. Tom still wouldn’t have said it if he wasn’t under the muted effects.

“You two are free to go off, just clean up yourselves.” He waved off, still saying how amazing it is to himself. You couldn’t help but smile and look at Tom, almost forgetting how mad you were at him.

Tom, on the other hand, began to feel a mix of frustration at his inability to speak. He looked at you with a slight glare, but it lessened when he saw your smile. Tom cleaned the station up with a flick of his wand. Then thought about the way you worked together so effortlessly. He bent down grabbing your bag and handing it to you. Your skin brushed against each other, his cold touch lingered on your skin like a searing burn. A stark contrast. You both went out the door, unsuccessfully avoiding the looks of the remaining classmates who longed to be dismissed early.

The hall was empty, with all the other classes still in session. Tom wanted to say something in the silence, but was forced to simply look at you with mixed emotions. He was leaning against  the wall, arms crossed over his chest as he eyed you. 

You look up at him, “I kind of like this, you all quiet and moody. Instead of being snappy and moody.” You shake your head, “we just had to give away all the tablets we made huh? Shoot.” You snicker, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

He rolled his eyes, letting out a huff of air, mouthing ‘shut up.’ 

“I don’t recall what the recipe said about how long the effects last? A couple of minutes? An hour? Hours? Days? Weeks?” You walk past him.

Tom pushed himself off the wall and followed you. Hating how he couldn't respond to your irritating commentary. You looked at him. ‘Hours.’ You read his lips again.

“Shame.” You respond by climbing up the steps. Your mind went back to last night, and you slowly began to get agitated. You sighed. Despite how badly you wanted to shut down, and shut him out. It was unhealthy to the relationship.

He easily kept his pace next to you, his eyes occasionally glancing at you. He saw the shift in how your body got rigid. Tom knew he needed to apologize, to try and fix the mess he made. He was caught up in his own thinking, his eyes widened when he felt you pull at his robe, guiding him to sit with you at a fountain. 

“I’ll be fully taking advantage of this opportunity that you can’t talk. Okay? Okay.” You took a deep breath. You had to be the bigger person and try to explain your feelings. Why were we so terrible at it? Tom’s jaw clenched, sitting there silently, waiting for you to begin. Trying to steel himself for an expected onslaught. 

“You were a massive jerk last night, Tom.” You say upfront, crossing your own arms. “A complete asshole, especially in front of Mattheo and Draco. This should have stayed private.”

He felt the irritation grow at your straightforwardness, but he appreciated it. He knew you were right, there was not a single thing he did that wasn’t out of line. He shifted uncomfortably, nodding. It was a conversation he couldn’t escape. A conversation that you both needed to have. Tom let out a frustrated breath.

“It was my birthday…” You say it much gentler in contrast. You unfold your arms, reaching one hand down to graze the flowing water of the fountain. “I hate telling people about my birthday, because I don’t think it's something that should be celebrated.” You felt your chest ache again. 

Tom’s own heart sank, no it is something to be celebrated. He wanted to say. 

“You said you wanted to do something, just us two.” You continued playing with the water. “I was looking forward to it for once.” You felt Tom shift, you saw him carefully gripping the edge of the fountain tightly. He wanted to desperately reach out to you, but he resisted.

“So when I…when I went up to your dorm and saw Mattheo and Draco there…or how you were surprised to see me or saying that it didn’t matter…that despite there being no occasion, you were going to get shit faced..” You rambled, unsure if you were making any sense at your recollection of the events. You stole a glance at him before turning back to look at the water. “It hurt my feelings.”

The guilt was starting to take a hold of Tom, his breathing became ragged, he desperately wanted to say something. He opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. But what could he say to you? No one ever celebrated his birthday. Though he didn't care about it.

“But it felt even worse…hearing you say that you did know it was my birthday, but that you just forgot to mention it.” You snort, “like it was just some other day. Some regular day.” You hate that your voice almost betrayed you by cracking. “I mean…it kind of is.. Nothing really to celebrate..but still.. I told you about it Tom. You gave me your empty words.”

That hit him like a ton of bricks. He really had brushed aside your special day. He wanted to say it was a mistake, that it didn’t really mean anything with his intoxicated state. But he couldn't even convince himself, so how would he convince you? Tom stared at his own hands, his knuckles white from gripping the edge. 

“So..yeah..you jerk..” You take a few deep breaths, closing your eyes. An attempt to get yourself together. You look up at him, you pull your hand out of the water and flick him with the droplets. “Also feed Nagini some more, I took her to hunt for field mice but she ended up taking a bird I think. Her belly was huge.”

He gave you a confused look when you also brought up his dear snake, wiping the water off his face. 

“So now that I got that off my chest, I wish you could say something back.” You confess. “It’s kind of awkward just having you be brooding there.”

Tom’s mouth opened once more, thinking sheer willpower will counteract the effects of the pill he took. He wanted to apologize, to explain himself, to make you understand his stupid, stubborn, and selfish mindset. He hated this feeling…the feeling of having no control. He hurt you.

“Maybe we…we should maybe take a..” I lingered on the thought.

Tom knew what you were going to say, and he didn’t like it. The idea of taking a break, of giving you space, made his heart twist with dread. He didn’t know if it was truly a break or something definite. Tom couldn’t risk being without you, not now, not ever. But he knew that you needed space to process your feelings. He had no other choice but to stare at you.

You finally looked at him, he just sat there, his expression giving nothing away. Making it hard to tell what he was thinking. He was always so goddamn blank. Cold. He was a shell of a person sometimes but - “God Tom, I know you can’t talk but…but show me something..anything..” Your voice finally broke. “Hug me, touch me.. At least try and reach out to me..” You pleaded.

His eyes rounded at the sound of your voice, the raw vulnerability in it. He scooted closer to you, his body tense. He didn’t want to hurt you further. Tom hesitantly reached out his hand, his fingers trembling with built up emotion. He tentatively touched your shoulder, patting it awkwardly. As if he was a stranger asking her to move over. 

Your eyes fluttered at his touch, you looked at the point of impact. You’ve been together for how long now? And this was all you got when you tried to bring up the idea of taking a break. A hesitant touch. As if you were going to shatter, break even further. It irritated you, knowing Tom wouldn’t have done it if you hadn't asked him to. The idea hurt. He definitely would have just stayed gripping the stone if you didn’t call him out on his behavior. “Tom…” You whimpered.

Tom’s heart sank even further at the sound that came out of your mouth. The raw pain cutting through his exterior. Why had he needed to be prompted to show kindness, especially to you? His fingers finally gripped your arm, his touch becoming more possessive, as if pleading with you to not distance yourself from him.

The sounds of footsteps, creaking doors, laughter, and sighs began to erupt. The sounds of classes being dismissed for the day. Tom immediately reacted by pulling his hand away because God forbid him being caught in public showing any minute sign of affection. His hand was back at his side in a millisecond. His usual emotionless expression firmly in place as he avoided looking at you. He couldn’t face you.

The reaction made your heart cease to exist. You shook your head, getting up quietly yet swiftly, rushing in the direction of the dungeons. Leaving Tom at the fountain. You disappear with the rush of students who were thrilled to start their weekend plans. Everyone was too excited to notice the tears rolling down your cheeks at a rapid pace.

Tom had cracked his neck to watch you for as long as he could, his own heart heavy. His feet were like lead, completely rooting him in place. All he could do was sit there, feeling the weight of his stupidity. 

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

The dark lords Nanny- Tom Riddle x reader- Part 3

5 months since the last update....woof

summary; You're the dark lords nanny for his only son Mattheo, a few months have passed and WOW is this kid attached to you. what is a dark lord to do!?

P1 P2 P4 P5

 =

Two and a half months passed since taking the nanny job, and it was still pretty easy, Mattheo didn’t cause any major fuss-other than when someone took care of him on your Tuesdays off; crying the whole time until you returned to take him and he would instantly calm down.

“You know you make it very difficult to have days off, little lord.” You chuckled quietly as Mattheo cooed at you, staring right at you as the temp nanny left the manor, a bit frazzled after dealing with Mattheo’s fussing-which included using his growing magic to make things fly around and sometimes break because his favorite person wasn’t with him.

You sighed softly as Mattheo kept staring at you, looking at the clock-just about time for dinner. “Okay bud, let's go get you fed.” You murmured, turning on your heel to get his bottle. Mattheo rested his head on your shoulder as you worked, watching intently with his fist in his mouth while you fixed up a bottle and then capped it.

“There we go,” you mumbled softly, positioning him correctly and giving him the bottle-Mattheo quite happy to be fed, and he settled quickly, nearly falling asleep as he ate.

“Why does he make a fuss every time you attempt to leave him with another?” you jolted as you heard the lord's voice from behind-turning to see him lingering in the doorway of the nursery. You cleared your throat, looking back at Mattheo, who was very content now, his eyelids slowly lowering as he ate.

“I suppose babies can be picky with their people, I’m the longest nanny he’s had, correct?” you said, half asking the lord even though you knew you were right. He nodded, staring at you intently. “It makes sense he’s a bit, attached then, as I’m the person who's stuck around him the longest. Babies will usually cling to something or someone constant, familiar. It’s not irregular for them to pick someone above the rest.” You explained and the lord slowly nodded, his eyes flickering between you and his son.

“Perhaps it would be helpful for those who take care of him on your days off to visit more often,” The lord drawled slowly, not a terrible suggestion but for some reason it made you…feel possessive of the sweet boy in your arms, whose eyes had fluttered closed by now, finished eating his meal.

“I suppose that would be helpful for my days off, so he’s not fighting the temps,” you murmured softly, adjusting Mattheo so he was against your shoulder, his head heavy against your neck as you set the bottle down and tapped your wand on it, letting it clean itself.

The lord hummed, his eyes on you again before he slowly nodded. “I’ll see to it they’re here more frequently, possibly allow you more days off as well-weekends maybe.” The lord muttered before he turned on his heel-his cloak billowing behind him as he went back to his office just down the hallway.

You sighed softly, pushing your tongue into your cheek.

Mattheo was gonna hate this.

-

Mattheo did indeed hate that the temp nannies that usually only came in every other Tuesday were now coming every few days-he hated it hated it. Almost as soon as he saw them, he’d start crying and cling to your shirt, his sweet face turning red as he protested about anyone other than his favorite person taking care of him.

“Kid, please,” you groaned lowly, trying to get him to let go of your hair but he was holding tightly-screaming his head off as one of the temp nannies tried to gently pry him from you. “this isn’t gonna work,” you said with a groan and the nanny agreed with a wince, allowing Mattheo to cling back onto you and his cries went quiet, save for a few sniffles and hiccups.

“What is all this noise?” The lord drawled, his face set into a stern glare as he entered the nursery.

“The young lord hates us, my lord,” The two nannies who’d been training to take care of Mattheo more often bowed their heads. “he cries every time we attempt to take him from Ms. (y/n).” he turned to you, raising his brow and you nodded with a tired sigh, Mattheo clinging tight to your shirt and hair-refusing to let go.

The lord furrowed his brow, stepping forward, his day cloak flowing behind him. He reached out and you allowed him to take his son. Mattheo tried to hold onto your hair; but the lord, gently, pried the baby's fist free from your hair. Mattheo frowned up at his father but didn’t scream, unhappy being taken from his favorite person but accepting his fathers hold.

The lord turned, handing Mattheo to one of the temp nannies and he instantly began screaming. The lord frowned, bringing Mattheo back to him, and then attempted to hand him to the other nanny. Mattheo cried again.

“How odd.” The lord murmured, his eyes sparking with curiosity, intrigue. He turned again, handing Mattheo back to you and the baby boy instantly began to snuggle up to you, happiest in your arms. “You two are dismissed for the day. Return tomorrow,” The lord ordered and the two temp nannies nodded and bowed out, leaving you and the lord alone with Mattheo.

“He is curiously attached to you, he didn’t even like his first nanny this much.” The lord murmured, sitting down in the rocking chair next to the crib, his scarlet-brown eyes locked onto Mattheo, who was snug in your arms.

You shrugged, almost helplessly. “I really don’t know why, I mean-kids, especially babies, do tend to latch onto a particular person, especially someone they see the most. But usually those his age don’t have such a…strong reaction.” You murmured, looking down at Mattheo, who was staring right back. He gave a gummy smile-and cooed-his little hand gripping your hair again.

The lord watched the interaction intently, his eyes narrowing in thought. He didn’t speak, leaving you unsure of what he was thinking, he was just…watching you and Mattheo-who was now trying to eat your hair. “oh no,” you murmured, gently prying it out of his slobbery grip and mouth. “hair isn’t for eating little lord.”

The lord stood. “You’ll take the week off, a paid vacation, Mattheo will learn to deal with the other nannies taking care of him.” He said and honestly you couldn’t argue, Mattheo did need to learn that he couldn’t get his way by throwing a tantrum whenever you weren’t the one taking care of him. It was unfair to you and the spare nannies.

“Yes sir,” you said with a nod, looking down at Mattheo-who had no idea what was coming up for him. He was going to hate it. “When would you like me to start?”

“Saturday, you’ll return the next, and resume caring for my son on Sunday.” The lord said and you nodded, bowing to him as he left the nursery.

That left enough time to plan a vacation, maybe you’d visit your parents, or siblings, or perhaps enjoy the countryside. In the meantime, you still had a job to do.

-

Mattheo was already screaming his little head off when you handed him off to the first spare nanny of the week, she winced as she took him-listening to him scream. “Have a good week miss,” The nanny, Sarah, said with a strained smile-you gave her one back, wishing her luck for the two days of her shift, Mary would be the next one and then Emmalie.

“You too, good luck with him.” You said, grabbing your trunk, reaching out to gently take Mattheo’s chubby hand as he reached towards you, crocodile tears running down his pudgy cheeks. “you be good little lord, the quicker you stop fighting this the sooner I can come back,” you said but being only 4ish months old, Mattheo didn’t understand and tried to transfer himself back to you. you smiled softly and stepped back before he could; leaving the property and apparating to the hotel you had gotten for your vacation.

You checked in and went to your room, setting your luggage on the large bed, looking around and nodding. Yes, this would do quite nicely.

-

 Your week was spent eating out at cozy restaurants, enjoying the room service the hotel provided, swimming in the hotel pool, sleeping in every morning and staying up late every night, not having to worry about taking care of anyone else but yourself, and being paid for it!

But all vacations had to come to an end, so Saturday you checked out of the hotel and went straight back to the manor, quietly stepping inside-not announcing your presence so Mattheo didn’t start screaming, just in case.

“Nanny (y/n) you are backs,” the head house elf, Minnie, said, looking up at you with her big grey/brown eyes as she popped in front of you. You nodded, thanking the house elf as she took your luggage.

“I am, how’s the house been?” you asked and Minnie grimaced, hiding the expression quickly. You winced. “That bad?”

“The young masters has been…fightings the other nannies, and the master has been temperamental’s. Mattheo’s will be’s happy to see you’s nanny (y/n).” Minnie said and you sighed, running your hand over your neck, heading straight for the nursery. You weren’t supposed to get back to work till tomorrow but Mattheo was probably on a hunger strike right now.

Only 4 months old and already protesting.

You opened the door and instantly you were met by crying from Mattheo, an exhausted and exasperated nanny trying to hush the baby boy. “Please young master, your father will be extremely upset if he hears you again!” the nanny, Emmalie, said, trying to soothe Mattheo who looked upset in more than one way.

You sighed, stepping forward, arms out. “Hand him over Emmalie,” you murmured and she sagged with relief as she turned-quickly transferring Mattheo to your arms and he continued to cry for a few seconds, then opened his eyes-seeing you, and buried his face in your upper chest, crying more. “…I’m never going to get another vacation, am i?” you sighed and Emmalie gave a weary smile.

She gave you the run-down of what happened and Mattheo, through the whole week, had refused to settle, and half the time refused to eat, to the point where the lord kept having to get involved because he was the only other one Mattheo would listen to-the nannies had run themselves dry trying to calm the young lord.

Yet now, he was calming, still crying but calming down-clinging to you like you were his lifeline. “Has he eaten today?” you asked-furrowing your brows as Emmalie shook her head. “Okay, I’ll feed him, you go report to the lord and go home, you look like you need a nap.” You said softly, and Emmalie didn’t even bother to argue, heading straight off to go see the lord.

You sighed, looking down at Mattheo-he was a mess, snot and tears staining his face, looking very hungry and upset. “Let’s get you fed little lord.” You murmured, kissing his forehead and getting to work.

After a while, you and Mattheo were graced with the presence of the lord, who stepped into the nursery with a look of confusion and a bit of concern, then he relaxed seeing you holding Mattheo-who was falling asleep after eating and getting bathed and fed. “ah, that’s why the wailing stopped.” The lord drawled, crossing his arms as you let out a soft huff of amusement, settling Mattheo into his crib.

“Yes, I apologize that he’s been so…rough while I was gone,” you said with a bow of your head and the lord let out a low sigh, looking tired. “It is not your fault, I underestimated how…attached he is.” He muttered, stepping closer to the crib to look down at Mattheo beside you. you slowly nodded, your hands resting on the edge of the crib, watching Mattheo fall asleep. “did you enjoy your week off?”

The lord suddenly asked and you nodded. “I did, very much sir, thank you.” you said softly and the lord nodded, stepping back.

“Good. We’ll have to figure out another solution to this problem, it doesn’t bode well that he refuses to let anyone but you and I care for him.” You slowly nodded, agreeing. “In the meantime, you’ll be his sole caretaker, until I can find someone he accepts.” The lord said, staring down at Mattheo again before stepping back. “You’ll help me interview, starting next week. Goodnight, (y/n).” The lord said and you returned his words, watching him leave the nursery before looking back down at Mattheo.

“You better behave little lord, I’m your nanny, not your mom.” You whispered, brushing your finger over his chubby cheek. Though deep down, you denied the wish that he was yours.

-end of p3-

taglist! sorry for taking so long!

@helendeath @bunny24sstuff @death-be4-decaf

@lynbubble @chimchoom @lanalanalanasworld

@undecided-simp

[mrsriddles-blog]

His Obsession | T.R

Pairing: Slytherin Fem Reader X Tom Riddle

WC: 8.4k

Warnings/Notes: Mild language, smut, stalking, breeding kink, obsessed Tom, CNC?, pregnancy, etc.

Summary: You happen to have a so-not-secretive stalker who’s taken on an obsession with you…

You are an obsession (you are an obsession)

I cannot sleep (I cannot sleep)

I am a possession (I am your possession)

Unopened at your feet

There's no balance (there is no balance)

No equality (no equality)

Be still, I will not accept defeat (be still, I will not accept defeat)

He stood in the corner of the dorm, one that wasn't his own, but yours. He snuck in after he was sure you had fallen asleep. This was the first time he had gone as far as to sneaking in your dorm—at least while you were in it.

You had kicked most of the blankets off so that they laid at the end of your bed. There was a thin sheet that covered one of your legs, but the other laid on top of the sheet. The moonlight lit the room perfectly so that he could see you.

You wore a white tank top with black lace underwear. His eyes were still on your face, peaceful as you slept. Your eyelashes were against your cheeks, your plump lips parted as your breathed softly, unaware of the watching eyes on you.

His eyes trailed down the column of your throat, a place he has imagined his lips and hands many times. It was slender...and untouched. He wanted to touch it...mark it and make it pretty. He wanted everyone to see that you were claimed, that you were his.

His eyes fall lower, onto your chest. Your nipples had pebbled against the thin cotton and he took in a stuttered breath. Your breasts were spilling out the top as well, the tank top a few sizes too small, but clearly this was a comfort top of yours.

He noticed the tank top had ridden up, revealing the soft skin of your belly. He takes in a deep breath as he imagined it swollen with his child. He notes the soft curves that lead to the dip to your wide hips. He burns it into his memory.

You stir a bit, but you simply roll over. His eyes fall on your ass, big and round and perfectly accentuated by the black lace. His eyes roam over your thick thighs, noting the soft bare skin. You stir again, forcing yourself to keep your eyes closed as you feign sleep.

Someone was here.

You could feel it. You weren't necessarily scared, maybe slightly alarmed, but you had a feeling you knew exactly whom it was.

You were well aware of your stalker around the school. Tom Riddle thought he was subtle and secretive of the way he watched and followed you. But, you caught on. He's was quite obvious after all. But, instead of confronting him about his staring and following...you let it continue. You loved it.

You loved to egg him on. You moan softly as you slowly sit up, rubbing your eyes. Tom had grown tense where he stood, hoping to god you didn't look to much into the shadows.

"Bloody hell, it's so hot." You mutter to yourself.

It was actually quite nice in the room, but you decided you wanted to tease him. Maybe he'd come out of the shadows tonight and play.

You pull the tank top off, tossing it on the floor before lying back. You turn on your side, closing your eyes as you felt his eyes burn into you.

He stared at your breasts, the pebbled nipples that seemingly called out to him. He needed to leave before he lost control. But, he knew he needed to wait until you fell asleep.

I will have you, yes, I will have you

I will find a way, and I will have you

Like a butterfly, a wild butterfly

I will collect you and capture you

Just as he thought you had fallen asleep, you moan in annoyance again. He stands up straighter from where he had leaned against the wall. You sit up, propping yourself against the headboard.

You could feel the change in the air. You could feel his nerves. You knew exactly what he was thinking. You knew he was waiting until you fell asleep to leave, but you weren't ready for him to leave. You wanted him to play with you.

You trail a hand down the valley of your breasts, across your stomach before slowly sliding your hand down your panties. You moan softly, rubbing the sensitive ball of nerves.

He had grown even harder as he watched you play with yourself and he clenched his jaw, clenching his fists in his pockets as he fought the urge to go to you—to claim you.

You take your panties off, now frustrated they were in the way. You toss them on the floor, in the direction of where he stood. He looks down to where they have landed, right in front of him. He leans down slowly as he keeps his eyes on you as he grabs them. He stands, feeling the wetness on them.

Your breaths became faster as you got closer to reaching your high. You curl your fingers, hitting a spot you were unaware of—one that sent your eyes rolling back as you moaned out loud as you came.

You fell back against your bed, unconscious from the pleasure. You had always been quite sensitive to pleasure, only touching yourself twice before tonight. You were a virgin and didn't even know what pleasure could really be.

Tom was awed with how you came apart. Now, he wished he was above you so that he could be fucking you, making you feel pleasure, but so he could see you unravel.

You were beautiful.

He steps closer to the bed, knowing how risky it was, yet he felt like he couldn't leave without doing this. He cups your cheek, gently tracing your bottom lip. You moan softly, your lips parting. He gently sticks his thumb in your mouth, your lips wrapping around it as you sucked on it slowly before your mouth barely opened.

He pulled his thumb back, a trail of salvia left in its wake. He groans softly as he sucks the thumb you just had. He traces a hand down the column of your neck, down the valley of your breasts, over your belly before reaching where your hand laid limp between your legs. Two of your fingers glistened with your release and he gently grabbed your wrist, taking your two fingers in his mouth.

His eyes flutter closed, tasting your sweet release blossom over his taste buds. A taste he knew he was forever going to be addicted to. He lets your fingers free from his mouth, before disappearing to your attached bathroom. He grabs a rag, wetting it before going to carefully and gently clean you up.

He went back to the bathroom, putting it in the bin. He got to the doorway as he hears your soft moan. He sees you slowly sitting up. You found yourself wanting to touch yourself again, now wanting his touch.

He watches your fingers delve back between your wet folds. He bites his lip, watching you from a different angle, one where he saw your glistening folds from the pale moonlight.

"Oh god." You moan, your eyes squeezing shut.

He smirks, loving how sensitive you were. He couldn't wait until he got to experience your sensitivity with you. He could already imagine you getting all sensitive and worked up over it.

"T-Tom." You moan, not meaning to, but now you imagined it was him touching you.

His lips part in surprise as he watches you. It wasn't long before you were falling apart, realizing you moaned his name. You weren't embarrassed long as you passed out once again. He grabbed the rag, cleaning you once more and sucking on your fingers to experience your heavenly taste.

You are an obsession, you're my obsession

Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?

You are an obsession, you're my obsession

Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?

You awake to your alarm this time, naked and a bit sore down there from your activities late last night. You smile slightly, knowing he cleaned you up both times. You stand and get dressed in your white button up blouse, grimacing slightly.

Your family wasn't poor, but they also weren't rich. You were lucky to get your books for the year. Buying new clothes was a speciality in your household. So, the blouse was a bit small and couldn't be buttoned all the way. This one was the blouse you tried your best not to wear because it was buttoned right at your breasts. So, anyone could see your breasts that were beautifully accentuated by your lace bra. Thankfully, they couldn't see the bra.

Your blouse hasn't gotten that small just yet. You pull on your "school girl" skirt, another thing you didn't like to wear often as you rather wear you black ones that fit just right. Your "school girl" skirt was short and you were lucky if you didn't flash anyone if you bent over too much.

It was a green plaid style though, suiting your house colors which you liked. You pull on your white knee socks and your black Mary-Janes. You brushed your hair before you decided to pick up your clothes from last night that you had thrown when you got a little bold.

You found the tank-top, but not the panties. You knew you threw them right in his direction and you realized that he must've taken them. You smile slightly before grabbing your messenger bag. You walk out of your dorm, heading into the Common Room.

Tom sat with his friends where they normally sat. You fought not to make eye contact with him or to stare at him. You could feel his eyes on you though.

His eyes were on the blouse that he knew was a few sizes to small. He clenched his jaw, not happy that other boys would see his girl like this all day. Not to mention the skirt you wore.

"Good morning, Mary-Ellen. Are you ready to head to breakfast?" You ask, a polite smile on your face.

Your friends were already at breakfast, but Mary-Ellen was a first-year that you had taken under your wing. She was more advanced than most in her year, and she was a year younger than everyone, but everyone bullied her. Until you stepped in and now you protected her.

"I'm not really hungry today." She mumbles sadly, laying her head down on her arms that were folded on the table.

You frown, taking a seat across from her. You quietly cursed her brother, Avery—one of Tom's friends—who acted as if he had no association with her.

"What's going on, Mary-Ellen?" You question.

"I don't wanna talk about it." She grumbles.

"Mary-Ellen, we agreed that 'wanna' isn't a very polite word. We also agreed that we don't keep secrets from each other. Now, tell me what is bothering you. I'm sure we can fix it." You say, smiling softly at her.

"Avery, are you ever going to treat that little sister of yours, right? She truly thinks you hate her." Lestrange mumbles, watching the interaction between you and Mary-Ellen.

"No one would judge either. Your smart. No wonder she's smart." Abraxas says.

Avery looks at Tom who was already looking at him. He raises his eyebrows before rolling his eyes.

"Avery, she's your sister. Treat her like one rather than icing her out because you're embarrassed she has more brains than you." Tom says.

"There's this boy who keeps picking on me." Mary-Ellen murmurs.

"A boy? Who is this boy?" You ask.

"Someone." She mumbles.

"Mary-Ellen." You warn sharply.

"It's Samuel." She mumbles.

"And what is Samuel doing?" You question.

"It started with him throwing pebbles at me, then taking my school stuff and holding it away from me...but now he keeps trying to lift my skirt up randomly. He also keeps telling everyone we are dating and we had snogged in a broom closet." She exclaims upset, tears welling in her eyes.

Avery's jaw clenched, his eyes going to the doorway where Samuel so happened to enter. You happened to notice as well, Tom putting a hand out to stop Avery.

"Samuel! Come here, please." You call.

"Yes, Miss. Y/l/n?" He questions.

"I want to know why you are picking on, Mary-Ellen." You say expectantly.

"What are you talking about?" He lies.

"Samuel, please do not lie to my face. I don't like it and it's disrespectful. Be honest, so that we can properly figure this out. I've heard you've thrown pebbles at her, taken her school books to tease her, and then you're trying to lift her skirt. Not to mention you are spreading false rumors around the school. Do you know how rude that is? How do you think all of this has made Mary-Ellen feel? Do you know how much trouble you'll get in if this reaches a Professor or the Headmaster? This isn't okay behavior." You scold.

"I just wanted her attention." He mumbles.

"Samuel, whether you wanted her attention or not, that wasn't an appropriate way of gaining it. You've really upset Mary-Ellen. I hope you haven't done this to other girls either. It isn't polite. It is rude and disrespectful. If you wanted her attention, alls you had to do was approach her and talk to her. You didn't have to tease her, lie about her and harass her. I think you owe someone an apology." You say.

"Mary-Ellen, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was hurting your feelings. I promise I'll stop. I'll tell everyone it was just a rumor. I just really wanted your attention...I think your really pretty and I got really nervous about talking to you." He admits, his cheeks flushing red.

"It's okay, Samuel. Just don't do it again or I might have to hex you." She teases.

You smile, watching the two who ultimately end up going to breakfast together. You look at the time and know you won't have time for breakfast. You stand swiftly, smoothing your skirt out before leaving the Common Room.

Tom dismissed himself from his friends, following you from a distance. He was confused, noticing you were taking a different route. You stop in the middle of a corridor, feeling him following you—watching you.

"I can feel you following me and watching me." You say softly.

He stays in the shadows, watching you with curiosity. You smile, looking down at the ground.

"Maybe next time you'll play too? I could feel you watching me last night when I played with myself...and this morning my favorite pair of panties were gone." You say softly.

He swallows hard, a tent appearing his pants. You offered an invite for him to play with you. Not to mention, you were well aware of his eyes on you last night and you simply played with yourself before his eyes.

You carry on walking, aware he was following you still. You reach your class, slipping inside and hoped he'd make it to his class on time.

He did, per usual. He was waiting for Potions, where he hurriedly rushed to before leaving a note on your desk. He walked out and found Abraxas. He walked in with Abraxas to see you at your desk reading the note.

My Obsession,

Are you daring the devil to play? Naughty girl. You knew I was watching all along. If I had known, I would of feasted upon your heavenly taste between your legs. I might have snuck a taste from your fingers, a new addiction of mine. You can have your black panties back once I've claimed you as mine.

You smile slightly, noting how he knew he was obsessed with you and not to mention he tasted you. Your cheeks flushed red at the thought of his mouth around your fingers. You tuck the letter away before the Professor began to assign groups. He apparently decided to switch it up and do boy-girl and to try and have people work with people they normally don't.

You were partnered with a Gryffindor boy, your work station in front of Tom's and his partner who was a Slytherin girl you've seen sometimes.

"So, Y/n...are you single?" Leon asks.

"Yes...but I'm not actively looking for a relationship. Sorry." You say distractedly.

Tom sat behind you, glaring at Leon. He knew he hadn't claimed you just yet, but he was sure it was quite obvious he liked you. He was satisfied with your answer though which made him feel a tad bit better, but he was still pretty pissed off.

"Can I ask why you aren't looking for a relationship?" He asks.

"I'm not so sure it necessarily pertains to you. Sorry, but I just don't understand why your pushing the matter more than it needs." You say softly, not wanting to come off as rude.

"I'm interested in you. Your a nice girl who's smart and who's apparently not looking for a relationship." He says.

"I've got my eyes set on someone already." You say.

"In that case, I'm sorry. I should have known. It's quite obvious." He says.

"What? What's quite obvious?" You ask, turning your full attention to him.

His eyes fall on your chest, before you cleared your throat and he looked up.

"It's just...Riddle is always around you no matter where at." He says.

"Oh, he and I aren't together." You say, smiling like a lovesick fool as you turn back towards the cauldron.

"I never said you both were together. I just meant it's quite obvious you both like each other." He says.

You stay quiet, surprised he'd say that. You finish up the potion, waiting until Professor Slughorn could come over.

"Brilliant! As always!" He praises, putting a hand on your back as he looks at the potion.

"Thank you, Professor." You murmur, your cheeks flushing red.

"Of course. You go on and take a seat. Leon, you clean all of this up." He says before walking away.

Class was over not before long and you stand, grabbing your bag before you quickly hurry away. You could hear Tom trying to get through the crowd of people, sensing his growing annoyance as he tried to catch up with you.

You smile slightly, ducking down another hallway, before taking a different way to the Great Hall. You find your normal seat, getting sucked into a conversation either Katherine and Mirabelle.

"He's staring again." Katherine whispers with a smirk.

"When isn't he?" You chide, smiling back at her.

"I bet if you got up right now, he'd follow you." Mirabelle said.

"He probably would. I have finished my dinner, so maybe I'll test the theory. Once I get to the door I'll turn back and wave to you two. How's that?" You suggest.

"Go." Katherine urges excitedly.

You stand, smoothing out your skirt before making any other move. You shuffle down the bench so you wouldn't have to climb over it and risk flashing someone. You start to walk to the doors, pausing before turning back to wave to the girls who wave and send you kisses. Tom had stopped all movements and stood there waiting for you to walk out of the Great Hall.

You walk out, ducking into a dark corner. You see him step out, looking up and down the hallway. He curses before walking right past you. You wait until he's gone before going left where you take the long way to the Slytherin Common Room.

You walk in, just as he walked in from the direction of the girls dormitory's. You give him a polite smile, walking past him towards your dorm. The door was partially opened which it wasn't like that earlier today when you left.

I feed you, I drink you by day and night

I need you, I need you by sun and candlelight

You protest, you want to be

Safe, oh, there's no alternative (there's no alternative)

He stood in the corner of your dorm again and he watched as you slept soundly. Tonight, it was rather hot in the dorm, so you were in a tank top that had ridden up just below your breasts and another pair of lace panties, this time dark green.

The blankets had been kicked to the floor long ago and he was running his eyes along you almost continuously, trying to burn your soft curves into his memory. You moan as your eyes flutter open.

You could feel him again.

You slide the tank top off, throwing it in the direction you knew he would be. You shimmy your panties down your legs, tossing those in his direction as well.

They hit him in the chest, and he caught it effortlessly. You smile inwardly as you didn't hear them hit the floor. You gasp as a bundle of silk is thrown onto your bed. You grab the little note and open it.

My Obsession,

Put this around your eyes as a blindfold, then I'll come play with you.

You set the note on your end table, excitement coursing through you as you lightly trace the silk. You were dripping between you legs at this point, but nonetheless, you put the blindfold on.

Tom steps out of the shadows, walking around the room slowly. You let a shaky breath out, your ears straining to hear his soft footsteps. He stops at the end of your bed before he slowly climbs up. You let another shaky breath out as you feel him getting closer and closer to you until your breaths were mixing together.

His hand caresses your cheek, before kissing you softly. You hum softly, kissing him back. You gasp as your hands are pinned above your head against the headboard. He ties them there before his lips were back on yours.

His hand slides from your cheek to your jaw to your throat. He gives it a little squeeze, feeling your body jump from surprise. You relax and he smirks.

He lets his other hand roam, grabbing a handful of your breast, a moan eliciting from you. He pulls his lips from you before his hands trace over the rest of your curves. He moves your thighs further apart before kneeling between your parted thighs. He breathes in deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as your sweet smell of arousal.

"Please." You plead, opening your thighs wider.

He smirks, before his head was burying itself between your thighs, feasting upon your mound. You moan, your legs moving over his shoulders. You tug at your wrists, hoping to free them. You could feel the knot building in your stomach already.

His tongue was sinful and worked meticulously. He dove his long, slender fingers into your dripping cunt repeatedly, the squelching sounds along with your moans and pleads for more filling the room. You tighten around his fingers and he thrusts his fingers a few more times, lifting his head to watch you fall apart. He curls his fingers, watching your mouth fall open, a loud moan coming free as you arch your back, pushing yourself into his hand.

He thrusts his fingers slowly through your orgasm and you fall limp. He smiles, knowing how sensitive you truly are now. He leans down, licking you clean before he sits up and unties the binds on your hands and your eyes.

He moves to the corner of your dorm where he stands as he waits for you to awake. He had a plan, but that went to hell the moment his fingers were buried into your dripping cunt.

Your face appears again, I see the future there

But I see danger, stranger beware

Of circumstances in your naked dreams

Your affection is not what it seems

You were awake, but you hadn't opened your eyes yet. You could feel your hands were free and the blindfold was off, but you found yourself excited yet fearful of opening your eyes. You knew he was there still, but something about his energy right now made you feel off.

"Open your eyes, naughty girl. I know you're awake." He whispers.

You slowly open your eyes, looking at the ceiling before slowly pushing yourself up. You look around, and he steps out which catches your attention.

Tom Riddle, being illuminated by the pale moonlight watched you with a charming smile. You knew it was Tom, but seeing him now kickstarted your nerves.

"Tom." You breathe softly.

"Y/n." He murmurs, stepping forward.

You squeeze your thighs together, feeling your cunt throb as you watch the way he carries himself.

"You've been stalking me." You say softly.

"You've loved it." He points out.

"But I shouldn't have." You admit.

"No, you shouldn't have, but you're a naughty girl. You too have dark desires and wants, don't you?" He asks.

"Y-Yes." You whisper.

"Tell me, what do you want right now?" He asks.

"I...I don't know." You lie, turning your gaze to the end of your bed.

"Don't lie to me or I'll have to punish you. Be honest." He spats.

A part of your brain was screaming at you to run, that this man was dangerous, but another part of you loved the danger. You wanted to be in the presence of this man every waking hour of yours if you could. Your eyes flicker back up to his narrowed ones.

"I want you to claim me." You say softly.

His lips part, surprise etched upon his features only momentarily. His lips were moving to a small smile before he slowly begins to strip off his clothes. You watched intensely, realizing your imaginative brain hardly did any justice for this man.

You are an obsession, you're my obsession

Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?

You are an obsession, your my obsession

Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?

You lay back, a soft breath leaving you as he crawls over you, his eyes slowly taking you in. Your (hair color) was sprawled around majestically, framing your face. Your (eye color) stared up at him, innocence and desire swirling in their depths. Your plump lips were parted, waiting for his next move.

"You are so beautiful." He murmurs, tracing your jawline with his index finger.

"Thank you." You whisper, your nerves bubbling in the pit of your stomach.

"You are mine, Y/n. I don't think you truly realize the severity of that, but you are mine. It's in your best interest to steer clear of any males or I may have to kill them for fraternizing with what's mine. Especially, after tonight." He says, serious and calm.

Your heart raced, your mind and body trying to tell you how dangerous this man is, but you shoved that all away. You focused on him and your excitement, the adrenaline pumping through you and your desire for him.

"What if I just stick by your side after tonight? Or would you think I'm clingy?" You question.

"Never. I want you by my side for the rest of eternity. In the waking hours, I want you with me, but even in the hours of the night I want you by my side." He says.

"Then I'll be by your side." You breathe.

"My obsession." He whispers, sinking his hard cock into you slowly.

Your lips part, as if to say something or maybe to express your pleasure you felt right now, but no sound came out. Your eyes look up into his to see he too felt this amazing feeling you felt. It was heaven. He rocks his hips back and forth, sinking into your tight cunt. You loop your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you.

My fantasy has turned to madness (has turned to madness)

And all my goodness (and all my goodness)

Has turned to badness (has turned to badness)

My need to possess you had consumed my soul

My life is trembling, I have no control

"Tom." You moan, as he sinks the rest of his cock into you.

"Shhh, I know. I know, darling." He murmurs.

"F-Full." You stutter out.

"Shhh, I know. You're doing so well for me right now, darling." He whispers.

"V-Virgin." You whisper.

"I know, I know...I'll be gentle until you tell me you want more." He murmurs.

He thrusts were slow, although a part of him—a messed up, sick part of him—wanted to be fast and rough with you. He wanted your nails digging into his skin, your tears falling down your cheeks, and your cries and blubbering, music to his ears.

However, he knew it'd be painful and no pleasure for you. He wanted you to experience pain, yes, but he wanted it to be pleasurable for you.

He watches your face that was still adjusting to his size. He knew you were a virgin simply from the way you acted. So innocent. Yet, he also has been obsessed with you for years. So, he knew it may take you a bit to adjust to his size. Not only is this your first time, but he is well aware that he is bigger than the average size.

He ducks his head to your neck, leaving little kisses. He left a quick little bite to see your reaction, only to hear your soft moan as you pushed his head closer to your neck.

He left more bites, his tongue soothing over the sting before he left a soft kiss there. He sucked on a spot on the nape of your neck, his teeth nipping at it as he let it go. He left more marks, loving your soft neck covered with his claim.

"Tom, I need more." You breathe.

He leans back, watching your face before pulling his hips back and slamming forward. Your back arches off the bed, a cry of pleasure leaving your lips as your eyes roll back. He places a hand on the headboard in front of him, the other resting beside your head as he thrusted fast and hard into you.

The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoed off the walls, the bed scraping against the floor, your cries and mewls for more were all music to his ears. You tighten around him and he knew you were close.

"T-Tom, if I pass out...keep going. I can still feel it and it's even more heightened." You say, somehow managing to babble it out.

"Of course, darling. It's because you aren't necessarily passed out. You're not necessarily awake, but you're also not asleep. Your body is just overwhelmed from the pleasure." He murmurs.

Your open your mouth to respond as the coil in your stomach comes undone. You cry out, you back arching off the bed against as your nails drag down his back, your eyes squeezing shut in pleasure. He clenched his jaw as you squeeze around him, but he keeps thrusting into you.

You were limp, but his lips part from surprise as little soft moans left your lips. He could feel his own high catching up with him, but he prayed you were awake to see him come undone.

You were slowly coming to, a lot faster than normal, and your eyes flutter open. You could feel your body feeling the pleasure ten times more than it had before you orgasmed. You had no words. You could only moan and cry out for more as you held him closer.

Your eyes were watching how he moved above you. His body was coated in a sheen of sweat just as yours. Everytime he slammed back inside you, the muscles in his arms, abs and chest would clench. His hair was damp, dangling in his dark blue eyes that were watching you. He looked like he could care less from a glance at his face, but in his eyes you could truly see how much this meant to him.

He groans, his face scrunching up as he comes with his last thrust inside of you. Your lips part, no sound passing them as you felt the most amazing feeling ever. He slowly thrusts to ride out his high before pulling out of you. He lays beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist as he kisses your forehead.

He pets your damp hair, thinking about all the things he's wanted with you. Now, he can have them. He glanced at your belly and smiles slightly, imagining it swollen with his heirs.

I will have you, yes, I will have you

I will find a way, and I will have you

Like a butterfly, a wild butterfly

I will collect you and capture you

You had fallen asleep, your hand rested above Tom's heart, your head tucked in the crook of his neck and your legs entangled with his. This...was exactly as he had imagined it.

He found himself dozing off, feeling tired for the first time in a very long time. Tonight would be the best night of sleep he has ever had and he knows it's because he has you. You were the first one awake, but you weren't in any rush to wake Tom up or to move for that matter.

It was Saturday, meaning you both could sleep in late. Even if you both missed breakfast, they'd have lunch or snacks in the Great Hall for anyone.

"You're staring." Tom mumbles, his eyes still closed.

"You're handsome, how could I not?" You ask, a soft smile on your lips.

His lips twitch before they were tilting up. He opens his eyes, looking over you lazily from where you were now sitting up next to him.

"You look stunning in the mornings too." He breathes, almost like he was in shock.

"Oh stop it." You mumble, your cheeks flushed red.

"I mean it, you are beautiful." He murmurs.

"I...I...I'm not quite sure what to say." You admit quietly, looking down at the bed in shyness.

"You don't have to say anything. Come here." He says, opening his arms.

You climb onto his lap that was covered by the thin sheets, letting his arms settle around you. He kisses you softly, cupping your cheek. His tongue glides across your bottom one, silently pleading for your lips to open. To his luck, they did. His tongue slides into your mouth, his movements becoming more urgent as he tugs you closer to him, his teeth clattering with yours.

His hands slide from your hips to your ass, pulling you closer to him. You moan softly, your hands getting lost in his hair.

He pulls away, looking you over slowly, his eyes falling on your stomach. Oh, how he wanted to see you swollen with his child. He moves the sheets, revealing his hard cock. Your pupils dilate, his words washing away as you begin to sink down into his hard cock. You moan, rolling your eyes up to his, the both of you getting lost in the pleasure.

"You both have been around each other most of the time and she still doesn't know of your plans?" Abraxas asks.

Tom sighs, running a hand over his face. He knows Abraxas may have a point as you and him have been together for four months now, but he wasn't convinced whether you'd freak out or not.

Not to mention, the sneaking around over the summer so you both could hang out was ridiculous. Apparently, your parents dislike Tom immensely for no reason. At least to your opinion. Tom is sure they know he's a half-blood which would mean they have similar views to him which means you could have similar views as well.

Abraxas rambled on and Tom stared at the window, his thoughts back on you. You had returned to your home for the weekend as your parents had requested, so he found himself missing you immensely. Two days apart was the longest you both have been apart...since being together.

It was your guys' year seven and were two months into the year now. The cold, chilly weather was approaching at full force and that only meant the holiday season was as well.

"T-Tom, can I speak with you?" You ask quietly.

His head snaps to the left, seeing that you stood in the doorway of the Common Room. His eyes run over you, looking for a sign that you were hurt as he could tell you were upset.

"You're back early. Is everything okay?" He asks, standing and striding towards you.

You take his hand with one of your shaky ones, silently leading him to your dorm. You close the door, leaning your head against it as you think of the best way to approach this. Tom noticed you had more bags in your room and he turns to you confused just as you had turned and leaned your back against the door.

"Darling?" He asks.

"Tom...my parents said I either needed to break up with you if I were to continue living with them. Or...if I were to stay with you...then I would be cut off and kicked out of the house." You say quietly.

"Are you trying to break up with me?" He asks calmly.

"No! Tom, can't you see! I chose you! Because I love you! Yet, I won't have anywhere to go after school. And I need a place to go, Tom. I can't be homeless." You exclaim.

"Darling, we will find a place. You won't be homeless. I would never let that happen. We will figure it out." He says.

"Tom, we need to figure this out fast. I'm pregnant. Roughly a month. We can't raise our child on the streets of London. We need a home." You stress, tears welling in your eyes.

His lips part with surprise as he looks at your stomach. He knew something had been different about you lately. You've had a glow to you that he can't get over.

You are an obsession, you're my obsession

Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?

You are an obsession, you're my obsession

Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?

Tom eyed you from where he sat at a table in the library. You had gotten up to find another book, but his eyes were on your swollen stomach. He was more than obsessed with you pregnant. He told you and himself that you were going to be pregnant again and again.

You felt as you were ugly pregnant, but with the way Tom was constantly eyeing you and ravishing you any moment of the day, you knew you must've looked pretty in his eyes. When you first started to show, he was dragging you to your dorm, empty closets or empty classrooms to ravish you at least five or six times a day.

It's definitely been a challenge for you to keep up with Tom, but you adored him. Now, you were roughly seven months and only had roughly two weeks until graduation. Tom had been a bit more spacey recently, trying to make sure everything is sorted out once you both graduate. But, that didn't mean he didn't have time to sneak off with you and to ravish you while telling you how beautiful you were.

He cut it down to maybe once or twice a day—if you were up to it of course—as he didn't want to hurt you or the baby.

You could feel his eyes on you, but you continued to read the book you had found. You rest a hand on your belly, grimacing as you feel pain. You have an appointment today, the first since you went before you left your parents as you've been to embarrassed.

The stares and whispering had grown too much for you to bear, so you hid away most of the time if you could. However, you were sure Tom said something and made threats as most of that has come to an end. He was the one who actually fought with you about having an appointment.

"Everything okay, darling?" Tom asks, standing behind you as he rests his hands on your hips.

"I-I don't know if this is normal...I've never felt this before." You whisper, a hand on your belly.

"Everything okay?" The librarian asks, coming over to you two.

"I think something's wrong. This doesn't feel right." You say panicked.

She steps forward, ignoring Tom's narrowed eyes as she places her hand on your belly. Her face softens as she looks at you, a soft smile on your face.

"Oh dear, this isn't bad. This is good, really good. This is your baby kicking. I'm surprised it hasn't started earlier. Tom, you should have a feel." She says, taking her hand away.

Tom's eyebrows furrow before he places his hand on your bump. He jumps slightly before placing his hand back on your belly.

"Does it hurt?" He asks.

"Not really. It hurt a bit at first, but now the baby is kicking in a different area. It doesn't hurt as bad here." You say quietly.

"I'll leave you two to it. If you ever have any questions, don't fret to ask dear. I've got three of my own." She says, smiling softly before leaving you both.

"He's quite strong." Tom murmurs.

"He could be a she." You chide, rolling your eyes up to his.

"It's a boy. I can feel it." He says.

"Okay then." You mumble, rolling your eyes as you look back down at your book.

"You've gotten quite the attitude the past few days and I'm not so sure I'm having it." He says calmly.

"And what would you do about it?" You asks.

"Spank you. Push you to the edge over and over again. Make you want my cock, but I won't give it to you. I'd make you so sorry that you'll be begging at your knees for my forgiveness. So, tell me...are we going to straighten up our little attitude problem, or am I going to have to punish you?" He murmurs into your ear.

You were tense, your panties wet with arousal. You wanted to say something snarky, but with how horny you've been yourself because of the pregnancy hormones...you weren't so sure you were going to risk that.

Not to mention, Tom was true to his word—always. If he wanted to prove a point to you, he'd prove his point and he'd prove it pretty goddamn well. You could be on your knees and it wouldn't be enough. He's sadistic and he likes you like that. Maybe if you threw tears in the mix, he might cave—might as the keyword—but even that wasn't a solid might.

"I'll start behaving." You mumble.

"Good girl." He whispers, leaving a soft kiss on your neck before walking back to the table.

He watches as you move a hand to your belly again, looking down at it with a soft smile. You whisper something to your belly, something he wishes he heard, but instead he watches you with awe.

He knew you'd be an amazing mother. You've tried all you could to learn about your pregnancy, but you've come to learn that all pregnancies aren't the same. Each experience is unique and special. You've found you have to learn what works for you and you've got to find what is the right fit just for you. Tom has admired your growth and strength during your pregnancy.

He knows you don't feel beautiful pregnant, but he thinks otherwise. Everytime he looks at you, he sees a goddess whom he worships. He's already decided he wants to see you pregnant several more times after this.

You wobble over to the table again, his smile widening as you struggle. He stands, helping you sit before pushing your chair in. He's learned to love how dependent you've became. He loves to help you. He likes feeling needed by you. Even if it's simple tasks just because it's hard for you to walk sometimes.

"Tom." You murmur.

"Yes, darling?" He asks, looking you over slowly.

"I think I'm going to miss it...you know...being pregnant and all. I've really grown to like the baby bump. It's an intimate feeling knowing that there's a baby growing in here and I'm helping it grow by eating and whatnot. I think I'm going to be really sad to see the bump go." You admit.

"Darling, don't be sad. I plan to get you pregnant several more times. I love how beautiful you look pregnant. I thought you were the most beautiful woman I laid eyes on before, but when I saw you pregnant...it was like I was staring at a goddess." He says.

"What if you don't like me after I'm pregnant though? My body is going to change, a lot." You sigh, looking down.

"Y/n...darling, look at me. You are going to be beautiful, so beautiful. I wish you could see what I was seeing everyday. Sure, your body may be different. But, you spent months growing a life in there. How magical is that? I think it's quite extraordinary what you're doing. I know most women can do this, but you're mine and I think everything you do is extraordinary. But, I'll always think you're beautiful and I hope one day I can make you see how beautiful you are." He says.

"Tom, I wish you knew how much I love you." You say, your eyes stinging with tears of love.

You knew he wasn't the most emotional person. He's told you before, he never expected that he'd gain feelings for someone. He truly thought he was incapable of feeling—until you. At first, he simply thought it was an infatuation that turned to an obsession that later turned into his burning love for you. He doesn't say it often, but when he does tell you that he loves you, you take it and hold onto that moment.

"You tell me every day, darling. So, I think I have an idea." He murmurs, offering you a sly smile before looking back down at his book.

You are an obsession, you're my obsession

Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?

You are an obsession, you're my obsession

Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?

You are an obsession

"Tom...aren't they perfect?" You murmur, looking down at the twin boys you had hours earlier.

Tom was staring at you, the way you looked at your sons with so much love and care already. His eyes fall to your lips which were stretched into a soft smile as you looked down at your boys. He watches you gently stroke one's cheek before looking back at your face.

"Yes. Perfect." He murmurs.

"Tom! I'm talking about our sons, not me." You scold, your cheeks flushing red with embarrassment.

"I know! They are perfect and so are you. Mattheo definitely favors your more. I'm kind of jealous he's going to be so fetching as he grows older." He says.

"Oh shush, you. Tom favors you and I think both of our boys will be quite fetching once they grow older. It's definitely in their eyes." You say.

"God, I want you pregnant again." Tom murmurs.

"Tom! Let's wait until we at least get these two out of diapers! We are going to have our hands full." You exclaim, laughing slightly.

Tom takes Mattheo so you can feed the fussy Tom who hadn't wanted to take a bottle earlier.

"Please get out of diapers soon so that I can put another sibling in your mommy." Tom whisper.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle! He is a baby! Shush! You can't talk to him like that." You scold.

"Like he'll remember that. If he does, we have bigger problems on our hands." He says.

"Tom, shush. I love you, but shush." You say, laughing softly.

He smiles slightly, enjoying that sound from you. He watches as you look back down at Tom with a soft smile. Mattheo starts to squirm and he looks down at the boy. He smiles slightly, lifting a hand to swipe some of the hair out of his eyes.

Mattheo lifts a hand, his tiny hand wrapping around Toms pinky. Mattheo's brown eyes look up into Tom's blue ones. A big gummy smile appears on his face before he sneezes. Tom huffs out a quiet laugh, looking back down at the boy who snuggled closer to him. He leans down slightly, leaving a soft kiss on his head.

"I love you, Mattheo." He murmurs.

He looks up to see you staring at him with a big smile. You could tell he was embarrassed by showing his love for his son publicly, but you stick your hand out to him. He takes it, sitting on the edge of your bed.

"I love you." You murmur.

"I love you." He says, looking down at you with intense eyes.

He looks over at the fussy baby in your arms. He leans down, place a soft kiss on Tom's head as the baby lifted a hand and rested it on Tom's cheek, looking into his blue intense eyes with his identical ones.

"I love you, Tom." He murmurs.

He sits back, watching as he snuggled closer to you, seeming content now. He looks back at you, leaning down and leaving a soft kiss on your lips.

"I love you more than words, darling. I can't even begin to express how much I love you, nor how much I care. I know I struggle to show you those acts on a day to day basis, but I want you to know you truly mean the world to me." He murmurs.

"I know, love. I think I say it enough for the both of us. I appreciate all that you've done for us. I love you so much and I can't wait for our eternity together." You say softly

You are an obsession, you're my obsession

[fatesundress]

⭑ for the love that used to be here. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom are the only muggle-borns in slytherin, until one day he isn’t.

tags. angst, afab reader who is referred to as a witch a few times and rooms with girls but i don't think i ever use she/her pronouns or say the word girl/woman, biggest warning is that this is SO long (idk what compelled me to write a year 1 – post-hogwarts fic but here we are twenty thousand damn words later), blood purity and bigotry, dumbledore is greatly offended by the bonding of two orphans until he can capitalise on it, frequent wwii mentions (specifically the blitz), book clerk tom, MURDERER TOM… ministry reader, kissing, smut once they’re 21/22 May all the minors in the room exit at once, more angst, sad ending kinda, me spreading a very personal and very nefarious tom riddle agenda that is canon to ME but probably only like two other people

note. i need a shower and an exorcism after writing this shit. i'm exhausted. i don't even remember half of it. but i'm also SO stoked, this is my little (very large, frankly) 100 followers celebration! i've only been on here for about a month and the love has been so crazy so thank you mwah mwah mwah ♡

word count. 21.8k (i know... i KNOW)

You learn quickly that your shade of green is not the same as theirs. The rest of them are emeralds, even at that age — they glitter with their parent’s polish. You are flotsam, sea-sick, envy green; the putrid boiling stuff that brews in your cauldron when you look away for a second too long, and, really, it’s more of a stain than a colour at all. There is a fraction of a second where you find something powerful in that. You are not an easy thing to remove. And then it’s gone, because they want to so badly.

You learn, with a bit less tact, that you doesn’t actually mean just you; that it’s you and him whether you like it or not.

He evidently does not.

“It has to be completely fine,” Tom says to you in Potions, his voice small then but just as practised.

You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”

“I said the powder has to be completely fine.”

“I heard you completely fine. I know how to read.”

He stares blankly at you before returning to his own station, and that’s that.

It isn’t unheard of for muggle-borns to be sorted into Slytherin, so you’ve been told, but one glance around your common room and you can see it’s pretty damn rare.

There’s Tom Riddle, there’s you, and there’s a seventh-year girl whose knuckles are always white like she’s spent so long with her hands balled into fists that they don’t know how to do anything else. Tom Riddle is a prat, the girl is too old and unapproachable even if she wasn’t, and you are very good at being alone.

That decides it. Flotsam still floats.

Everything is — fine. It’s fine for months; you have no one and need no one and sometimes you catch a jinx in the back of Charms that zips your mouth shut or bends a foot the wrong way (a cruel reminder of how much more these people know than you) and your broom occasionally pivots so sharply the Flying professor has to stop you from careening into a wall and breaking enough bones for a week’s worth of Skele-Gro, but it’s fine. 

…It’s just that he’s insufferable.

The boy is eleven years old and he speaks like he’s stealing glances at an invisible lexicon between every word, more refined than any of the orphans you grew up with which makes you wonder which sort he’s surrounded by, and you take it upon yourself to theorise in passing if you could ever scare him badly enough his real voice would slip and he might just appear human for once.

Only it becomes clear when you’re stirring awake in the Hospital Wing after a mysterious bout of dragon pox (conveniently, all the pureblood children developed an immunity after catching it young) has rendered you bed-ridden and pockmarked, that you don’t think anything can scare Tom Riddle. He’s suffering just as well in the bed beside yours to keep the contagion to the two of you, and he’s all cold, eddied rage under sallow skin and beetling bones. 

“They’re going to kill you,” he says after three days of silence, when the room is dusted in moonlight so thin it’s like squinting through cinema noise or mohair fluff to try to see him.

You blink at the vague shape of him. “What?”

“If you don’t hurt them back, eventually, they’ll just kill you.”

In hindsight, it’s an assumption so hastily bleak only a scared child could make it.

I want to hurt them, you try to say, but for what follows you cannot: I want to hurt them but I’m not good enough to do it.

You roll over and pretend to sleep, and in the morning, you hurt them anyway.

It’s Avery who’s unlucky enough to be the first to test you when you’re three assignments behind in Transfiguration, still a bit groggy from your last dose of Gorsemoor Elixir, and actually, physically green. He tugs your hair and stings your cheek with the promise of “bringing a bit of colour back to your face” and it’s sort of funny how banal it is compared to the other transgressions you’ve been dealt — that this is the thing that makes you bare your teeth, grip your wand in a hand that still can’t hold half of it, and send Avery flying across the room with a Knockback Jinx.

Tom sits with you in the Great Hall for dinner that night, and he never really stops.

You practise spells by the Black Lake between classes and he’s anything but kind about the ordeal, but you teach each other. You end your days with singe prints and sore wrists and you often take more damage than he does, but sometimes, as spring settles in with warm tones (apple and jade and moss — all the greens you’d never imagined), you leave with less bruises than he does. It hardly feels like friendship. It feels much more like purpose.

When summer comes you don’t write to him, and you don’t expect he will either. You don’t suppose you’ve actually written a letter in your life. Instead you try new wand movements under your quilt every night and wait for August’s departure on a big red train.

You sit together when the day does come. He asks you if you’ve been practising. You frown and tell him you’re not allowed to use magic outside of school.

Second year is nothing but monotonous, antiquated theoretics. Most everyone complains. You don’t see why they should — they’re already aeons ahead of you — but that means you finally have a chance to catch up in your less-than-school-sanctioned meetings with Tom while the rest remain practically stationary. 

Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore is imperceptibly less soft with you than he was last year when you make the apparently poor decision to sit beside Tom on the first day, and you file the subtle shift in demeanour into some mental cabinet to review later.

You find workarounds with the librarian, Madam Palles, inclined to sympathy for the poor, orphaned muggle-borns to grant relatively unfettered daytime access to the Restricted Section so long as you keep it tidy and none of the books leave the library. That’s where things get a bit more interesting.

For a month you remain innocuous as can be. You browse through rare historical tomes and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly. 

You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.

It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.

Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.

You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.

Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.

Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.

“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”

“I wonder why.”

He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.

“What, Tom?”

He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”

You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile? 

It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.

“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up. 

Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.

Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about? 

You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers. 

For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.

He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)

Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.

You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession. 

They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.

You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.

“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.

He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”

“Curiosity—”

“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”

He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.

You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.

But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.

“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”

“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”

This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary. 

“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”

He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure? 

It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.

The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning. 

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.

So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.

And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.

The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.

It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.

In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with. 

You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.

Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.

But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge. 

He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.

You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books. 

You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.

“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.

Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.

He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”

“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”

You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls. 

“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin. 

“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.

You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.

You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated. 

But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again. 

She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.

For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.

Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)

Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.

“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.

But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”

Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —

“A professor?”

“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.

He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.

It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.

He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.

Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”

His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.

“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”

“So?”

It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.

“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”

He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.

“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”

Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.

You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.

You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.

“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”

Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”

You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.

“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”

“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”

“I —”

“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”

You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.

“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”

“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.

You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”

That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.

“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.

“Tom.”

“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”

“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”

Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.

It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.

The day everything changes starts the same as any. 

You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now. 

Tom has cracked the book.

It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.

He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.

“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”

“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”

You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”

“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”

“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”

“I have no need.”

You frown. “You… you already know it.”

“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”

“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.

“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”

He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”

Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.

He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice. 

It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.

“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all.  You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.

There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.

“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”

You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.

“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.

He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else. 

“Should I?”

And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.”

It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.

Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”

The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.

You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.

Summer blisters when it comes.

Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them. 

And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.

But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.

It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?

You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.

“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.

“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”

And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.

He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.

Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.

You always are.

The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten. 

Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.

He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.

And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.

You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.

You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.

You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.

Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.) 

You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.

So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true. 

It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.

It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.

Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.

The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer. 

You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.

Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t. 

But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.

“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.

Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.

“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”

He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.

You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”

Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.

Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.

When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid. 

What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.

You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.

Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.

You are regardless. 

It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.

A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.

Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.

It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.

You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.

And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.

“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.

He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”

“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”

“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”

“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”

Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.

To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.

“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”

You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.

You are not his keeper. You know that. 

“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.

He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.

And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”

You’re almost positive you did not.

Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.

You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.

Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.

You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.

Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.

“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.

You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”

He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.

You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.

One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.

It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.

You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.

It happens again.

Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.

There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.

You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.

You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.

You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)

He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately. 

And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.

Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.

And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.

The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.

The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.

That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.

One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.

The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?

You take to the library.

Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you’re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.

The third sign is the end. 

You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.

He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight. 

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.

Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.

He’s something else entirely.

What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.

You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.

His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes. 

You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand. 

“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.

You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.

“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.

Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”

“I’ve been good at it.”

His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.

His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.

“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.

You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.

You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.

He sees all of you.

Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.

“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.

“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.

“I cannot.”

Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”

“What are you… so it was an accident?”

“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”

“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.

He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”

“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”

“Her death is the first step to —”

“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”

“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.

All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.

“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."

You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.

“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."

“...What?"

“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”

You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”

“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”

His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.

“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."

“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain,  a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”

And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him. 

You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love. 

“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock. 

Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly. 

Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.

“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it. 

He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.

After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"

“I thought I would have time.”

“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”

He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."

He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”

You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.

“You have lost me, Tom."

He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.

You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.) 

You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish. 

There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.

You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.

Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.

That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same. 

You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.

And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.

Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.

Be well.

You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —

You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.

Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.

You find that to be true.

Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.

Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much. 

“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.

You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition. 

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.

Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.

Due February.

It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”

Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”

Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”

And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.

Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.

You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.

You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it’s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.

Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.

You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.

But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.

You drink, and don’t look away.

By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.

There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.

You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal. 

An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.

You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it. 

You’re better than them. You can do it forever.

The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.

You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.

You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.

The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.

He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.

You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.

Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)

“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.

You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.

Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”

You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.

“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”

“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”

“I take that back.”

She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”

Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.

You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.

It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.

On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.

There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.

Indifferent it is. 

“Can I help you?”

“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.

You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.

“Am I?”

“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”

“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”

Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.

It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.

“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”

Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.

He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.

He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”

You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.

“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.

Where is Mari?

“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”

You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?

“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.

“Well then —” 

Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.

His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.

“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.

Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.

“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.

“I haven’t protested.”

But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.

The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)

You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”

“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.

“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”

You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.

He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.

Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.

If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.

It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?

You think of him often. You think of his offer.

My door is always open.

Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?

Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.

It’s a tempting door.

The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.

You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.

The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.

Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant. 

It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.

But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor. 

A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.

She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.

When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.

It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.

A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.

“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.

“Renauld?”

He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.

“Well, yeah —”

You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”

“But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”

That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.

The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.

But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”

You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.

It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”

“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.

But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.

And… he does.

With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.

It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.

By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.

The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.

Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.

After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.

“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “You seen the shite the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a bloody Unspeakable.”

“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.

“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”

“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”

“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.

“Yeah? How about you ask your daddy for something better?”

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”

She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.

But something about it itches.

You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.

You are green, through and through.

Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.

You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.

You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.

And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.

That makes it much worse when you sleep together. 

There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.

“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”

“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”

“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”

You’re incredibly daft about it.

There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident. 

The itch exacerbates.

You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.

You wake up and he isn’t there.

It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.

The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.

And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.

You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.

You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.

All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.

R.R

It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.

The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be. 

You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.

“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.

Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.

“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.

Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.

There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.

But you do, because he told you.

You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.

It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop. 

It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.

You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.

The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece. 

It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.

You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.

He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.

“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.

“I thought your door was always open.”

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that." 

He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.

“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.

You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.

You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.

“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."

“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."

His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"

“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval. 

Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.

“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”

“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will." 

You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"

“Yes."

You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.

“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”

“I earned this,” you hiss.

“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”

The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.

“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”

“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.

You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”

“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”

He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”

“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”

“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”

Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis. 

“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain. 

He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.

“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.” 

You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”

Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.

“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.

He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.

“Yes,” you agree.

It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.

Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.

There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.

He was your first in everything but this.

You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.

You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.

“How long?” he asks thickly.

You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back. 

“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."

You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"

You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake." 

You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster. 

“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"

“N-no.”

He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."

Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating. 

But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself. 

You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.

He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.

Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.

His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh. 

You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.

He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.

“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.

“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”

And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.

You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.

He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.

You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…

A finger presses inside and you moan.

“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes. 

Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.

You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.

He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.

But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.

Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.

“Will you give me more?”

Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.

He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.

You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.

He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —

“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.

That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.

You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”

A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?

And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.

Maybe you already do.

Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —

He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.

“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”

You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.

“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”

You whimper.

“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.

If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.

“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”

Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.

“You can — uh — you can — ”

"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”

And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.

You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.

“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.

You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”

You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.

He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you. 

He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.

You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.

But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.

Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.

You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.

He brings you to his bed after and you let him, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.

You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.

You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.

[iveriee]

yandere alphabet with tom riddle !

—toxicity . delusional thoughts. murder. violence. kidnapping. starvation. manipulation. abuse. terrible communication skills . torture. bone-breaking. death. very loosely implied dub-con ?? jealousy. second person POV. reader's gender is NOT defined. this has got to be my magnum opus lol. in terms of quantity, NOT quality. yawns aesthetically in exhaustion. you mfs better reblog this ! / nf.

AFFECTION: how do they show their love and affection? how intense would it get ?

— i don't think he'd be that physically affectionate in general but he'd definitely wrap an arm about your waist if he wanted to prove that you were his. also, if you tried to deny him, he'd wrap his arms around you and nuzzle into your neck — his grip unyieldingly tight.

— even if he's not that great with physical touch, he prefers acts of service and gift-giving way more. (it also allows him to guilt trip you soo..)

— would help you with your homework, especially if you're academically weak.

— if he wants to say something to you but he's repulsed by saying it verbally, he'll write a note.

— speaking (pun intended lol) of written communication, he will write many more notes for different situations.

BLOOD: how messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

— alot. I mean, alot.

— he wouldn't hesitate to murder people for you, if it was necessary

— but only if it's required.

— he may be a psychopath but he does not kill for fun.

—he'd scheme, manipulate and lie aswell.

CRUELTY : how would they treat their darling once abducted ? would they mock them ?

— depends on your behaviour.

— but he'd usually be cruel and sarcastic. (it's a defense mechanism, he does NOT want you knowing how much you mean to him)

— "I'm giving you food and all other necessities, shouldn't you atleast a bit grateful?"

— he'll demand utter and complete obedience from you.

— and if you don't comply to his demands...

— well, that's another story.....

— but if you do, he'll be internally ECSTATIC. (of course, he wouldn't actaully show that..)

— he'd squint suspiciously and say, "good. you finally did something sensible after a while."

DARLING: aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will ?

— he'd sabotage your relationships with others, especially if it's romantic. (not that he'll allow that kind of relationship to form in the first place)

— those vermin don't deserve to speak with you. they are beneath you and besides, you're his. all his. and he doesn't like sharing his possessions, oh no, he does not.

— he'd also steal your belongings. (interpret this how you want to ..)

EXPOSED: how much of their heart do they bare to their darling ? how vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

— absolutely not vulnerable. no, never, not under any circumstances, just no.

— he hates being vulnerable and exposed, it makes him feel weak and he much prefers to hide his feelings and compose himself

— even more so, he would never explicitly tell you the extent of his feelings. how an ache burns in his chest whenever he sees you. how he can't help but want to help out and take a strand of your hair and kiss it and never fucking let go and-

FIGHT: how would they feel if their darling fought back ?

— he'd be amused, at first. he knows that you cannot possibly hope to overpower him, even if you try your best.

— but his amusement would quickly turn into annoyance and he'd take your chin in his hands, tilt it upwards and whisper; "stop this nonsense and just shut up. else I'll do it for you."

— ( he'll do it for you indeed, in a particular way...)

GAME: is this a game to them ? how much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape ?

— yes, but also no.

— he enjoys watching you struggle and plan to escape. as aforementioned, he knows that you can't possibly do so without his help.

— but at the same time, he doesn't like it.

— he wants you to need him, to beg for him and to love him. he deserves all that ; after all, he's wasting all his time taking such good care of you ! should he not get something in return?

HELL: what would be their darling's worst experience with them?

— probably when you disobey him.

— you'd say something impudent and his expression would freeze. he'd gently take away the plate of food he brought for you, eyes narrowed and lips twisted into a thin line.

— "hush now," he'd coo, when tears would begin to stream down your cheeks, hot and heavy. "you did this to yourself. i was merely giving you your meal."

—smirking, he'd plant a kiss to your forehead; a mark. an emblem to show that you are powerless against him.

— and then, without another word, he'd fucking walk out.

IDEALS: what kind of future do they have in mind for / with their darling ?

— a future where you'd be all his and not think of anyone else.

— he also wants you to love him as he 'loves' you.

— also, this is a bit far-fetched, but I assume he'd want to make you his horcrux if possible. what better way to claim you as his but to give you a fragment of his soul?

JEALOUSY: do they get jealous ? do they lash out or find a way to cope ?

— holy fuck.

— where do I even begin?. this man gets jealous at the tiniest things. you spoke to another person ? he's going to modify their fucking memories. you smiled at some random vermin? he's going to make sure they never get to see you smile again.

— he does NOT like you interacting with anyone but him. it makes him feel as though you are not entirely his. and he needs you to be his. because you belong to him. you are meant for him and he won't let anything get in the way.

— he'll usually remain composed and commit all the traumatizing shit when you're not looking. but if it gets too far, god forbid it does, he'll grab your shoulders, nails digging into your flesh and glare daggers at you silently for a while before saying; "you're mine. don't forget that."

KISSES: how would they act around / with their darling?

— depends on your behaviour.

— if you're good and listen to him, he'll smile slightly and kiss you. as mentioned before, he's not that affectionate; touch is foreign to him. he'll perhaps praise you aswell, if he's feeling particularly generous.

— but, merlin, if you're not.

— you are fucked. he'll insult you until you sob, starve you and deprive you of any social interaction.

LOVE LETTERS: how would they go about courting or approaching their darling ?

— he'd show his love through small things; like brushing a stray strand from your forehead, making sure you eat properly, kissing your palms softly. although this may seem like genuine courting, he would end up manipulating and guilt tripping you.

— (you ignored him? he'd pretend to be lovelorn and heartbroken until you cannot help but melt into him, mumbling fervent apologies.)

— he's a great gaslighter so he'd most likely gain your trust easily. unless you somehow know the truth about him.

MASK: are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else ?

— ...... he's tom riddle, what do you expect?. obviously he's VERY different when around everyone else.

NAUGHTY: how would they punish their darling ?

— oh hell no. he has so many ideas for torturing you that's it's just simply too difficult to decide. should he strangle you? use a spell that burns your insides? manipulate you into apologizing? carve his initials onto your thighs with a knife?

— he would end up either starving or threatening you. or, if the case is far too severe, he'd break your limbs; the exquisite sound of your bones cracking music to his ears. now you cant run from him and neither can you do anything without his help. the thought makes him smile.

OPPRESION: how many rights would they take away from their darling ?

— alot. and by alot, i mean 90% of your rights. you can't do anything without him. he should be your salvation, why are you focusing on other matters?. nothing else matters. only he does.

PATIENCE: how patient are they with their darling ?

— not that patient.

— he'd wait for you to eventually submit but if it takes too long, then he'd definitely take action.

QUIT: if their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on ?

— your chances of dying under his watch are very low, but if you do..

— he'd be torn.

— and probably on the brink of madness. how dare you? how dare you die? how dare you leave him? disgusting, so utterly disgusting that his eyes sting for the first time in years. he'd lose all passage of time and stare at your corpse for a very, *very* long time. and when he realises that no spell, no potion, no *nothing* can bring you back..

— hah. his fate is now doomed.

—however, if it was an escape, he would find you quite easily and when he does, expect to lose any autonomy you have and your limbs aswell.

REGRET: would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling ? would they ever let their darling go ?

— no. just. no. you belong to him, why would he feel guilty?

STIGMA: what brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc) ?

— growing up at wool's orphanage certainly didn't help his communication skills, he merely takes what he wants without a care.

— and also because he finds you unqiue. there is something about you. something indiscernable to the naked eye but not to him, no- he could find you in the midst of a crowd if he had to. hence, due to this uniqueness, he wants you. because he deserves it. he deserves the best after what he endured. and won't you give it to him?

TEARS: how do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves ?

— again, like a lot of other things about Tom, this depends on the situation.

— however, most of the time, he would hesitantly kneel down and trail his fingers across your cheeks. stop crying, he'd think. it's making me feel things I've never felt before. but if you do not stop crying, his grip on your cheeks would sharpen and he'd frown.

__ "stop. crying." he'd say firmly. "it's embarassing."

— if that does not shut you up, then god knows what would.

UNQIUE: would they do anything different from the classic yandere ?

— he'd be a bit more mean but not really. however, it depends on what we define a 'classic yandere' as.

VICE: what weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape ?

— he's observant, so most ways of escape have been sealed off. can't think of much. but maybe if you bruise his ego enough, you could distract him.

WIT'S END: would they ever hurt their darling ?

— oh yes. he would. happily, even. (if you disobeyed him, that is.)

— your cries are everything to him. they remind him that he's the one in charge here. mostly, it's just psychological manipulation but he will physically hurt you if needed. (insert bone cracking sounds here)

XOANON: how much would they revere or worship their darling ? to what length would they go to win their darling over ?

— he wouldn't really worship you in the traditional sense but he would go to great lengths for you, whether it be murder, scheming, or anything that comes with risks in general.

— but if you submit to him, he'd be quite nicer and perhaps would even compliment or kiss you. a kiss so soft that it sends a shudder down your spine..

— he does revere you though, in his mind. he can't afford to show this in reality because he fears that you might take the upper hand when he does. he finds that you're beyond the worth of a hundred lives. still, you're beneath him.

YEARN: how long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

— for a very long time. he would wait for a while; he knows he'll be easily able to gain your trust and eventually manipulate you into loving him. however, too long is simply too long. if he's been pining after you for years and you still do not fancy him, he'd snap.

—and when he does, you'll be dead. (?)

ZENITH: would they ever break their darling ?

— he would, if it was needed to make you all his. and then he'd blame it on you; you were the one who rejected all his advances. he merely wanted to care for you!

— and then, when you're broken and nobody can fix you, he'd tsk mockingly. "i warned you, didn't i?"

[weasleysbliss]

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬, 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 | 𝐭𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞

pairing: tom riddle x slytherin!reader

summary: each week, y/n finds a new anonymous letter waiting for her everywhere she goes—poetic, mysterious, and increasingly intense. as the notes grow more captivating and unsettling, y/n becomes determined to uncover the writer’s identity. one day, she discovers it’s tom riddle. now, y/n must decide how to handle the dangerous boy who’s been watching her from the shadows.

warnings: slight cursing, small mention of smut

word count: 1.8k

➽────────────────❥

You sighed in exhaustion, using your remaining stamina to climb the stairs to your dorm room. As you reached the door, you unlocked it with your wand. Finally, you could rest, you thought. You glanced over at your bed—it had never looked more comfier.

You huffed, still remembering you had to shower. Placing your tote bag on your desk, you caught sight of a piece of paper in the corner of your eye. "I probably forgot to throw this out," you thought. But just as you were about to toss it into the trash, something stopped you, and you unfolded the note instead.

The note read, “You don’t notice me, but I see you. You are intriguing—more than anyone here. You have my attention, Y/N.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion and annoyance. "What twit is fucking around with me?" you muttered, raising your voice slightly as you slammed the note back on the table. You didn’t throw it out, though. Something told you not to.

Despite the irritation from the note, you carried on with your night and eventually fell into a restless slumber.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

A week passes with no new notes in sight—not that you’ve given it much thought. The first one had slipped from your mind soon after you received it.

You were in your Charms classroom, half-listening to Professor Flitwick as his voice reminded you of those ambient sounds that help you fall asleep. You were about to doze off any second.

"Turn to page 416 in your textbooks," Flitwick instructed. You clicked your tongue under your breath.

You pulled your textbook from your bag and began flipping through the pages until you reached page 416. And there it was. A note. Without thinking, assuming it was the same as the last one, you unfolded it.

"You read by the fire every evening. Do you ever wonder if someone is looking back?"

no. fucking. way.

Fear gripped you as you read the note. Someone is watching me? Panic rushed through your mind. Am I being stalked? Too many unsettling thoughts swirled in your head.

The class wasn’t even over, but you couldn’t stay another minute without spiraling into overthinking. In a hurry, you grabbed your tote bag and the note, then stormed out of the classroom. You heard Professor Flitwick call your name, but you didn’t bother turning around.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The week after the Charms class incident, you began to expect the notes to appear wherever you went. But now, you found yourself paying close attention to anyone who might seem suspicious or could be the culprit behind this note fiasco.

Unfortunately, no one was able to catch your attention. This was a guessing game, and you were terribly losing. Not one person you could suspect.

You had classes with most of your fellow Slytherins, excluding females—Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, and Tom Riddle. But there’s no way any of them could be behind this, right?

Usually, you and your friends would hang out after school—whether it was catching up, gossiping, or filling each other in on the latest boy drama. Standing in the circle with your friends, you listened to them, but you made sure to stay alert, keeping an eye on your surroundings.

You still weren’t going to give up.

On this particularly chilly day, you were lucky enough to remember your jacket. Your hands were starting to freeze as the cold air bit at them. You stuffed your hands into the pockets, hoping for some warmth, but instead, you felt something—paper.

You pulled it out. Another note.

Excusing yourself from your friends, you claimed you had to go back to your dorm to start your pile of assignments. On your way there, you unfurled the note once again.

"You deserve admiration from someone who sees your true potential. I could give you the world—or take it from anyone who gets in my way."

Frustration bubbled inside you, eating away at your patience. You still had no idea who was behind these notes.

Once you reached your dorm, you tossed the note aside and began searching for the other two you’d hidden around the room.

To your luck, you found the other two. You laid all three notes side by side, carefully examining each one as you read them over again.

"Whoever this is, they must be really slick around me," you muttered under your breath, your annoyance growing with each passing second.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Another week passed, and you were expecting a note once again. You silently hoped this would be the last one.

You were walking swiftly down the hallway, your hair swaying with each step. You noticed Tom Riddle approaching, but as he passed, he suddenly stopped.

"Something's waiting for you on your bed," he said. Before you could respond, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, vanishing in less than a second.

Your expression froze, a mixture of confusion and worry spreading across your face. How does he know something’s waiting for me in my dorm? Did he get inside? How? Or does he know someone who put something there? Is it another note? What is it?

You shook the thoughts from your mind and quickened your pace towards your dorm. Anticipation surged through you—you had to find out what it was.

Once you reached your dorm, your eyes immediately went to what Tom had mentioned—your bed. There, lying on the bed, was a note. You snatched it up and opened it without a second thought.

"If you’re bold enough, meet me at the Astronomy Tower at midnight. Let’s see if you’re worthy of the attention you’ve earned." Tom’s name was signed at the bottom.

It was Tom Riddle who had been writing to you all this time. He was the same person who had snuck into your dorm and secretly placed the notes in your textbook and jacket.

You had to admit, Tom was undeniably attractive. His masculine features were striking, and you couldn't help but notice how handsome he was. Despite his looks, one thing about Tom—he always got what he wanted.

You had a small crush on him back in your third year, but it never lasted long—you never thought he’d reciprocate those feelings.

Now, though, what awaited you tonight was all you could think about.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

11:50 PM. Ten minutes until midnight. That gave you just enough time to make your way to the Astronomy Tower. You left your dorm room, silently praying this whole thing wouldn’t end up a disaster—and hoping you wouldn’t get caught by a professor for being out so late.

Your nerves were getting the best of you. Usually, it wasn’t an issue when it came to boys—after all, you were the one who flustered them most of the time. But this was different.

It was Tom Riddle. He was unlike any other Slytherin guy you’d met—more charming, reserved, and undeniably alluring.

As you made your way to the Astronomy Tower, your mind raced, running through different scenarios of how this whole situation could unfold.

You didn’t realize how much time had passed while your mind scrambled, but when you glanced up, the clock had already struck 12:00 AM. Thankfully, you were just in time. With one final step, you reached the top of the Astronomy Tower.

And there he was—the man himself, Tom Riddle. His back was faced to you as he gazed out at the night sky, waiting for your arrival.

You didn't even get a chance to make yourself known at the scene, because he already had. He felt your presence behind him, and turned to face you. Your eyes locked with his deep, dark ones.

"You came," he said, his voice smooth, a touch of satisfaction lacing his words.

"You wanted me to," you replied, your tone sharper than you intended. After all the trouble with the letters, it felt impossible to hold back. "What do you want from me, Tom?"

He took a step closer, his expression unreadable. "I thought I made it clear. I don’t want anything from you—I want you."

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words sinking in. "And if I don’t want to be part of... whatever this is?"

Tom’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk, though his gaze softened. "I don’t think you’d be here if you didn’t. You’re curious, drawn to me, just as I am to you. Admit it."

You hesitated, every warning in your head screaming to turn and leave, but your feet stayed rooted in place. "You don't know me, Tom," you said, putting sharp emphasis on the word 'don’t'.

"Oh, but I do," he spoke, still stepping closer. His voice dropped, sending a shiver down your spine. "I’ve watched you, studied you. You’re clever, gorgeous, ambitious, and so much stronger than you give yourself credit for. You could be extraordinary—we could be extraordinary together."

The weight of his words wrapped around you like a spell, leaving you dizzy and unsure. "What if I don’t want that kind of power?" you whispered, barely trusting yourself to speak.

Tom leaned in, his voice low and filled with something almost tender. "Then I’ll prove to you why you do."

His hand brushed yours, and you didn’t pull away. Instead, you met his gaze, the intensity there making your heart race. "I haven’t decided yet," you admitted softly.

"Then let me give you something to think about," he murmured. His fingers tilted your chin up, and for a moment, he paused, his dark eyes searching yours. When you didn’t move, he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was both gentle and inarguably commanding.

The kiss was so intoxicating it almost felt like you were floating. His lips were astonishingly soft, almost unreal in their tenderness. They perfectly aligned with yours as you both explored each other’s mouths. His hands gently slid up your skirt, fingers tracing your smooth skin. The combination of his touch and the kiss sent waves of sensation through you, making it impossible to want to pull away from either.

It ended as quickly as it began, leaving you breathless.

His hands remained under your skirt, his palms hugging your curves as if they were made for you. His fingers trailed lower to your already-soaked cunt, grazing your sweet spot. He knew that touching you in a sensitive place would manipulate you into wanting him more—hence why he did it. Heat rushed to your cheeks, and a soft, involuntary whimper escaped your lips at his teasing touch.

"You're already mine," he murmured, his voice low and sultry. "But I could show you so much more—if you let me." His hand came out of your skirt, and made it's way to your waist. He ended with a passionate kiss to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a small bite that made you wince—though the sensation only fueled your desire.

"I’ll wait for your answer, darling." he said, his voice smooth as silk. With one final, lingering glance—seductive and full of promise—he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving you alone in the cold night air. Your heart raced, and your mind was a blur, overwhelmed with thoughts of him and a deep, undeniable desire.

Needless to say, he undoubtedly won a chance with you.

He was yours, in secret.

[cardansriddle]

Dance of Shadow and Desire - Tom Riddle x Fem!Reader

gif not mine

Summary: Once, they were friends—until his ambition turned him into the Dark Lord. Years later, he appears on her doorstep, bleeding and unrepentant, his obsession with her as fierce as his thirst for power. Caught between her lingering feelings and the monster he has become, she must decide between her feelings and letting him go.

warnings: angst with a happy(ish?) ending, dark tom but he's bbg. also older tom but he's not a snake yet dw. 3rd person POV,

A/N: I've always wanted to write something with older tom and this one has been sitting in my drafts for ages. i decided to post it bc why not! lmk what you guys think and if i should write more for older tom! (and before you ask, I'm sorry but not writing a part 2 for this)

༻♛༺

The rain drummed lightly against the windows as she sat in her worn armchair, a steaming cup of tea forgotten on the table beside her. The Daily Prophet lay open on her lap, the bold headline screaming of another attack.

The Dark Lord Strikes Again: Ministry Scrambles to Counter Riddle’s Forces.

Her chest tightened as she read the words, the familiar name sending a chill through her veins.

Riddle. Tom Riddle. And to think he had been her friend once.

She closed her eyes, and despite fighting it, memories reluctantly started to flood back. Late-night study sessions in the Hogwarts library, debates over spells and theories, and the way his sharp mind always seemed a step ahead of everyone else's. He had been ambitious, yes, she knew that, but there had been a charm to him, a warmth she had once believed was genuine.

They had been close, or at least as close as anyone could be to Tom. But as the years passed, she had watched him change. His ambition darkened, his charm became manipulation, and his thirst for power grew insatiable. 

She started heard whispers of his experiments, his fascination with immortality, and the growing fear he inspired in his peers he called friends. She had tried countless times to steer him away from his path, but he had brushed her off with a cold finality she would never forget. She had been helpless as she watched the boy she loved so dearly descend into madness. And thus, by the time they left Hogwarts, the distance between them had become a chasm.

And now, years later, here he was again, not in the flesh but in the headlines of a paper detailing his reign of terror. She folded the Prophet with a trembling hand, her heart heavy with a mix of anger, sadness, and a faint, unwelcome pang of longing for the friend she had lost.

She sighed, tossing the paper aside and wrapping her robe over her nightgown tighter, trying to get rid of the goosebumps on her skin. Though they had little to do with cold, and more to do with what she had just read.

She was startled out of her stupor by knocking on her door. It was urgent, sharp, and completely unexpected. Her eyes glanced at the clock above the fireplace, and her brows furrowed as she wondered who would dare show up unannounced past midnight at her door.

Her fingers immediately clutched the wand she had set at her table, and she stood, beginning to approach the door warily. She debated whether if she should even open the door, considering the hour, yet worried that one of her friends might have gotten in trouble, she twisted the doorknob.

When she opened it, the sight before her made her wonder if she was having a nightmare.

A figure in black stood on her doorstep, his robes soaked and clinging to his tall frame The crimson stains seeped through his clothes, smearing the pale skin of his hands and dripping from a gash across his temple. For a moment, the hood of his cloak obscured his face, but then he raised his head.

Those familiar features, now sharper and more menacing, stared back at her. His face had matured, losing the boyish charm she once knew, replaced by a cold, calculated intensity. But his eyes—those piercing, dark eyes—had not changed. They bore into her with a mix of exhaustion and something darker she dared not name.

She froze as if someone poured a bucket of ice over her head. It was him. She had been reading about him mere minutes ago, the feared Dark Lord whose name terrified the wizarding world, and now he stood at her doorstep as if summoned by her very thoughts.

The storm raged behind him and despite the obvious pain coursing through him due to his wounds, something in his gaze sharpened, his complete focus narrowing to her as though the rain, the blood, and his injuries were inconsequential.

“You…” Her voice faltered, and she tightened her grip on the doorframe. "How...what are you doing here?"

Tom leaned heavily against the doorframe, his hand gripping the edge for support. "Do you plan to let me bleed out on your doorstep?” he asked, his voice even deeper and colder than she remembered.

Swallowing her shock, she blinked a few times to confirm she was not hallucinating. Her gaze roved over his dark hair, plastered against his forehead and disheveled in a way that was so unlike the controlled and immaculate boy she recalled.

"Did you expect me to welcome you with open arms after...everything?" She breathed out incredulously, looking at him with wide eyes, trying, desperately yet vainly to ignore the strings being pulled taut at her heart just at the sight of him before her. “You have no right to be here,” she added, her voice trembling with anger.

His gaze sharpened, the intensity of his focus making her feel as though she was the only person in the world. Despite his injuries, his voice remained calm, unyielding. “I expected you to act with the practicality I know you possess.”

“Reason? You are unbelievable.” She scoffed, crossing her arms tightly. “The reasonable thing would be to turn you away and report you to the Aurors.”

“And yet,” he said, taking a deliberate step closer, though his movements were clearly labored, “you haven’t done that." As soon as the words left his mouth, a cough roughly racked through his chest and he swayed on his feet.

She faltered, her grip tightening on the doorframe. His words stung because they were true. She hated the way he always seemed to know exactly which string to pull. Every instinct screamed at her to shut the door. He was dangerous. He had become something monstrous, far removed from the ambitious boy she once knew at Hogwarts. But the sight of his blood and the faint tremor in his hand stirred something in her. 

The rain continued to pour around them, each drop a reminder of how absurd this situation was. His drooping eyelids were the only warning she got as he almost collapsed, and she flung her arms around his middle to catch him. Despite everything, she found that she could not let him bleed out in front of her eyes. Worse, she still cared about him.

"Do not think for a second this means I’ve forgiven you.” Her voice was tight with resignation as she helped him into her home. He didn’t fully collapse, though he looked like he might. Instead, he moved with deliberate slowness with her help until they reached her large couch by the fireplace.

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, even as he winced with pain. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She made sure he was fully situated before she busied herself fetching a potion and bandages, trying to ignore the weight of his gaze following her every move. She knew whatever had caused him this much harm would not be so simple to fix with mere Wiggenweld potion or basic healing charms.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she murmured quietly, setting the supplies on the table beside him. “Especially not like this.”

Tom gave a faint, humorless smile. “Life has a way of surprising us.”

She bit back a retort at that, deciding to focus on the task at hand instead. "Show me."

Tom did not need to be instructed twice, as he moved to peel away his robes in order to expose his wounded back. He kept trying to hold in the winces every time he moved, and against her better judgement, she reached to bat his hands away and instead do the job herself. She removed his robes first, putting it away carefully so his blood would not stain her furniture. Then, she began slowly peeling away his shirt that had stuck to his skin after being soaked in his blood for so long. He suppressed a shiver at the feel of her cold fingertips grazing his skin, and she inn turn suppressed her urge to let her eyes wonder over his shirtless form. She had far more important matters in her hand.

The gash across his back was long and bloody. She could immediately tell it was not a wound caused by any weapon, but by dark magic. The edges of it were jagged, charred black which was the first giveaway of its cause. It was deep, angry, and refusing to heal fully even as she muttered counter-curses under her breath.

“This will take time,” she murmured, her voice softer than she intended, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile calm between them.

He didn’t reply, merely tilting his head to allow her better access. She could feel him watching her from the corner of his eye, even as she tried to focus. Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed a cooling salve into the wound, but she forced herself to steady them.

Once the magic had been neutralized as much as she could manage, she began to wrap a bandage around his torso. His skin was pale, marred by other scars she hadn’t expected to see, each one a testament to the battles he had fought—and most likely won.

Her hands brushed against his sides as she secured the bandage, and she felt his muscles tense beneath her touch. She glanced up instinctively, though she could not see his face fully.

“You’re trembling,” he said, his voice low and almost… gentle.

“I’m not,” she lied, looking away quickly as heat crept into her cheeks.

He let out a faint hum of disbelief but said nothing further.

When she finished wrapping his torso, she moved to settle in front of him so she could focus on the gash on his temple. The blood had dried, crusting around the edges of the wound, and she carefully wiped it clean with a damp cloth. Her fingers brushed his hair back from his face, wet and unruly from the rain, and she noted absently how much longer it had grown since their school days.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, but he was watching her again—always watching. She could feel the weight of his gaze as she worked, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked finally, her voice tight.

“Because you’re still the same,” he said quietly, his tone devoid of the usual bite she had come to expect from him.

She paused, her hand hovering above the wound. “And you’re not,” she replied, her words laced with both sadness and bitterness.

He smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “No. I’m not.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the faint patter of rain against the window. When she resumed cleaning the wound, his gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it intensified, as though he were trying to memorize every detail of her face.

“You could have not let me in,” he said suddenly, his voice softer than she had ever heard it.

“Yes, I could have." She replied simply, and wondered if perhaps she should have.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, though it was filled with something that felt dangerously close to regret. “You always did see more in me than anyone else,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Her hands stilled briefly, but she quickly resumed her work, unwilling to meet his gaze. “Maybe I was wrong.”

For the first time since he had arrived, he looked away.

Suddenly she was overcome with a burst of courage. "You can still stop this, you can—"

“I didn’t come here for a lecture.” He snapped.

“Then why did you come here?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and when he did, his words sent a chill down her spine. “Because you’re the only one I trust.”

Her hands stilled, the bandage halfway wrapped around his arm. “You trust me?” she repeated, disbelief coloring her tone. “After all these years?”

His gaze locked onto hers, intense and unyielding. “You’ve always been different,” he said, as though that explained everything. “You see the flaws, but you don’t flinch. You never did.”

She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong. But the truth was, a part of her still saw the boy she once called a friend. And that part of her was why she hadn’t turned him away.

Her hands fell at her sides, and she tried to search his face but she could decipher what he was feeling. "Tom..."

It was as if the utter of his name was his last straw before he was undone. “Stop.” His voice was quiet but firm, and not for the first time, it carried something she couldn’t name. A plea, maybe, hidden beneath the layers of steel. “Nothing is going to deter me from my path.”

“Even if it means losing everything? Losing everyone?”

He tilted his head, studying her as though the answer should have been obvious. “I have never really had anyone or anything. Except you.”

Her throat tightened at his words, but she managed to croak out a reply. "And you lost me."

His eyes flashed, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned back in the couch, rested his head and closed his eyes. “Perhaps not,” he said finally. “But you’re here now.”

The weight of his words hung between them like a storm about to break. Before she could respond, he opened his eyes and looked at her. “I’ve watched you,” he admitted, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “For years, I’ve watched you. Wondering if one day you’d join me." He paused, "Hoping.”

She crossed her arms, holding his gaze. "You mean standing beside you while the world burns?"

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. "If that’s how you choose to see it."

"That's a lonely prospect." She retorted.

The flickering firelight cast shadows over his sharp features, making him seem both human and monstrous. "Lonely," he repeated, almost mockingly. "You think I don’t know what loneliness is?"

"I think you chose it," she said quietly.

Tom's eyes flashed, a dangerous spark of anger igniting in them. "I didn’t choose it," he hissed. "I embraced it. Because weakness is what binds people to one another. And I refused to be weak."

"Strength doesn’t mean shutting everyone out," she shot back. "It doesn’t mean destroying everything good in your life. You used to know that. At least I thought you did."

For a moment, she thought she saw something crack in his carefully composed mask. His voice lowered, almost a whisper and he chose to disregard her comment. "I told myself that you just needed time," he admitted. "But then I started hearing things. Rumors that you’d settled down, moved on. That you were happy." His gaze met hers, unflinching and intense. "Do you know what that did to me? The thought of someone else taking what I’d decided was mine? I was ready to kill, but then I found out the rumours were false."

She laughed, but it was hollow, her disbelief bleeding through. “Do you even hear yourself? That is not love."

His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Call it what you want. It’s all I’ve ever had to offer.”

She shook her head. "But it's—"

“Me,” Tom interrupted. “It’s who I am. And you’ve always known that.”

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, as she tried to find her footing amidst the storm of his words. He wasn’t just offering her a place beside him—he was offering her the only version of himself he knew how to be. And for a shameful moment, she wondered if that was enough.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” she said finally, her voice breaking under the weight of her own plea. “You could still—”

“Still what?” he asked, his voice colder now. “Change? Turn back? Forget everything I’ve fought for?” His tone softened then, laced with something dangerously close to vulnerability, though his expression remained steely. “No matter what you say, I won’t stop. I can’t. Don’t you see?” His jaw tightened as though the words were difficult to force out. “You’re the only person I’ve ever had even the faintest semblance of care for—of love for.”

The word hung in the air between them, so foreign coming from his lips that she almost didn’t believe he’d said it. Her throat tightened, her body frozen under his piercing gaze.

“And if anyone,” he continued, his voice darkening, “anyone so much as thinks of taking you from me, I’ll kill them. You know I will.”

A shiver ran down her spine at the conviction in his words, the raw ferocity in his voice. She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “You don’t love me— you just want to keep me caged.”

His nostrils flared, his expression twisting in frustration. “Why don’t you understand?” His voice cracked, sharp and raw, and before she could react, his hands shot forward, grasping her face.

She gasped, the suddenness of the gesture sending her heart racing. His hands were cold against her skin, but his grip was firm, unyielding, as though he feared she might slip away. His dark eyes bore into hers, and for the first time, she saw something she couldn’t quite name in them—a mix of fury, desperation, and something heartbreakingly human.

“I would burn the whole world just to keep you warm,” he said, his voice a low growl that reverberated through her chest.

Her breath hitched, the words crashing into her like a tidal wave. She could no longer hold her tears, and was helpless as they trailed a wait trail down her cheeks.

She couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, trapped by the sheer force of his presence.

And then, with a gentleness that was almost cruel, he leaned in, his lips brushing against the tears streaking down her face. He wiped them away with his mouth, his touch at once tender and consuming, sending a shudder through her entire body.

“Tom…” she whispered, her voice breaking as his lips trailed down the curve of her cheek. She didn’t know if it was a plea or a warning, but the moment the word left her lips, he silenced her with his own.

The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative—it was desperate, fervent, as though he were trying to etch himself into her soul, to claim her in a way that words never could. His fingers tightened slightly on her face, pulling her closer, his breath hot and unrelenting against her skin.

She tried to resist, her mind screaming at her to pull away, to end this before it consumed her entirely. But her body betrayed her, melting into his as though it had been waiting for this moment, despite everything. Despite the pain. Despite the danger.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. His hands didn’t leave her face, his thumbs brushing over her skin in a way that made her heart ache.

Her voice cracked as she spoke. “When you’re healed, I’ll tell you to go.”

His hands stiffened slightly, his grip faltering for a brief second before it steadied again. "And I will come back again. And again."

She ignored his words. “For now,” she continued, her voice breaking under the weight of the moment, “I’ll let myself have this.”

She leaned into him, closing her eyes against the storm raging both outside and within her. For now, she allowed herself to relish the fleeting comfort of his touch, even as she knew it was a mistake. Because when the storm passed, when he was gone, she’d be left with nothing but the ashes of what once was—until he would come back to reignite it until she gives in.

༻♛༺

[lushaletta]

the dark lord and his distraction / tom riddle

pairing: tom riddle x fem!reader

content: muggleborn!reader, swearing

summary: you distract tom from his plans. and he hates it.

a/n: this is my pt. 2 to the lamb and her wolf! idk if i like this but i kinda do but Arghh idk. there will prob be a part 3. love u guys!

read part one here!

⋆ ࣪.  ⁺⑅ ⋰˚ *.ﾟ .˳⁺⁎˚ ˚⁎⁺˳ . ༺ ˖࣪ ˖࣪ ∗

“Hello!” you chirp, skipping over, books in hand.

Tom’s not looking for company. In fact, he was actively avoiding it. He couldn’t continue to be distracted by you. He had work to be done, meetings to be held. But he’s a weak man recently. “Hello.”

You set your things down and lace your arms around his neck suddenly. He’s absolutely horrified. “Thank you for your help studying, Tommy, I’ve passed my exam with full marks!”

He clears his throat and you leave a patch of goosebumps in your wake. “You’re welcome,” he drawls. “You wouldn’t have to spend so much extra time revising if you’d only paid attention in class.”

Tom knows you’re merely a distraction, an inconvenience to be ignored. Deadweight to his plans. You’d be a mistake. It’s obvious what he should do. He should send you off on your merry way and end whatever friendship has blossomed between you, so you at least have a chance at living. For someone so obsessed with immortality, Tom knew he was a dead man the moment you strut into his life, all smiles and Mary Jane’s. But he’s selfish, and so you were dead right with him, that very minute.

He doesn’t like anything you bring. He doesn’t like the reactions you elicit from calling him Tommy and he doesn’t like how you make him happy. Or hopeful. There is no hope for him. He’s destined to live a half-life and he doesn’t like that he wants to make you live that life too.

And you’re not entirely stupid. You know there’s something strange about him and that’s exactly why you come every day with your books and snacks. You’re curious. He’s haunting— a concoction of allure and fear and it’s all but enticing. “Well, who wants to do that? You’re a far better teacher.”

His face casts the ghost of a smile. “Don’t you have chess club in 15 minutes?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there,” you say, easily. Then the realisation dawns on you: You’ve never given him your schedule. “Wait a second,” you laugh. “How do you know that?”

He holds an even tone. “Not hard to guess.”

You blink. Change the topic. “You’re very pretty, you know?”

His knees almost give out and he’s seated comfortably on a chair. “Thank you,” he whispers, trying hard not to sound surprised. He’s not unaware of his good looks, but how anyone could be so casual about it is beyond him.

You’re an aberration, he thinks. No, he’s sure. You write notes in the margins of his textbooks and fall asleep on his shoulder. And when you do so, you let out the cutest little snores and purr. Like a fucking kitten. It drives him to insanity and even deeper into his spiral.

“No, like, you are super pretty. It’s kind of otherworldly.”

He’s not too sure what to say. He’s never rendered speechless by anyone, but fuck, you’re his exception to just about everything. Instead, he stiffens and breathes out a small, “That’s kind.”

Your cheeks dimple and Tom swears he sees his future. But that’s crazy. He has to remember who you are and hell, who he is. He’s the Dark Lord, evil, no matter how you see him in that pretty head of yours. And you’re a filthy Mudblood.

It’s been two days and he hasn’t seen you anywhere. He’s starting to think there *is* no cure to his hysteria because he acts crazy in both your presence and absence. He thinks about you too much in both. He’s looked everywhere; in all your classes and even your dorm that he’s managed to find.

He’s about giving up. There is no point because you’re meant to be temporary.

“Hi,” you say, breathlessly as you appear behind him, startling him into oblivion. He’s a skilled Legilimens so he should’ve heard your thoughts as you creeped up, but he was too busy with his own about you.

He conceals his relief and narrows his eyes. “You have been gone.”

You look a little disheveled but beautiful as ever. Tom doesn’t sweat, but it feels like he’s going to. “Family stuff. You know how it goes!”

Tom doesn’t know how it goes. He’s used to abandonment and lonely holidays. He doesn’t know how it goes but he knows how it feels to dread the Christmases and Easters and summers because all he can look forward to is disappointment.

He winces. You notice and cringe. You don’t know much about his family but judging by that reaction, it’s no good. “Mm,” he manages. It’s silence for a bit. Comfortable silence. He’s secretly relishing in your company. “I didn’t like it when you were gone.”

What a fucking tool.

The corners of your lips curl into a soft grin. “You are adorable!” you giggle. He’s mortified.

You haven’t really told any of your friends about your blooming acquaintanceship with Tom Riddle. After all, he’s not really known for his friendliness. But you trust Camilla. And you’ve used up the last of your excuses for bailing on meals to study with him.

“Riddle. Are you joking me?”

Your eyebrows quirk up. “No. He’s a breath of fresh air from the Hogwarts hustle. Not much of a talker though. I do most of that.”

She smiles a little like it’s expected of you but it fades once she refocuses. “He doesn’t like us Muggleborns, you know.”

“That’s silly.”

“Only true. I heard Mulciber whispering about it. Like, they really don’t like us. No wonder he’s such a git towards me in class.”

“Have you ever actually spoken to Tom, though?” You fold your arms over your chest. You’re not too sure why you’re being defensive.

“Well, no—“

“That’s what I thought! You don’t give people chances, Camilla. You rely on gossip to fuel your opinions,” you spit.

Camilla puts her hands up in surrender and starts talking about the cute Ravenclaw boy she’s planning to ask out.

“Oh! And I think Murphy fancies you! He asked me to ask you how you felt about him.”

You thought about him for a moment. He’s nothing special but he’s attractive and you’re honestly willing to give it a shot.

Tom is fuming, hearing what you think. Listening from around the corner and it’s creepy and borderline stalker-ish but he’s begun to feel a strange protectiveness over you. Frenzy and all that.

So, yes. You’re merely a distraction, an inconvenience to be ignored. Deadweight to his plans. But… you were a desire. A selfish, greedy desire.

And Tom always gets what he wants.

taglist for this series! @helalokithor @mli345 (can’t find ur blog so sorry!!) lmk if u want to be added!

[viperify]

drabbles | ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𑁤 safe space.

Tom Riddle doesn’t ask for help. Doesn’t ask for comfort. Yet, you know when he needs it. And you will always be there for him—his only safe space.

As soon as the front door opens, you feel the energy shift—tension and exhaustion hanging thick in the air. 

It’s often like this when he comes home after a long day.

Though he insists he’s alright and just tired, you know there’s more behind it than what he lets you see. But you don’t ask—you never do. You don’t push him, give him the space he needs.

If you have learned something in your relationship, it’s patience.

Tom doesn’t ask for your help—not directly. It’s silent, wordless. It’s when only your presence and warmth can offer the sanctuary he needs. When his touches linger, unhurried and soft. When his kisses are without haste, his hand on the back of your head, keeping you close. When he pulls you just a little bit closer at night, thinking you’re asleep, thinking you won’t notice.

But you do.

Every time, you do notice. That even Tom Riddle needs his safe space. Safe space you will always provide without a second thought, even when he doesn’t know how to ask for it.

You are there for him, and that’s what matters.

That’s what he values so highly. You understand him in a way no one else does.

It’s then when you feel his hands around your waist, his breath ghosting over your skin as he inhales deeply, placing a gentle kiss on the nape of your neck.

Today is one of the days.

“Rough day?” You ask softly, quietly putting down the wooden spoon in your hand.

Tom merely hums in reply, pressing another kiss to your neck, his thumb rubbing soft patterns on the cotton fabric of your dress.

You turn around, abandoning the half-prepared dinner in front of you. 

Instead, your fingers run through his hair, smoothing out his dark curls before your hand rests on his neck. Gently swiping over his cheekbone with your thumb before your lips find his in a tender kiss.

His hands, now on your lower back, pulling you even closer.

You notice.

When you part, you see the storm in his dark brown eyes. You see the tension, though slowly fading, on his face.

You don’t ask.

Instead, you take off his coat, help him out of his shoes.

After dinner, you both read, like you usually do in the evening. It’s a small gesture when his hand comes resting on your thigh, thumb rubbing circles on your skin.

But, you notice.

Minutes later, he’s asleep. You let him rest, although you know he doesn’t normally fall asleep while he’s reading—always aware of his surroundings, even at home.

You brush a strand of hair from his face, and he wakes, even at the slightest bit of contact. Always aware, even when he’s asleep.

“Let’s go to bed,” you whisper, taking his hand in yours. He doesn’t object, not this time. Doesn’t tell you he still has work to do.

Then, when you are both in bed, curtains closed, candles blown out, his arm wraps protectively around your waist.

And just when he thinks you are asleep, he pulls you closer, until your back is flush with his chest. Slowly, he starts trailing feather-light kisses down your neck, starting behind your ear—so soft, so gentle, you struggle to keep still and quiet.

“I love you, sweetheart. Always.” He murmurs, eyelids growing heavier as he feels himself drift off to sleep. Worries fading. At peace. Finally at peace, with you in his arms.

Your lips curve into a smile. 

You noticed.

Of course you did.

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | drabbles.

⋆˙⟡

A/N: Tom Riddle, the man you are could have been. I love you either way. Always.

[peachigummi]

bite 𓆚 tom riddle. p2.

summary: [read part 1 here!] after you almost break up with tom, you decide to give him another chance (and thank god you did too). you force him into communication because that's how a healthy normal couple should come together, right? tom concedes, letting you take the lead, but only for a bit. old habits die hard. he also has a surprise in store, though it’s more for him, than you.

pairing: tom (if you squint, he's rather sensitive! and insecure!) x fem! slytherin! reader

warnings: 18+, more fluff rather than angst, soft-boiled sex? (LOL, like not too soft, not to hard),

BUT before I lose you freaks: eye contact!, sum praise, begging, mating press *blush* (piv, unprotected), creampie, reassurance!!, nipple play, biting, blood magic/play/consumption? (😵‍💫). saying ily for the first time, with some after care :)

note: uhhh enjoy?

word count: 10,527 (so excuse me why it took so long >.<)

(trust i will never perfectly proofread my work at this point)

reblog, like & comment if you'd like tom to claim you!

~ @amongstthehollows , @blxuqueenie , @queenanababy , @lovellies , @urmom101 , @lolalleins

There was a soft rapt on the door. You slowly pry your eyes open, they still felt so incredibly heavy. Swollen. Crusted over. You couldn’t remember falling asleep, you must have tired yourself out from crying. You felt drained.

“Y/N?”

You recognized the voice to be Astoria’s. There was another tap.

“I know you’re in there…” she said softly again. You got up off the bed, your body cracking in all sorts of places. You slowly pull the door open, Astoria peeked her head through. You saw how her eyes widened as she took in your red-rimmed eyes and your tear stained cheeks. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. 

“We didn’t see you last night…or this morning…” she hesitated, “or lunch.” She gently sat down on the edge of your bed, her expression was one of concern as she turned to face you.

Your eyebrows furrowed, it didn’t feel that long. Though you couldn't decide if it was too long of a time passage, or too little since you fled from Tom. You walked to your window, peeling back the curtains, the sun was starting to make its descent.  

“We asked Tom where you were, but he couldn’t really speak. It was like he was recovering from something. Just kept whispering ‘room’.” Astoria explained. “It's strange behavior from both of you. I can tell something is off.”

You nodded. Of course he didn’t tell him that we had an argument, Tom would never admit that to others. 

“I also know that you don’t usually seek out people, but if you do need someone to talk to, you know I’m here.” She continued.

“I know you are.” You turned away from the window to smile at her. It was Tom that you needed to talk to, but you already reached out to him. You wanted him to come to you.

“It would mean a lot to us if you came down and ate.” She stood up, and reached out to touch your hand. You opened your mouth to protest, but she interrupted, “not in the dining hall. We all pitched in to have a house potluck. We got tired of the school’s food.” She laughed lightly.

“Okay fine, you’ve got me interested.” Your stomach growled at the thought of food.

Astoria grinned when she saw you soften, she gave your hand a gentle squeeze before letting it go. She opened the door, the warm, inviting smell of food drifting into the room. Your stomach let out another grumble.

You took a step back, “I should freshen up first.” You quickly began to run your fingers through your hair.

“You look fine, really. No one is dressed up.” She did reach out to hover her hands above your eyes, she whispered something and you immediately felt a cool relief in the area. She pulled back.

“What was that?” You ask, blinking. Refreshed.

“I’ve been working on cosmetic magic.” She smiled, “I usually do that to help with swelling.”

You felt yourself blush, “thank you.” Your eyes must have been really affecting your overall appearance. You found yourself glad that Astoria didn’t try prying into why you had been crying.

Astoria gently pushed you toward the door, leading you down the hallway and down the stairs. As you got closer to the common room, the sound of chatter and laughter grew louder. The smell of food became even more irresistible. 

A few people noticed as you came down with Astoria, you waved at them. Leading you to a long table with a variety of foods, Astoria grabbed a plate for you. You glanced back briefly, your housemates were sitting around in a circle playing some game. You felt a heavy stare, your head ached. You flinched away from the feeling, shaking your head as if it would help. Tom. You told him time and time again to not attempt to get in your head. It was an invasion. He had eventually respected it, but apparently not now.

“You need to try these sliders…” Astoria grabbed your attention again, “and these fruits here are so ripe.”

Tom sat across the room, a ways outside of the immediate circle of students, his eyes locked on you. He had been watching you since you turned the corner down to the common room. Seeing you interact so warmly with another person made his heart clench, a mixture of pain and jealousy. Astoria was just taking care of you, so why was he so irritated by it?

“Astoria..I know I missed a couple of meals but-” Now you began to protest, flinching again when you felt another sharp pain of Tom trying to use Legilimency. 

“Oh stop it, we have to nourish your body. Don’t ever skip out like that again. It’s bad for you.” She kept filling the plate.

“Okay Tori, it’s really enough…really. I can always refill if need be.” You say holding her wrist back as she tried to grab another item. 

She looked at you trying to gauge your honesty. Then conceded, “okay fine..at least try those puff pastries at the end over there, they’re to die for.” 

You nod as she gracefully hopped around people until she reached the spot next to Draco. Draco shifted as Astoria took the seat. He put his arm around her, and kissed her temple, all while looking at you. His eyes shifted to Tom, then back to Astoria.

Taking a seat on a couch near the back of the group, you look over at the center of the room. Blaise and Theodore were at the center, wearing blindfolds. Giggling like idiots as they tried to guess what they were feeling inside a box. You look down at your plate of food. You could also feel as Tom tried to read your expression, again. It was starting to irritate you. You continued to try and push him out.  

You took a deep breath, taking a stab at a potato, putting it in your mouth. It was delicious and soft. You dared to look at Tom, blankly. Almost daring him to do something else but stare.

Tom smirked as you looked up at him, defiance written all over your face. He was taken back for a sheer moment, not expecting you to want to look at him, especially so directly. His jaw clenched, mind racing with the things he wanted to do, needed to do. Things that he should say. He thought about it all night and all day after your last meeting. Tom was also keenly aware that anyone could see him if he decided to act out on it. He couldn’t risk revealing his dark, possessive side of himself. He needed to wait and pull you aside in order to gather his thoughts and tell them to you. 

You rolled your eyes, subtly shifting over on the couch. You rest your hand on the seat directly next to you, tapping on it with a single finger. You lift your hand back up to stab through a piece of meat, putting it in your mouth, looking away. 

Tom recognized the invitation in your gesture, his heart began to pound in his chest. He was torn between his need to protect his reputation and the temptation of being next to you. Being able to touch you was too strong to ignore. He got up from his spot, slowly making his way towards the couch you sat on.

You watch as Tom got up, disappearing into your blind spot. Then a few seconds later you felt his presence directly behind you. You carefully chew, placing the fork in front of your mouth as if you were getting ready for another bite. “Kind of rude for you to just stand there when I invited you to sit.” You say, now taking the bite off your fork.

Tom’s lips twitched again as he heard your words. You were always so demanding at times, so forward. It both annoyed and intrigued him. He leaned over the couch, his breath warm against the nape of your neck as he whispered in a low voice. “I was just observing. Taking time to enjoy the view from back here.”

His warm breath, the smell of his cologne. It almost made you twist with delight, but you held your own. “The back of my head?” You look down at your plate deciding what to eat next. Astoria had a good selection. Everything was delicious. 

Your comment only made him lean forward some more, his chest brushing against your back. “I was looking at your neck, the way your hair falls over your shoulders.” He could barely resist the urge to reach out and touch you, wrap his arm around your neck and pull you against his chest. “It’s quite beautiful.”

“You flirt.” You almost sigh at his subtle touch, “nice to know you have your voice back from that creation we made.” You point out. There was an eruption in the center of the room as Theo began cursing in Italian about who put a damn spider in the box to guess.

Tom chuckled softly, his breath sending goosebumps down your spine. “Yes, I do have my voice back, and I plan to use it to my advantage.” He slowly rested a hand behind your shoulder, gripping the back of the couch. His knuckles are just barely touching you. He was even so bold to reach out and rest a single finger on said shoulder. How scandalous!

“And I doubt you’ll actually talk face to face with me in public.” You try to take the irritation out of your voice. Thinking about how he couldn’t even touch you even when you were near damn ready to break things off with him the other evening.

His frown returned upon hearing the edge in your voice. You were right, he couldn’t fight that. Hiding his feelings from everyone came as easy as breathing to him. But he had to change that if he were to keep you. “I have my reasons.” He ventured out to actually put his whole hand on your shoulder, tightening it, as if to keep you in place. He was afraid you would walk off again. “But this is between us two. No one else. So no sense in talking about it in public. Want me to make a speech out of it and include everyone?” It was his nature to come off snarky. He shook his head regretting having said it like that.

You shrugged his hand off your shoulder, despite how much you needed his touch. “Sit, Riddle.” You watch as the next pair of housemates were being blindfolded to guess, it was Pansy and Enzo. 

Tom…was beginning to like how assertive you were being. He hesitated, but ultimately obeyed. Taking the seat next to you, your weight shifted toward him causing your legs to touch. You didn’t dare move it, you wondered if he would. You slightly turn your head to look at him, casually. Tom looked down at you, his eyes dark, mixed with a desire and uncertainty.

“Did I give you enough time to think and brew up any excuses?” You say sarcastically. You actually couldn’t believe you nearly slept through a whole day after your last interaction. 

He sighed, he actually sighed! Tom ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “You have.”

“Really? Spill.” You stab another piece of meat, offering it to him. Seeing if he would have the courage to bite into it, to try and let you feed him with his peers around. You could see Tom’s eyes flicker down to your fork before looking back into your eyes. He saw through your challenge to push him to show some form of affection in public. 

With another sigh and hesitation, even with his pride flaring up, trying desperately to hold his ground. He ends up leaning forward slightly, opening his mouth to take the bite you offered to him. His desire to be close to you ultimately won. Tom chews very slowly, his eyes flicking around the room. He just had to quickly reassure himself that no one cared to notice what was going on between you two. 

You fought back a smile. “Waaaow.” You remark in surprise, watching him lean away from you to swallow. “You must have really been thinking about stuff.” You knew if Tom hadn’t been trying to improve himself, he would have probably smacked the fork away from your grasp.

Tom licked the bottom of his lip, instinctively his thumb went to wipe the corner of his mouth as if he had some sort of crumb. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” His cheeks were actually showing a bit of pink. He couldn’t control how his body reacted from something so mundane as letting someone else feed him, especially in a room full of people. To a regular person, Tom still had a poker face. But to a trained eye like you, you noticed it right away. 

You nod, “maybe a little too much.” It was the most you’ve gotten him to do in the months you’ve been together. “So…do share. What has been going on in that mind of yours?” You nudge him with your elbow. Bringing him back to the issue at hand.

He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t deny that your persistence was starting to wear him down. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Tom looked at you, his gaze softening slightly. 

“I did all the talking when you were mute. It took a toll on me. So I'm going to really need you to spill your own heart out.” You explain as you shake your head.

 “Fine. But this really is not a conversation I’d like to have here.” His chin rose up pointing to the group.

You look down at your near empty plate, “help me with this and you can take me elsewhere then.”

Tom, did feel the now familiar pang of guilt at the mention of your exhaustion. The weight of your words. So he didn’t fight that request. He took the plate from you, “Fine. Once I finish this, I get to choose the place.” 

“All yours Riddle.” You nod. There was another explosion of laughter from the room, but he had all your attention. Waiting for him to finish the food. It made you feel better that he was being fed too. Even if it was basically forced.

When he finally got around to it, Tom set the plate on the small table near the couch. He stood up, offering you his hand. “Come on.”

You had to bite back your smile when you saw his hand out. No way in hell were you going to pass up this opportunity. You took it, his touch cold as ever, despite how warm the room was from the everlasting fire. Why he always ran cold was beyond you. It was actually quite concerning sometimes. 

With your hand clutched tightly between Tom’s, he led you out of the common room, past the group of rowdy students, and into a quieter hall then down another. He came to a stop at an empty window nook, tugging you into the secluded area. The refracted moonlight streamed through the window, casting a soft blue-green glow on both your faces as he turned his body toward you. His face glazed with something unreadable.

“Is this where you usually come to think?” You ask looking out of the window at the dark shadows. Since the Slytherin dormitory was halfway into the Black Lake, this part was truly submerged in the water. 

Tom nodded in response, he followed your gaze. The underwater plants gently swayed with the current of the water. Creating an oddly soothing atmosphere, as if it was just for you two. He shifted closer to you, his body almost touching yours once more. His voice was low and quiet as he began to speak, “Yes. It’s peaceful down here.” 

“I like it.” You try to study him. “I can really picture you here.”

“Can you?” He liked the idea of you imagining him when you were alone. Tom hoped that version of himself that you conjured up in your mind, was much kinder to you than he actually was. 

You try to refrain from sighing, “Don’t try to change the subject, we came here to talk.” You remind him.

“So we’ll talk.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to already keep his frustration at bay or from even daring to come out. “But I would hate to say something you wouldn’t like to hear.” 

You just stare at him. It couldn’t be as bad as you breaking up with him…unless he came to the decision that agreed with that notion. But Tom’s sudden flirting and closeness indicated otherwise. 

With a deep breath, he took a moment to steel himself for the conversation. For the talk about…these so-called stupid feelings he had to address. He knew he had to be honest with you, even if it meant putting a larger gap in this newly fragile relationship you shared. “Alright. Firstly, I owe you an apology.” He looks at you with regret. 

“About?” You prod.

He hesitates, his eyes flickering back to the shadows in the window. “About…pushing you away. About not allowing myself to be close to you in public. About hiding my feelings and pretending that I don’t care.”

You reach out and put a finger under Tom’s chin so he could turn back to look at you. “Tommy…I don’t want you to think it’s bad to be private. I admire that…I do. But I just…it wouldn’t hurt to know…that you aren’t ashamed of me in public. Or to know that you really do like me.”

Tom’s eyes widened at your touch, god he so desperately wanted to defend his actions, to explain why he preferred to keep private. The look in your eyes made him think twice, he took another deep breath. His voice was low and sincere, “I do like you…so much more than it seems. More than anything. And I don't want to hide it..but..” He trailed off, unable to find the right words to explain his conflicted feelings.

“But?” You ask, letting go of his chin. You let your hands fall onto his lap, fiddling with the end of this sweater. It was oddly comforting to Tom. “Let’s meet in the middle…tell me.”

Sighing, he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to find some words to explain. He couldn’t keep hiding behind excuses and half-truths. “It’s complicated.” He finally lets out, voice strained. Uncertain.

“I’ve got time.” You look between his dark eyes. You’ve never seen him so conflicted. Tom was always so sure of what he did and wanted to do. You could tell he was actually trying to see how you might react and feel. To be conscious of your needs.

“I’ve never done this before.” He cleared his throat. “Openly liking someone, having feelings…being…vulnerable. I’ve always been closed off, keeping everyone more than arm’s length away. It’s easier that way.”

“Tom…You’re like one of the greatest wizards out there and you’re so young too. So much more to learn and do which is insane to think about.” You pause, “liking someone won't and doesn’t make you weak. Being alone and stony only makes things hard.”

Tom listened to the truth in your words. You were right, he was being stubborn and foolish, but he couldn’t help the fear that gripped him at the thought of opening up fully. “I know. I just…don't want to lose control. I don’t want to depend on anyone. I don’t want to let my emotions rule me.”

“Balance. It’s about balance. Too much of something is never good.” You shift to grip onto one of his hands that was actually beginning to grow so pale with his death clench he had. You make his fingers sprawl out, releasing the tension. “You can still be in control and have balance.

His heart raced as you touched him. The feeling of your hand on his, sent a shiver down his spine. “Balance, huh?” A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lip. “You make it sound so easy.” Tom let out a tsk.

“It’s not, god I wish it was. It’s a lot of work to find balance. But I want us to try that. Baby steps.” You bring his hand up to your face, leaning into his palm. “Tommy…I want to try with you, please try with me.”

His breathing stalled at the action. At your plea. He felt some defense of his crumbling, his guarded demeanor almost at once deteriorating. Just for you. The tenderness in your eyes, your own vulnerability showing to him. “I’ll try.” He rubbed his thumb over your soft, plump cheek. “For you.”

“Please.” You felt your sight begin to blur. You drop hold of his hand so you could lean in and cup his face with both your hands. Without hesitation you press your lips against his, slowly kissing him. Tom’s own eyes fell shut, the feeling of your hands on him sent a rare wave of warmth through him. He brought his own hands up to your hips, holding you tightly as he returned the kiss. Pouring all of his pent-up emotions into it. 

Tom was the one to deepen the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours as he tried to convey all the things he still couldn’t say. Things he was too afraid of coming to terms with. He nearly felt like praying to some almighty being that this would be enough, even just for now, to keep you. 

He pulled you closer to him, his hands sliding up your back. Leaning you onto him. He savored the taste and feel of you in his arms. You’ve kissed before, but this was different. Much different. It was driving him to the brink of insanity. Tom wanted more, needed more. It took all of his self-control to keep from taking it further in that moment. He couldn’t stop thinking about how your body fit against his.

There was a thud of a door down the corridor. Almost like you both were electrocuted, you parted away from each other. Settling in the opposite ends of the window nook. No part of either of you touching. You both were even looking in different directions. You looked out of the window, while Tom looked at the person who began to walk down the corridor to the other end of the hall.

Tom took a deep slow inhalation, trying to steady his racing heart and calm his jagged breathing. He could feel the heat lingering on his lips, your taste still fresh. He shifted in his seat, too easily he appeared nonchalant and unaffected by the moment that had just passed. He even gave a brief nod to the student that passed. 

There was another slam of a door, the footsteps subsided. You looked at Tom and smiled, holding back a laugh. You bit on your thumbnail. Once again, since you were familiar with his mannerisms, he still looked quite flustered. Tom shot you a sideways glance, noticing the amused look on your face. 

He cleared his throat. “What’s so funny?” He asked, even though he had a pretty good idea of the reason for your amusement. 

“Can you tell me one thing, Riddle?” You ask, smiling at him. You turn your body back towards him.

With a raised eyebrow, and a smirk forming despite his efforts to keep a straight face. “One thing?” He repeated, folding his arms across his chest. “Depends on what you’re asking, sweetheart.”

Your heart fluttered at the pet name, he hardly ever used any. It was always just your name. “Can you wish me a belated happy birthday…?” You ask oh-so sweetly, batting your lashes at him, crossing your own arms. The reason why this whole thing happened.

Tom rolled his eyes, but rather playfully, at your request. Pretending to be annoyed by your sweet demeanour. “You’re still hung up on that? It’s just a birthday. Not the end of the world or anything.”

“But it means the world to me…coming from you.”

He looked at you, your expression held. He softened again, “fine, fine. Happy birthday, darling.”

You smile, “thank you, Tommy. I’ll take it.” You stand up out of the nook, offering your hand to him this time.

Tom lets you pull him up. He dusted off his sweater, a small smile playing on his lips. “You’re insanely stubborn, you know that right?” But he didn’t really have any bite to his words. He rather admired how determined you were to hear that from him. He stepped closer to you, his hand still holding yours.

“I like getting my way.” You give him a playful scowl, squeezing his hand. “But I also don’t like liars. And you lied about having a surprise for me.”

Rolling his eyes, “It wasn’t a lie, per se. Just…a delay in the plan.” He couldn’t keep the hint of defensiveness out of his voice. He knew he had screwed up, but it was hard to admit it outright. “I had something planned, I just…” He trailed off, suddenly looking embarrassed. 

“Yaddayadda…” I start tugging him down the hall, “just don’t make an empty promise again. Especially not with me.” 

“I know..I know..” He huffed, following your lead. He would admit he kind of liked the way you were taking control. He couldn’t help but look down at your perky ass as you led him. Tom couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at him.

You pushed open the door out of the hallway, there were still a good amount of people in the common room. You felt Tom’s hand twitch in yours. You couldn’t blame him for still feeling uncomfortable with showing public affection, it was much too soon to be expecting that. So you let go of his hand.

With that, Tom couldn’t help but feel immediate relief, but maybe also a mix of disappointment. He quickly shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to appear as if he had just taken a leisurely stroll with you. Tom scanned the room, his expression betrayed nothing.

You both climbed up the stairs, at the top you ask, “let’s call it a night…mine or yours?” You run your fingers on the railing waiting for his response.

“Mm..” he mused, leaning against the railing. “Mine.” 

With a quick nod, you already start walking toward his side of the dormitory. Once you passed a corner out of view from those below in the common room. You turned around and grabbed Tom’s hand again, “C’mon you’re so slow..” You whine and tug on him.

Tom chuckled at your impatience, allowing himself to be pulled along. He laced his fingers through yours as you took hold of his hand, savoring the feel of your touch. He quickened his pace to walk beside you, “Eager?”

“I’m not that clingy, but two and a half days without you sucks!” You say waiting outside of his door, waiting for him to unlock it with his touch.

“Is that right? You missed me?” Tom once again felt a warmth spread through his body at the thought. It was still a foreign feeling, but not an unwelcome one. He took a step closer to you, his body just millimeters away, he raised his hand towards the door handle. Hearing it click unlocked, he gently pushed the door open.

“Nagini!! I’m heeerrree!” You playfully sing out, giving Tom a teasing look, as if you had been talking about her and not him. He rolled his eyes, knowing you were messing with him. 

“Yeah sure, of course you miss the snake more than me. Why am I not surprised?” 

You go up to Nagini’s tank, she already began to go up, pushing against the lid wanting to come out.

“Has our Tommy been feeding you and letting you bask in the natural sunlight?” You coo. You take the lid off, offering your hand for her to climb onto. Tom leaned against the wall, watching you with amusement and affection. There was something oddly domestic about the sight of you loving on his snake. He raised an eyebrow as you asked about Nagini’s well being. 

“Of course I’ve been feeding her and letting her out. What do you think I am? A bad owner?”

“I wasn’t asking you.” You say to Tom, shooting him a look that still feigned on playfulness. You look back at the little snake, “has he?” She slithered further up your arm. You look at the small swell of her belly.

He ignores your comment. “She seems pretty content and healthy to me.” He responds either way, his voice tinged with pride. “I think that’s all the answer you need.” Tom pushed himself off the wall, stepping toward you and Nagini. 

Nagini looked back and forth between you and Tom, nodding. She continued to slither up all the way to your shoulder. You couldn’t help but laugh at the feeling. It tickled. You even felt her slim tongue flick at your cheek. “Nagini!” You laugh much louder.

Tom couldn’t help but let out a low laugh at the sight. “Careful now. She has a mind of her own, and won't hesitate to bite without warning.” He said this despite the surprising amount of affection she was showing you. 

“Yes I know. She didn’t like it when I didn’t bring her home quickly enough to her tank. She bit my finger because it was too cold for her.” You patted the top of her head with a single finger. “Can’t blame her. She knows what she likes. I respect that. I’m the same.” You smile at her, then at Tom.

“You’re quite the snake charmer.” He brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

“Only because you taught me. Otherwise snakes are kind of scary. Plus it helps that she’s so cool.” Nagini took the opportunity of Tom’s outstretched hand to start coiling onto his wrist. 

“Yes. She is. Sassy too.” He smiled at her as she settled with him, he went to stroke down her scales. The small snake closed her eyes, she looked content indeed. Almost like she was smiling back. The little tongue came out and flicked occasionally.

You take a step toward Tom, closing the distance. “She’s like our baby, huh?” 

Tom rolled his eyes at the comment, he never really saw Nagini as a baby in that way. Now that you mention it, he couldn’t help but see her in a different light. He only grunted in agreement, a small smile formed on his lips.

Leaning over, you plant a kiss on top of the snake’s head. Her tongue hitting your chin as if kissing you back. You giggled at the feeling once more. You looked up and kissed Tom on the cheek too. It was a small gesture, but it held a surprising amount of significance to him.

With his freehand, he lifted it to cup your face, “You’re spoiling her.” He teased, his voice low and soft. His gaze relaxed as he locked on yours. 

“I think she deserves it.” You challenge back. You lean in again, but this time you kiss him on the lips. 

He leaned into it, his hand coming to curl around the back of your neck. He broke away reluctantly after a few seconds. His eyes darkened as he looked down at you. “You’re spoiling me, too.”

“I think you deserve it.” You don’t let him answer because you plant another kiss, giving a small nibble on his bottom lip. You felt Tom’s breath pause. 

Tom felt his control slip the longer your lips locked. His hand tightened around your neck. “Careful, love. You might be getting yourself into trouble.” He said against you.

“What? I’m not asking for trouble.” You half wine. You feel him pull back. Watching him walk over to Nagini’s enclosure, he allows her to slither back in at her own pace. He puts the lid back on, before placing a small blanket on the top to cover it. “Oh?”

A sly smile formed on Tom’s face, it made you excited but also had your heart dropping. He comes close to you, coming close in order to whisper in your ear. “It won't end well, now that you’re all mine. Just us two.”

“All yours? Show me.” You close your eyes at the feel of his lips near your ear. The excitement growing.

“You’ve been quite pushy as of late.” He murmured, nipping lightly at your earlobe. Teeth grazing your skin. It sent a sharp chill down your body. Tom brought a hand around your waist, pulling you against him. “You’re getting close to crossing a line.” 

You let out a small yelp when he pulled on you. You could feel his heart beating in rhythm with yours. It was fast. “I wasn’t aware there was a line. A limit.” You respond, sighing when he licks the edge of your ear slowly. You shivered again, holding onto his sleeve.

Tom smirked at your physical response, it made him feel powerful. He pinched at your waist, “oh you have limits. Trust me.” He murmured against your skin, lowering his head. His breath was hot against your neck as his mouth moved along your jaw. He left a trail of soft kisses. He nuzzled the edge of your neck, feeling your pulse against his nose. It only fueled his desire.

“Enlighten me on what the limit is.” You manage to say between shallow breaths. You tilt your head further to the side to allow him better access. Absolutely relishing his attention. It only made you keenly aware of how your core began to stick to your panties.

Tom took advantage of your exposed neck, giving a sigh of approval of your action. His mouth moved along your skin with growing urgency. He couldn’t get enough of you, the way your hair smelled, the slight sweet salty taste of your skin, to the sound escaping your lips. “Your limit is when I say it is.” He murmured against your skin. His teeth grazing against your collarbone. 

You shake your head, “Please don’t…” You whine, yet you push him toward his bed until he falls slowly backwards onto it. He didn’t resist the action. You follow him, not daring to create distance. You kick your shoes off, making your way to straddle him. Your thighs on either side of his lap. 

He watched you with hooded eyes, feeling the weight of yourself on him. His hands came to rest on your hips. His touch was almost reverent as he stared up at you. “I want to do whatever I want.” You explain. It was your turn to savor him. With one hand you gently grasp onto his jaw, and begin to pepper kisses down his neck. You offered small licks and nibbles on his cool skin. His cologne was intoxicating, you wanted to smother it.

Tom involuntarily tilted his head away when your lips found his neck. He wanted more of this attention, and he found that he wanted to give it to you. “You want free rein, hm?” He thought about it for a moment, barely opening his eyes to look at you. “Do as you will then.” He relinquished his power to you. Tom gripped your hips tighter, his fingers digging into you.

“Let me take care of you..” You whisper against his skin. You find his lips and kiss him harshly. With this new distraction, you allow your hands to explore him. You feel his slender yet toned body. You carefully, almost cautiously, move your hand under yourself. Just between your legs, feeling him through his pants. “Please let me take care of you.” You repeat, begging.

His body tensed immediately to your touch, he hadn’t expected it to go in this way? Did he? His muscles froze with anticipation as your hands felt him. It has actually been a long time since he was touched in this manner. He couldn’t even remember the last time he relieved himself. 

Tom let out a low hiss as you pressed against him, his arousal growing with every passing moment. He just stiffly nods, “okay..” The single word came out much more strained due to his inner conflicts of relinquishing what he always held. Power. Independence. But god damn, did he need you to keep doing that with your hand. He lifted his hips, grinding against your grip. This new need is becoming evident to both of you now. 

Your foreheads touch as you kiss him once more. You feel his arms wrap lightly around your waist, the pressure and security felt amazing. Yet you wanted more, and you knew he did too. You could feel him through your own jeans. With one hand you were able to fluidly work through the button of his pants, before slowly dragging the zipper down. 

Tom’s grip tightened, almost pinching you. “I need you, don’t tease me now.”

You shook your head, “I’m not trying to.” You laugh, but he bucks himself up again, pushing you away for a moment. You catch yourself on his chest. 

“Take them off.” He commands. You were going to roll your eyes, you were already going to remove them before the command. You rebalance yourself in order to pull his pants down. Tom’s gaze never left yours, he groaned when the pressure released and his cock sprung forward. 

Shit. You thought, feeling it was one thing, but seeing it was another. His dick was big and you could never wrap around that truth. 

“What?” Tom said, propping himself up on his forearms, bringing your attention back to his eyes. That smirking bastard. “It’s all yours.” He flashes you a wicked smile. It made your cheeks begin to burn. You liked that reminder.

“I’m yours too.” You look away from him as you roll over onto your back and swiftly pull and tug at your own jeans. You arch yourself and look to him for help. 

He understands and immediately stands up and loops his fingers through the belt loops. As he starts to pull them over your thighs, his knuckles grace your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “All mine. Forever.” He leans over and pulls your shirt up, just enough to expose your stomach. He begins to kiss the skin there, his tongue barely touching you, yet making patterns along the curves of your body. “For all of time. I won’t let you walk out on me again.” You barely understand him. His mouth was pressed so closely to you. 

You were too focused on his mouth to realize that he had also pulled your panties off. You blush at the exposure, almost embarrassed. Your eyes meet, he looks down and he too realizes what he’s done. His pupils dilated at the sight below him. There was that light shade of pink on his cheeks again. Tom pulled himself up so he could attack your neck with the new powerful possessive wave that shot through him. “You’re beautiful..so fucking beautiful. Made just for me.” Voice thick with what seemed like an insatiable need. He roughly pushed your legs apart and eased himself between the empty space.

“Tommy…” You softly moan out, biting against your finger. You felt a hand come around under your thigh, just below your ass. His nails scratched into your skin and he groped. “Ah..” You shut your eyes, it was borderline painful. But in a good way, it was almost confusing. You wrap a hand around his wrist to try and make him release his grip, even slightly. At the same time you also attempted to move your hips against his, thus rubbing your slickness on his dick. You could feel the veins that ran over his length.

Tom whispered next to your ear, “Fuck. That’s it…move for me, darling.” His grip only tightened, it would definitely leave a tender bruise. He didn’t want to hold back any longer, he needed you. Now. Yet he was willing to wait, just to hear you beg for it. He planted wet hot kisses down your neck. He loved how you began to shake beneath him, breaths shallow. 

He removed his hands for a split second to pull your shirt further up to your chin, exposing your tits to him. “Mmm…so pretty.” He smiled at the sight. “No bra?” He clicked his tongue while pinching at your nipples, making them harden. You let out a long moan as his fingers rolled the swells back and forth. Tom grinded his hips slowly, enjoying how his dick was in between your folds. You were so warm and soft. “So damn wet..” He said aloud. He leaned down, cupping and squeezing your breasts together, his tongue licking around the skin of your nipples. Giving each proper attention, before circling to the hardened tips. Taking them between his teeth and giving them a nice slow tug before letting them fall out of his mouth. He continued this pattern, you watched as there was a line of spit forming when he switched breasts. The sight alone made you want to faint. Or even just cum with that mere stimulation. 

“Tom!” You cried out, “I want..” You put your hands on his shoulders. You tried to push him back and give you a quick break so you could gather yourself. Your body betrayed you because it was an incredibly weak push. “More…more.” Your voice faltered as if you were about to cry. His dick kept rubbing against your clit.

“You’ll have it. I can give you it all. As long as you’re mine. All you have to do is ask.” Tom murmured against the skin of your tits, still holding them close. Sucking on them whilst looking up at you. 

You had a feeling he meant a variety of things. Maybe he meant his pulsating cock. Maybe he meant the world. Maybe he meant his heart. 

“Say it. I want to hear you say it.” Tom shifted, holding himself with one arm up, so he could hold his dick with the other, he aligned it at your entrance holding it there for a moment. It indeed did earn him a whimper and a thrust by your hips again, making him almost slip in for a moment but he pulled back quickly. It almost killed him to do so. “You’re mine…say it. Say it now.”

“Please Tommy give me all of you. I’m yours. I’m yours. I belong to you.” You kept nodding, looking into his eyes. You broke it momentarily to look down between you, you let out a sigh at the sight. His dick pressed so closely to your pussy, you could even see the bead of precum leaking from his tip. You wanted to reach down, run it against your finger so you could taste it.

You felt Tom’s cool finger pull up against your chin, lifting your gaze to him again. Looking quite expectant, as if he wasn’t satisfied with your words. He felt that you were saying it just for the moment. 

“Tom, you can do whatever you want with me. I’m yours.” You try to pour your feelings into it, you didn’t know how else you could convince Tom. You thought he’d be more trusting with you by now. 

Your words did not go unheard after all, you see the corner of Tom’s mouth slightly twist. He shifted his grip to pinch your cheeks together with his hand, forcing your lips to come together in a pucker. He leaned down to kiss you that way. You stop breathing momentarily, your eyes widening as you feel him slowly sink himself further into your wet hole. Tom was watching your every reaction, but still holding your face in his hand. “Ah shit..Tommy..” Your words come out semi-muffled.

Tom’s lips gave in and erupted in a devilish smile. He relished the feeling of your submission, the knowledge that you belonged to him and him alone. He breathed slowly, feeling your body twitch and seemingly hesitate to take him. Your grip on his biceps told him a different story. Your nails were making crescents into his pale skin. He had to show some careful restraint to your pussy, he needed to slowly ease himself inside. Tom didn’t want to hurt you. Not physically and surely not emotionally again. “Shhh…just breathe, darling. Breathe for me…I’ll take care of you..” He murmured. 

Tom watches as you breathe in, providing him temporary relief that you weren’t going to pass out. At least not until he was finished with you. He tried to pull out of you, give you a chance to relax and regroup, but he smirked at the feeling. Your pussy was needier than he imagined, it was gripping onto him with such force. Almost making it hard for him to pull out.

You shake your head, “I want this.” You reassure him, “It-” you swallow as Tominches back into you, his eyebrows furrowed together as he studied you. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Liar.” Tom flatly said. 

“It’s..It’s just a lot of you…” You let out a strained laugh. You weren’t one to back down from a challenge, especially if it came to getting your guts rearranged. “Use me..” You whisper, your gaze never leaving his eyes this time. They falter in relief when you finally feel his hips collide with yours, him being thoroughly buried deep. You felt his dick twitch inside of you, brushing against your cervix, causing you to twitch too. You laugh, but the movement only made you both moan in unison. “Tommy...”

“Merlin, so help me if you keep calling me by that name.” Tom finally says something about it. He rested his head in the crook of your neck, his hand letting go of your face. Only for his fingers to slither into your mouth. Your tongue immediately starts to glide across them, sucking on the tips of his fingers. You reach to his wrist, pushing his fingers further into your mouth. It made Tom laugh. It was as if the heavens above parted to witness the sound, despite the lewd cause. “You’re starting to get greedy. It’s such a pretty sight.” He says, starting to pull back from your hips, only to roughly smack himself back into you. 

With Tom’s fingers properly lubricated with your saliva, he pulls his fingers away from your mouth. You whimpered, especially when you felt where they went. They went right between your legs, rubbing your swollen clit in lazy circles, then around your pussy’s lips. “Use you..yes..I think I will. Do with you as I please.” He would do anything to keep you his. “Say it for me again.” Tom growled, his body starting to tremble with the effort to hold back his pace to just pound your weeping little cunt. He wanted to hear you give him the permission he craved. 

“Fuck Tommy, please! I’m yours in this life, the next one, and the one after that..and-” You began to mindlessly say, especially as he began to move once you adjusted to him. His pace was consistent, the weight of his body was holding you in place. You felt him move his hand, so that it was just the pad of his thumb pressing against your clit while the other four fingers moved to press down into your lower tummy. Adding more pressure. You felt so full, you let your eyes go cross. 

“That’s right.” He smiled, watching your face. “Take me like a good girl.” Tom’s thrusts began to become ruthlessly hard. He knew he should be gentler with you, but he couldn’t help himself. He needed you too badly, and the thought of you belonging solely to him had him seeing red. “Say you want me…tell me you need me.. Tell me how much you need me..”

You peaked at him through your lashes, his eyes were dark. A possessive desire was emanating from his being. You felt a ball of pressure tighten within you. You felt so incredible. “I want you bad, I need you….mmm oh god!” You mutter when you feel Tom’s dick hit that spot inside you repeatedly. You bring your hand to your mouth, biting on a finger to keep yourself from screaming in pleasure. “I need this, I need this so bad! I d-don’t want anything else but t-this. You’re all I need.” You began to babble the same thing over and over.

Tom nodded, “That’s it, pretty girl. I’m your god. You’re taking my dick so well. Your pussy feels s-so good.” His voice came out a ragged husk, his breathing sharp. It was all too much for him to handle. He just wanted to make you feel good. Tom wanted to fill you up with his cum, watch it spill out of you, only to fill you up again. He groaned at the thought. “You’re mine..my prize. My princess. My trophy. I’ll give you anything you want. I’ll give you everything. You won’t ever have to ask or need anything else. I’ll take care of you. Let me spoil you. You don't have to worry about anything. Please let me do this for you. Make you feel good.”

“Anything! Yes. Yes!” You agree, head bobbing backwards into the cushioned bed. You feel him slow down. 

You were going to whine, when he began to suck at your neck again. You heard him mumble again, “Buy you whatever you want. Do whatever you want. Anything to make you happy. I’ll get it for you. I’ll do it for you.” His voice was soft yet thick with desire. You hadn’t heard him talk so much. You weren't that materialistic, honestly. But goddamn was he making you want to ask him of the universe just to watch him do it. Knowing him, he would probably give you that and the next universe closest too. 

You were pulled back from that train of thought when you felt him quicken again. You were so close to releasing the tension, you wanted to cum all over his dick. You flattened your hand over your mouth to stifle your sounds. You might have been muffling your moans and cries, but the sounds your pussy was making could not be muted, not by a fraction. 

You opened your eyes, you saw a familiar flash of irritation in Tom’s eyes. He shook his head. “Don’t do that. I want to hear how good I make you feel.” He pulled your hand away from your mouth. You made the motion to use your other hand, but he caught that one as well. He brought both hands up above your head, holding them there, at his mercy.. Tom was too strong to pull them away. The action made you clench around him. Tom groaned and cursed under his breath. He was getting lost in you, completely taken over by his desires to own you. “I need to hear you fall apart. I want to hear your sweet sounds. Don’t ever try to hide your pleasure from me.”

You moan at his words, for someone who so protectively fought for his privacy, he really was not caring who heard this affair going on. It only made your face heat up in a fierce blush. 

You watched as Tom’s eyes flashed, not from irritation this time. It was the same look he had when he had a breakthrough of a new method of altering magic to his needs. In this context a wave of panic shot through you. Though it was hard to center on that concern when Tom was making you feel this good.

Tom’s eyes were focused, taking every little detail of you. He could see the panic in your own eyes, so he dipped down to kiss you. A form to comfort you. He broke from it, “Don’t be afraid,” his voice was low and dangerous. “I’ll take care of you.” He let go of your hands that were still above your head. You knew better than to try and cover your mouth again. His pace slowed, you mentally cursed. He wasn’t exactly trying to edge you, but damn! Why did he rob you of an orgasm again? You watched him carefully, for a nanosecond sadness registered in his dark eyes.

“You mean it right? If we weren’t doing what we were doing right now…you’d mean it?” He suddenly asked. His dick stalled inside you.

“Of course! I-I lov-” You began to confess, tring to sit up on your elbows. Tom pushed you back down, maybe a bit too harshly.

“Don’t say it unless you mean it.” he said sternly, his eyes watching your lips. 

“Tom. You’re going to scare me..” You started, but he suddenly thrust once into you. You yelped and reached out to pull on his neck, bringing him in to kiss you. “I love you!” You said against his lips. You did mean it. It was the first time you said it without him interrupting you. He never allowed you to say it. It was probably because he was afraid it would be a cruel lie. Tom truly believed he was incapable of love. Incapable of finding and receiving true, honest, unrelenting love.

He couldn’t stop the way his breath hitched at your words. Hearing you say them with such conviction, such sincerity. It was a moment he’d been both waiting and dreading for. Afraid of the power the words held and relinquished. Despite this dark pit inside him, he trusted you. He believed that you meant it. 

“Say it again,” He whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he held you tightly in place. “Please.” Tom was desperate to hear you speak those words, to believe he was worthy of you.

“I love you, Tom.” You hold his face, you feel him twitch inside you as you repeat: “I. Love. You.” You say slowly, emphasizing each word. You watch as he closes his eyes, pulling himself in and out painstakingly slow. Your pussy ached, already feeling sore from the size of his dick. Your walls strained to keep him buried inside.

“Say it again.” He repeated, barely wavering. New emotions threaten to overtake him. “I need this.” Listening to you declare yourself was shattering every doubt he’d ever had about this world he existed in.

“I love you. I’m yours.” 

Tom turned his face in your hands, he began to slowly plant kisses into your palms. You felt his lips moving like he was muttering something. You couldn’t hear what he was saying. 

“Again.” He said louder, opening his eyes and locking them onto yours. This was a different Tom. Your heart began to match the quickened pace Tom was taking up once more.

“I love you.” You moan out, not breaking the eye contact he was holding with you as continued to mouth something quickly against your palm as you continued to cup his face.

“Say my name.” He commanded.

“Tom.” Your fingers jerked against his smooth skin.

“My. Full. Name.” He said slower. You felt his nails dig into your back from where he held you at the waist, the hold was harsh. Painful. 

“I love you Tom Marvolo Riddle.” You almost lazily let out between breaths. He stopped mouthing, and peeled one hand off your waist bringing it to your hold your wrist. The knot was getting tighter and tighter, making it harder to concentrate on what exactly he was doing. “I’m y-yours.”

When Tom heard you say his full name, saying that you loved him, that you were his. Something snapped, the wave of possessiveness washed over him. It reassured him, what he was about to do was the right thing. To keep you from leaving. To keep you together forever. Just like you said. Just like you kept repeating what you wanted. And Tom wanted nothing more but to get reassurance and security, in the only way he knew how. Magic.

Bringing your wrist next to his lips, he felt its warm, vibrating pulse. “Do you feel that?” Tom asked, his voice gruff as he watched you intently.

You just nod, unsure what he really meant because you were just about to come around his thick cock. You were so fucking close. Your eyes were rolling back. Your head threatened to just bob to the side but Tom quickly held the back of your neck. Still not letting go of your wrist with the other. He wanted you to watch him.

“Tommy…I’m..I’m gonna..!” You cry out, due to the pleasure that was releasing through your body. Your eyes were starting to turn into slits with how heavy they were getting. Tom grunted one last thing before you saw him part his lips. His teeth…! You could have sworn you saw snake like fa-

“FUCK!” You cry out in a mix of pain and pleasure, your back arching into Tom. Your attention was split, shaking uncontrollably underneath him. You watched in a semi-horrified, semi-fucked out trance as Tom sunk his teeth into your wrist. There was a warm feeling starting to run from where he bit. It was your blood, dark and thick. As it slid your skin, it felt like it was burning, like it was different somehow. As if he had injected something into you. 

Tom’s eyes languidly open to meet yours, they were clouded in his own pleasure. “I’m never letting you go.” He moaned against your skin, “No one else can have you. No one else can touch you. My property. Mine.” He pulled back from your wrist, lifting your now limp arm up. Tom barely held his tongue out of his mouth, licking up the line of blood that had stopped just before your elbow. His breath was hot as he removed evidence of having momentarily hurt you. His tongue ran all the way up to the holes that began to shrink and disappear. His lips were red, slightly swollen as he sucked on the area before pulling back with a pop. 

You whimpered. The corner of his lips turned upwards, just enough you knew he was satisfied with what he had done to you. Whatever he had done, you’re not quite sure of. All you did know was that your orgasm was different. It felt like it was dragged out of you, lengthened for too long, though you weren’t complaining about that. Your whole body felt numb with some tingling starting at the tips of your fingers and toes. “Tom..” You tried to say, but it came out as a whisper. You weren’t sure if you even moved your lips. It felt like you were looking at yourself from a third person perspective, you didn’t exactly feel inside your own body. 

“Shhh.” Tom cooed, brushing your hair out of your face. “It’s okay, stay still.” He chuckled to himself. You felt Tom pull slowly out of you, he let out a small curse along with another chuckle. “I really made a mess out of you, darling.” 

“Hmm?” You wanted to cry, you felt empty without him inside. Watching him step away from you was almost unbearable. Tom went over to his dresser, then his desk, opening a drawer and pulling out his wand. You wondered why for a moment, before you heard a squelching sound come from your pussy. You couldn’t lift your head all the way up to look at yourself. From your current state, the warmness of Tom’s cum that was making its way out of you was a stark contrast. You were so distracted from your own high and him fucking biting you to notice how he finished. 

You tried to sit up and cup yourself, embarrassed at the thought of potentially causing a stain on his bedding. Tom’s voice stopped you, “Don’t move.” You obeyed. He took a step towards you and barely flicked his wand. You felt what seemed like a cool breeze wash over your body. You shivered, feeling the tingling over your body intensify before subsiding. You then noticed how he had sweats on, making you feel insanely exposed. “I could stare at you like this forever.” Tom broke the silence. 

“Don’t-!” You squeaked out, moving to cover yourself however possible. 

Tom shook his head with a smile, he had moved closer to loom over you. He grabbed your arm away and you were about to protest when you felt him pull down your shirt, bringing it over your chest. Your nipples felt sensitive against the fabric. “Tom, what did you do to me..?” You finally questioned. 

“We’re connected, on a molecular level now.” He answered plainly, too casually. He reached down on the floor, keeping a hand on your thigh to steady himself. He picked up your panties, another flick of the wand, cleaning them too, and slid them halfway up your legs.

“I..I can do it.” You quickly stood up to pull your panties all the way on. The rush of standing up made you feel dizzy. Tom had held onto your sides, bringing you back onto the bed. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain it in the morning.” Tom smiled down at you. He pushed you further into the bed, propping your head with one of his pillows. 

“But-!” You held up your wrist, in the area where he had bitten down on, there were two dark moles in its place. Ones you never had before.

“You should rest up.” He interrupted again, sliding next to you. He held his head up against his arm, staring at you. Compared to moments before, his eyes softened. Tom reached with his other hand to bring up the blanket, covering your bare legs. His hand rested beside your hip, patting it every so often. “Maybe it’s time for you to keep some of your things in my room.” He phrased it as something to-do, rather than a suggestion. 

“I thought you liked having our things separated?” You look between his eyes, to his lips. 

Tom shook his head, “it was a way to distance myself from you.” He confessed. You smiled, it seemed like there was a change in his attitude. Him being honest and open with himself, and you. “What?” He questioned your look towards him.

“I’ll explain it in the morning.” You broke out in a toothy grin, using his words on him. His smile copied yours, but it was paired with a pinch on your hip. 

“Brat.” Tom pulled you against his bare chest. His heartbeat was slow and steady. You felt him plant a kiss on top of your head.

As you laid next to him, you couldn’t help but notice the heat radiating from your wrist. What had he done to you?

“Before you say anything about it…” Tom began, distracting you once more from examining the two moles. “I love you too.”