#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.

ao3 🌱 topaz 🌱 masterlist

don’t steal my work, claim it as your own, upload it to another site, or use it to train AI

dividers by: @strangergraphics-archive & @saradika-graphics

[megwritesriddles]

I Despise You ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem!Reader / You

Summary: Kinktober 2024 Day 1 - Angry Sex. Reader is the Head Girl and Riddle is the Head Boy, Riddle likes to push Reader's boundaries until it all boils over. Minimal plot but a smidge anyway.

Tags: Angry sex, P in V, Fingering (fem receiving), Unprotected sex, Magic as birth control, Enemies with benefits, Arguing (which is badly written oops), Attempt at angst, Tiny bit of sexism from Riddle, Reader is wearing a dress (I imagined one of those Sabrina Carpenter babydoll dresses lol), Head boy Riddle, Head girl Reader, Historical inaccuracy.

Word count: 3.4k

Read it on ao3! | Masterlist

Authors note: First installment of Kinktober and first post on tumblr!! woo!! please show me some love if you like it!! I am terrible at writing arguments because I hate confrontation irl oops!! Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

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Being appointed as Head Girl was supposed to be the best thing to ever happen to you. You’d been working toward it since at least the third year and it was all you ever seemed to hope for. It was meant to be an achievement that you and your friends would all celebrate, perhaps head down to the Three Broomsticks and spoil you with free drinks for the night in honour of your achievement. But, life wasn’t so kind.

When your position as Head Girl was announced all you had received from your friends were pitying looks, all due to the pesky little detail of who had been announced as Head Boy to serve alongside you. Tom Riddle. Tom. Fucking. Riddle. Of course, Professor Dippett had had to announce his name first, meaning you hadn’t even gotten a second of enjoyment from your appointment. He had stood up smugly at the Slytherin table, basking in the cheers from his house, flashing a charming smile to the room as he made his way to the front of the hall. For the first time in your life, at that moment, you had prayed that Head Girl would not be you. It was. Your name was called, your house applauded and your legs carried you over to Riddle’s side. He grinned down at you, that little glint of mockery in his eye that you could only see from this close. You wanted to punch him, that would surely lose you the Head Girl position and solve this problem, but you had your future to think of. You had repeated that to yourself all that night as you and Riddle had been whisked off to the staff room to be briefed on your positions and given your badges. Riddle was the picture of charm, laughing with the various professors that came to speak with you, you just sat there, smiling falsely, looking a little like you’d just been hit over the head with a plank. You felt like it too. Your lifelong dream had just been turned into something poisonous. Really, you thought to yourself as Slughorn guided you through the corridors to the Head’s quarters, you should have seen this coming. They weren’t supposed to appoint two students from the same house, so logically, if you were picked for Head Girl, it was only ever going to be Riddle at your side. You wondered why you hadn’t considered this before, it was so obvious with hindsight. You scowled at the back of his and Slughorn’s heads as you ascended some stairs, them chatting together jovially, making your blood boil.

Slughorn shows you the small common room, enough seating for about four people, a fireplace, and a little kitchenette with some stools, decorated with opulence. It would all have been very nice if it hadn’t been for Riddle standing there commenting on the lovely brass crests. The separate rooms were your biggest comfort, both off of little halls from the common room in different directions. You could hide in there from him, you told yourself over and over. You didn’t have the headspace to be impressed by the beautiful ensuites with golden-tapped baths, just wanting Slughorn to leave so you would no longer have to listen to Riddle’s disgustingly smooth voice. Eventually, Slughorn did leave the two of you to go to bed. As he shut the common room door, you could see Riddle’s mouth opening from the corner of your eye. You darted to your room before he could get the words out, slamming the door, relieved to find all your things already there. You collapsed onto the bed and sighed. The nightmare was only beginning.

The hands on the clock point to 3:30 am. It’s a Monday morning, you have a meeting with Dumbledore in just a few hours, but sleep is impossible. He has friends over again. The deep bass of their voices reverberates through the walls of the common room. They’re chatting and laughing like always, most likely drinking too, you’ve spotted them with whiskey a few times. You seethe with anger in your bed, just last week you had kindly approached him, and not for the first time, about this issue. You had emphatically asked him to be considerate of you and your time. He had placated you like always.

“Yes darling, I didn’t realise we were being so bothersome, won’t happen again,” he had soothed, but of course, it was happening again right now. You kept somehow getting caught in his charms, the very ones you had been immune to for so long. It had to be the sleep deprivation he was causing, that was what was making you melt a little whenever he called you darling or smiled just so, in the way that used to make you feel sick. In the dark of your room, you lie on your side and curse inwardly. Reporting him had crossed your mind many times, but you knew he would just charm his way out of it, like he did with everything. Your ears rumble with another deep laugh from the group of men in the other room and you’ve had enough. Throwing off your duvet and stomping to your bedroom door, you fling it open and head into the common room. He sits reclined leisurely in an armchair by the fireplace, his sleeves rolled up and tie loose. His ankles are crossed, resting on the coffee table in front of him, he chuckles at something, you couldn’t care less what, the firelight dancing over his face. He hasn’t noticed you, but across from him on the opposite armchair, his friend, Avery, straightens up and grins at you. His eyes drift over you, you realise instantly that you stomped out here in only your nightgown and socks and flush lightly, but stand your ground.

“Riddle!” you bark, surprising even yourself with the viciousness of your tone. This brings his attention to you effectively. His other two friends turn to look at you over the back of the sofa, Riddle doesn’t even straighten up when he looks up at you, smirking in a self-satisfied way that makes your insides twist oddly.

“Hello darling,” he speaks smoothly. “You look a picture tonight,” he lets his eyes drift up and down your figure without shame. You go red with anger and embarrassment.

“Doesn't she just?” One of his friends, Rosier, comments with a mocking chuckle. This sets you off.

“Out!” You screech. All the boys look taken aback by the intensity of your outburst. “Out, out, out!”

“Fine,” Riddle hisses in an infuriatingly calm tone. “You lot should go, you heard the Head Girl,” you hear the mocking tone in his voice, suggesting he thinks you’re hysterical. You stand there with your fists clenched, staring the men down as they get up and head for the door, feeling ridiculous but not wanting to show any weakness. Once they all leave and shut the door behind them, the two of you fall into silence for a moment. He’s watching you, but not in the leering way from earlier, he almost looks impressed with you. You avert your eyes from the closed door onto his face, he’s leaning forward now, with his elbows on his knees. Just when you’re considering simply turning to leave, he speaks up. “Happy now, darling? You’re really no fun, we were only talking,” his eyes fix on yours, burning deeply. You scoff indignantly.

“It’s nearly 4 am Riddle, you know I have a meeting in the morning, I have brought this up to you countless times and–”

“Yes, but you don’t seem to understand that I simply don’t care to keep you happy, darling,” he grins. You let out a frustrated yelp.

“You are unbelievable! How were you ever chosen for Head Boy when you're this insidious? You don’t deserve it!” You snap. This stirs something in him. His eyes darken and he stands up from the armchair.

“And you do, do you darling?” he asks slowly, stalking toward you. “You’re the picture of perfection, aren’t you just?” You’re not sure what to say to this, any answer seems wrong like it’ll give him reason to dig into you further. Your mouth opens and shuts for a moment before you settle on a shrug. Your hands flex in the fists they’re tightened into as a smirk spreads over his face. “You don’t seem so high and mighty from here,” he chuckles, stopping in front of you. He has several inches on you and you’re forced to look up at him. “You look lovely in this little nightie,” he comments with a grin, reaching out to trace the lace at the strap with the tip of his finger. You jolt away instantly, glaring up at him.

“Don’t you dare touch me! And don’t you dare comment on my looks!” You hissed, smacking his hand away. His eyes darken even more at this.

“And don’t you dare smack me,” he growls. “I was merely paying you a compliment,”

“Like hell you were!” You scoff. “You’re trying to make me feel small,” he rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

“If the shoe fits,” he grins. You scowl, shoving at him without thinking about it. He stumbles back slightly, looking momentarily bewildered. When he realises what you just did he surges for you. He grabs you by the shoulders and pushes you into the wall. You let out a small oof sound as you collide with the wall, surprised it didn’t hurt more than it did. For a moment, you wonder if he had avoided hurting you until you look up and see the fire in his eyes, then you wonder if he wishes he had just killed you. “I would have rather had literally anyone as Head Girl than you, you are the bane of my existence,” he snarls, gripping your shoulders hard.

“I’m the bane of your existence? I don’t have friends over until the small hours of the morning! Imagine how I feel!” You spit back. You can tell he’s barely listening to you.

“You are insufferable! You’re the only person who doesn’t fawn over the sight of me and it’s you that I get stuck with for the whole year!” he scoffs. “I will not let you control my lifestyle!” he adds angrily. “I will not bend my life to make you happy! I am not subservient to anyone and I never will be!” you roll your eyes exaggeratedly.

“You are ridiculous,”

“I despise you,” he hisses venomously. “You’re always everywhere I am, you’re always following me around, tailing me in every subject, you had to go for this position when I’ve had my sights locked on it since first year!” He pushes you back into the wall again. “Are you happy now darling? You got Head Girl and now we’re both miserable! You must be thrilled!”

“You think I’m following you around?” you sneer. “How full of yourself are you that you think me going for Head Girl was about you? You seem to think you’re the centre of everything, but in my life Riddle, you are just an inconvenience, you are nothing,” you seethed. Something flashes in Riddle’s eyes, his jaw working.

“I am nothing?” he demands. “I am nothing?” he’s shaking now and you’re sure he’s about to hex you or punch you, his eyes flick between yours, his whole body coiled tight and ready to pounce. Instead, his lips are suddenly on yours, thrusting your head back against the wall. You yelp in surprise, your eyes wide, the back of your head hurting from being pressed into the hard surface. He kisses you without a single hint of affection, kissing you like it’s a punishment, a way of muzzling you, but Merlin, somehow it feels good. He’s grabbing at you, taking fistfuls of your nightgown in his hands. You find that you’re kissing him back, that you have been practically since his lips met yours and that you’re doing so eagerly. Your head is spinning as his arms wrap around you and he pulls you harshly to him, the hard planes of his lean body pressing against you. Your arms snake around his neck and he lets you yank at his hair. He’s kissing you so hard that you’re practically tipping backwards. Your tongues rub against each other as you kiss frantically. He’s leading you to the sofa, throwing you down and then settling above you. He props himself up, his hands on either side of your head. You both take this moment to catch your breaths, staring intensely at each other as your chests rise and fall rapidly. “Am I still nothing?” he growls, a little breathless. Once again, you don’t know what the right thing to say is. One of his hands moves down and starts to push up the hem of your nightdress, revealing your thighs to his devouring eyes. You grab him and kiss him again instead of talking, just as hard and unforgiving as before.

You feel your nightdress being bunched at your waist and hear the faint sound of a zip being pulled down. You kiss him harder, nipping at his bottom lip harshly and scrunching your eyes shut. He just groans in response, pushing down his slacks haphazardly, his other hand keeping him propped up above you. You’re suddenly awfully overheated, both from lying on the sofa in front of the blazing fireplace and from the realisation of what he’s planning to do to you. Are you really going to do this? Are you really going to let him fuck you on the sofa in the common room? Riddle? The man you’ve hated for years? The man who has been deliberately antagonising you for the past several weeks, and especially tonight? Your hands are resting on his stomach, and you connect the dots in mild horror that you’ve been unbuttoning his shirt without even realising it. You feel completely out of control of yourself, you’ve never acted this way before. You gasp in surprise when you feel his fingers pressing against your core through the fabric of your underwear. His fingers rub roughly, sending jolts of pain and pleasure through you. You whine slightly, feeling him smirk against your lips. You scratch at his chest a little in retaliation. He grunts, you can’t tell if he likes it or not and it bothers you. His fingers hook into your underwear and start to tug down. This is your last chance to back out, to throw him off of you and run away, but you find yourself unable to do anything but writhe and cling to his shoulders. The underwear is discarded on the floor and he is using his free hand to spread your thighs open, you flush deeply as he pulls away from the kiss to look down at you. You can feel how wet you are and you hate that, based on the smug little grin on his face, he knows it too. Your cheeks are burning as he reaches down, using two fingers to spread your folds. He lets out a needy sound by accident and it’s your turn to gloat. He flashes you a glare and plunges a finger into your tight heat in revenge. This makes your back arch and your lips part and he smirks back at you.

“So wet…” he comments, self-satisfied, his finger creating obscene squelches as he pumps it in and out of you slowly. You snarl at him, lashing out in embarrassment. You grab at the tent in his boxers, feeling him rock-hard under the fabric. He frowns in embarrassment, withdrawing his finger from you which makes you whimper a little. “You’re asking for it now, darling,” he growls. He’s scrambling to rid himself of his boxers. His tip is quickly prodding at your entrance and you gasp and arch slightly. He glides against you for a moment, his tip rubbing deliciously at your clit, seeming like he’s waiting for something. Then, he’s plunging into you. You let out a pathetic little cry and he grins. “Does that feel good?” he coos mockingly as he fully seats himself inside you. You both gasp for breath as your tight heat embraces him. It does feel good, torturously so, but his mocking tone irks you.

“I hate you,” you growl up at him as he lowers himself onto his elbows, his face right above yours. He scowls, panting slightly.

“I hate you too, believe me,” his arms wrap around your shoulders, keeping you in place. He buries his face in your neck and starts to nip as his hips begin to rock harshly. His thrusts are hard and punishing, slow, withdrawing almost completely and then slamming forward, just short of painful. You whine and grab at his back, letting your nails dig into him, he doesn’t seem to mind. He speeds up, grunting loudly against your neck. He pulls back to watch as you move along with his thrusts, your eyes scrunched shut and lips parted with desperate whines. He pants, his hot breaths washing over your face. He speeds up even more, growling like a crazed animal. “Look at you, falling apart under me, what would your friends think?” he taunts. Your eyes squeeze tighter shut, a wave of shame passing through you that somehow heightens your pleasure.

“Shut the fuck up,” you whine. You hear him laughing mockingly. You muster your strength and clench your walls around him. His laugh morphs into a choked groan at the sensation, his hips stuttering. He was more affected by this than you expected, his pace now brutal as he fucks into you, clearly desperately chasing release now, rather than focusing on playing mind games on you. His lips meet yours again and you kiss back. It’s clumsy and sloppy, given how fast he’s moving, but it just heightens everything you’re feeling. “You gonna come already?” you mock as you feel him faltering in his thrusts. He groans angrily against your lips.

“I despise you,” he hisses shakily, propping himself back up so he can thrust into you more relentlessly. You return the sentiment, but it’s a little half-hearted now between whines. You cry out when you feel his thumb on your clit, rubbing hard. He seems oddly determined to have you orgasm before he does, perhaps to humiliate you, but it feels so good that you can hardly complain. He grunts loudly, you can tell he’s trying to goad you, but his speech is incoherent between sounds of pleasure and the slapping of skin against skin. You feel it building up and you can’t deny yourself the pleasure, you don’t try to hold back. However, he still falls apart first. His hips stutter then stop entirely and he groans loudly, you feel his seed spilling deep into you, warm ropes painting your inside. His thumb doesn’t let up its rubbing and it allows you to also reach your release. You pulse around his oversensitive cock and he gasps and whines pathetically, but continues rubbing you through it until all the aftershocks are over.

He remains propped above you, catching his breath for a while, his head hung low. You both whine slightly as he withdraws from you slowly, leaving you with a pop. He takes a shaky breath, staring at his essence that trickles out of you. You just stare at the ceiling, unsure what to do now. You feel the sofa dip as he reaches down to the floor, his chest touching yours as he lowers himself gently. He grabs his wand from his trouser pocket and props back up. He mumbles a spell, cleaning you of his essence and eliminating the chance of pregnancy. It pleases you a little that he took care of it, rather than leaving it up to you. He moves, sitting back on his haunches between your legs, lowering the hem of your nightdress to cover you back up. You stare at each other silently for a moment as he tucks himself away.

“This changes nothing between us,” he asserts, narrowing his eyes at you. You want to laugh at that, as clearly everything has just changed in some way, but you know what he means.

“Yeah, it changes nothing,” you repeat with a sigh. He glances over at the fireplace for a moment, before his eyes flick to the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Now chop chop, don’t you have that meeting with Dumbledore?” he grins. Your eyes widen and then you kick at him in frustration, realising what he’s done. He just laughs. “You better figure out a way to cover those hickeys quickly,” he smirks. You whine indignantly, burying your head in your hands.

“I’m going to kill you!”

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xoxoxo

[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!

𝐁𝐔𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

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.

thank you so much for requesting, my love!!

[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).

༻♛༺

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.

༻♛༺

[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.

[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.

[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]

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

[lizziesangel]

TOM RIDDLE ⟢ soulmates don’t exist PT. 5

SDE MASTERLIST ⟢ FEM!reader (POC!reader friendly)

SUMMARY: everything changes for you when snape gives you a certain memory. will you be able to do the task that dumbledore has given you?

WORD COUNT: 7618

GENRE: angst-ish (but not really)

CONTENT WARNING: soulmate & time travel au, english is not my first language

After dinner more students came walking in, also trying to get ahead of their studies they had to do. You were sitting hunched over a stack of divination books, feeling more lost with each page you flipped through. Tea leaves, crystal balls, and other things were starting to feel like utter gibberish to you. 

Ben sat across from you, lazily flipping through a copy of ‘Unfogging the Future’, looking bored as ever. Next to you was Cressida, her brow furrowed in intense concentration as she read through your notes. Both of them had long forgotten about their DADA work. 

“This is impossible,” you groaned, rubbing your temples. “How is anyone supposed to ‘see the future’ in a cup of tea leaves? They all look the same to me.”

Cressida looked up from her notes, a sympathetic smile on her face. “It’s all about interpretation, Y/n. You’re not really seeing the future—it’s more like... reading symbols and trusting your instincts.”

You sighed, not feeling particularly comforted by that explanation. “I don’t think I have the right instincts for this.”

Ben leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest as he observed your struggle with mild amusement. “I’m starting to think Divination is less about predicting the future and more about seeing how many students can predict their own failure,” he said with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes, pushing the book away slightly. “Right! I just don’t get it. How am I supposed to see something in a teacup?”

Cressida laughed softly, scooting her chair closer to yours. “Okay, let’s break this down a bit. What are you supposed to be studying for this week’s lesson? Something about dream interpretations, right?”

You nodded, pulling out another crumpled piece of parchment with your notes. “Yeah, dreams and omens. We have to analyze a dream and interpret what it means, but I’m hopeless at it. My last one was apparently too ‘mundane.’”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Too mundane? What was it about, rabbits hopping in a meadow or something?”

You snorted. “Close. I said it was about losing my shoes in the middle of a forest.”

Ben grinned, clearly amused. “Well, I can see why that wouldn’t impress Onai. Sounds like a real catastrophe.”

Cressida, however, looked thoughtful. “Wait, losing your shoes… Professor Onai always talks about symbolism. Maybe the shoes represent something—like protection, or grounding. And losing them means you’re vulnerable or unprepared for something.”

You blinked, surprised by how easily Cressida came up with that explanation. “You’re a natural at this. Maybe you should be taking Divination instead of me.”

Cressida smiled, a little flattered. “I’ve just read enough of this nonsense to know what they’re all looking for.”

Ben leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. “Alright, what if we make up something properly dramatic? Say you dreamed of falling into a dark pit filled with snakes. Or better yet, you saw a tower collapsing, and you were trapped inside.”

Cressida giggled, and you shook your head, though you couldn’t help but smile. “Professor Onai would love that, I’m sure.”

“I’m serious!” Ben said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Tell her the tower represents Hogwarts, and the snakes are obviously Slytherin. You’re predicting a major catastrophe involving the school—maybe a rival house betrayal or something.”

“Yeah, and then she’ll probably assign me extra work to prevent this disaster,” you said dryly, though the idea was starting to sound more and more plausible.

Cressida, still chuckling softly, reached over to your notes and scribbled something down. “Okay, how about we meet in the middle? You dreamt you were lost in a maze, with mist swirling all around you. Every path leads you to different choices, but none of them feel right. Then, just before you wake up, you see a figure at the center of the maze, but you can’t reach them.”

You raised an eyebrow, looking over the notes she’d written. “And that means…?”

“Uncertainty about your future, perhaps. The figure represents some unresolved aspect of your life, maybe even something you’re afraid of or trying to avoid.” Cressida explained, her voice soft but confident.

Ben nodded, impressed. “That’s actually pretty good, C. I’d buy it.”

You glanced between the two of them, grateful for their help. “Alright, thanks. I’ll use that. At least it sounds more mystical than my shoe fiasco.”

Ben flipped the page of his book with a dramatic flair, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. “It’s all guesswork, really. Professor Onai just likes to act as though it’s some mystical art when half the time she’s just making things up. Here, can you try this? I wanna see.” He slid a page of the book toward you, pointing to a section with interpretations of tea leaves.

You glanced at it, reading over the different shapes and symbols.

“Right,” you muttered, staring blankly at the page. “So, what if I see something that looks like... I don’t know, a blob? Or just random dots? Does that mean I’m doomed?”

Ben snorted, trying to suppress a laugh. “In that case, you could probably get away with saying it’s a ‘fog of uncertainty’ and that the future is still unclear. Sounds mysterious enough, doesn’t it?”

You looked between the two of them, part of you wanting to laugh at how ridiculous this whole thing was. “So, I just have to bluff my way through it?”

Cressida rolled her eyes, “Ben’s not entirely wrong, though,” she admitted, pushing her Divination notes toward you. “The trick is to sound confident, even if you have no idea what you’re saying. Professor Onai eats that up. If you act like you’re seeing something profound, she’ll believe you.”

Ben leaned forward, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Exactly. Bluff your way through like a true Seer. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll ‘predict’ something dramatic, and they’ll be impressed.”

You groaned, resting your forehead on the table. “This is hopeless. I can’t even read a dumb tea leaf.”

Cressida chuckled softly, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “It’s not hopeless. Divination just... takes a different mindset. It’s not like Charms or Transfiguration where everything’s logical and concrete. It’s more about intuition, like Ben said. You’re probably overthinking it.”

You turned your head to look at her, half-convinced she was right. But it was hard to shake the feeling that this was all just guesswork. “I guess I’m just not used to the idea of relying on intuition. I like things to make sense.”

Ben grinned, leaning back in his chair once again, clearly enjoying your frustration. “Then you’ll love this next bit. In palmistry,” he said, flipping through his book until he found the right page, “you can tell someone’s life expectancy just by looking at how long their lifeline is.”

“Is that actually real?” you asked, frowning in disbelief.

Ben raised his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth curling up in a smirk. “No. Not really, well, I don’t think so. But it doesn’t stop people from believing it. See? Divination’s all about confidence.”

Cressida shot him a playful look. “You’re supposed to be helping, not making her more confused.”

“I am helping,” Ben protested, though the grin on his face said otherwise. He looked back at you, his expression softening. “Alright, alright. If you really want to get through this, here’s a tip: go for the vague predictions. No one can prove them wrong. Something like... ‘I sense a great change in the future,’ or ‘Someone close to you will make an important decision.’ People cannot get enough of that stuff.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I think I can manage that.”

Cressida beamed at you. “See? You’ll be fine! You’ve just got to let yourself relax into it.”

She pulled out a teacup from her bag—she’d clearly come prepared to study for every class tonight—and set it on the table. “Here, why don’t we practice? I can help you read the leaves.”

Ben groaned dramatically but leaned in nonetheless, curiosity getting the better of him. “Oh, this ought to be good. I want to hear Y/n’s grand prophecy.”

You shot the Ravenclaw a mock glare but picked up the cup anyway, swirling the tea leaves around before setting it back down. You and Cressida leaned in together to look at the patterns in the bottom of the cup.

“Alright,” Cressida said softly, squinting at the leaves. “What do you see?”

You frowned, staring at the scattered leaves, trying to make sense of the shapes. “Uh... a black dot?”

Ben burst out laughing silently, and even Cressida couldn’t stifle her giggles. 

“Well… that’s one way to start,” Cressida said, still smiling. “But look closer—see those two leaves here? They’re almost in the shape of a circle. That could mean something positive. Good fortune, maybe.”

You leaned in closer, nodding slowly. “Okay, I can kind of see that. And what about... this one? It looks like a little snake.”

Cressida’s eyes lit up. “A snake usually means some kind of betrayal. But it could also mean transformation—like shedding old skin. It depends on how you want to interpret it.”

Ben shook his head, still grinning. “So, you’ve got good fortune and betrayal in your future. How exciting.”

You felt your stomach turn. “Great. My future is a complete mess.”

Cressida nudged you playfully. “It’s all in how you frame it. You can make anything sound meaningful if you try hard enough.”

After a few more rounds of guessing at symbols and laughing at the absurdity of it all, you felt a little less overwhelmed by the idea of Divination. It still wasn’t your favorite subject, but with Ben and Cressida’s help, you were starting to see how you could at least survive the class without making a complete fool of yourself.

Ben closed his book with a snap, stretching his arms above his head. “Alright, I think that’s enough ‘seeing the future’ for one evening. My brain hurts.”

Cressida giggled, shaking her head at him. “You’re hopeless, Ben.”

He winked at her, then looked over at you with a more genuine smile. “But seriously, Y/n—you’ll be fine. Just remember, no one really knows what’s going to happen. So, if you sound like you do, you’re already ahead of the game.”

You smiled back, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over you. “Thanks, both of you. I don’t think I’d survive Onai’s class without your help.”

Cressida beamed, and Ben just shrugged nonchalantly, though you could tell he was pleased.

“No problem,” he said, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Just don’t forget us when you become the next great Seer.”

You laughed as you gathered your books, feeling lighter than you had all week. 

After almost half an hour of extra studying for divination, you finally closed the last book with a satisfied thud. Ben and Cressida had transitioned seamlessly into their DADA revision, spreading out an assortment of books and parchment on the table.

"How are you still going?" you asked, stifling a yawn as you stretched. "I’m pretty sure my brain stopped working an hour ago.”

Cressida sighed, “We’ve still got a bit to cover for tomorrow’s class, but you’ve earned a break.”

Ben raised an eyebrow at you as he doodled lazily in the margins of his Charms textbook. "Or, you know, you could stay and suffer with us. Strength in numbers.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you gathered the Divination books scattered across the table. "I’ll pass, sorry buddy. I’m going to put these back before Madam Pince hunts me down for leaving them out. And maybe find something for Astronomy tomorrow”

Ben, leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, smirked at you. “Don’t get lost in the stars tomorrow, Y/n. Though, if you do, I’ll make sure Professor Onai knows you had a cosmic fate awaiting you.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Thanks, Ben. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

With the books balanced in your arms, you turned and made your way across the library, your steps echoing softly against the stone floor. The shelves were standing tall, casting long shadows in the dim light. You made your way through the aisles, heading toward the section that housed Divination text books. 

Sliding the last book back into its place, you turned, intending to find the Astronomy section. After passing almost ten rows of books in alphabetical order, you wanted to curse Hogwarts for putting ‘A’ in the back of the library.

The section of astronomy was dimly lit, tucked in a corner where fewer students ventured at this hour. You found yourself browsing slowly, eyes gliding over the ancient-looking volumes when a voice broke the silence, startling you. You reached out to pull an Astronomy book from the shelf in front of you, but before you could fully distract yourself in the book, a voice cut through the quiet, low and cold. 

“It’s rude to stare.”

You jumped at the sound of someone behind you. The book you were trying to take was nearly knocked off the shelf. Tom was standing right beside you, how you couldn’t notice or even feel his presence was weird. His dark eyes locked onto yours with an unsettling intensity.

Had you been staring? You weren’t quite sure when, but you were sure of the shiver that ran down your spine when he appeared out of thin air next to you.

“Excuse me?” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though the proximity and suddenness of his appearance had thrown you off balance. “I wasn’t staring,” you replied, sounding as casual as you could, trying to keep your hand steady as you slid the book you had taken back into place.

“You and your friends watch me like I’m some kind of puzzle you’re trying to solve.” He stepped closer, the edge of his robe brushing against your arm as his voice lowered to a murmur.

Tom tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. “Lucas. He glares at me constantly. It’s not subtle, you know.”

Tom’s gaze softened just a fraction, though the smile that curved his lips was still unsettlingly cold. “It’s flattering, in a way, that you think you can figure me out. But don't waste your energy. There are better ways to spend your time.”

You blinked, feeling a cold weight settle in your stomach. How had he noticed? You’d tried to be discreet, observing him from time to time, but you hadn’t realized he was so acutely aware of both your and Lucas’s attention.

The silence between you stretched thin, tension humming in the air. You could feel the weight of his attention, and despite every instinct telling you to look away, you couldn’t. It was as though his presence drew you in, locking you in place.

“What is it about me that interests you so much?” Tom asked, his voice quiet but sharp, cutting through the space between you.

Your mouth went dry, this was the first time you’d hear his voice outside of class. Lucas was right about one thing - this guy was a big teacher’s pet. . “I don’t—” You shook your head, trying to find your footing in the conversation. “I’m not… interested.”

That almost-smile returned, but there was no warmth in it. “You think I don’t notice when people watch me? I see and hear everything.” He took a step closer to you, and though it was subtle, it made the space between you feel suffocating. “I find it curious.”

You swallowed, forcing yourself to stand your ground. “I’m not watching you, Riddle.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “No? Then what is it, exactly? You are… different, ever since you arrived. People are curious about you, its almost made me curious about you.”

“I’m just trying to focus on my studies,” you said, your voice sounding much steadier than you felt. “There’s nothing…” you trailed off, wishing this conversation could just end now.

Tom’s expression remained unreadable, his lips curling ever so slightly into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Do I make you nervous, L/n?” His voice was so smooth and calculated.

You almost stopped breathing. He knew your name. Of course he did—he was observant, always watching, always listening. Or maybe it was because you were ‘new’. But it still caught you off guard, hearing him say it aloud, as if he was testing how it sounded. It almost made you want to melt.

You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself. “No,” you lied, hoping the word didn’t sound as shaky as it felt. “I just didn’t expect anyone to be here.”

Tom’s gaze didn’t waver, his eyes studying you as if he were searching for something beyond the surface. “And yet, here we are.”

“It’s only a matter of time before I find out what makes you so different.”

Before you could muster any sort of reply, Tom straightened his posture even more, his eyes glancing briefly down the aisle before locking with yours again.

“Oh, and you’re coming with me to the Slug Club party as my date.”

Your mind blanked. “What?”

But Tom had already turned away, walking briskly toward the exit of the library without another word, leaving you standing there in stunned silence. 

He didn’t even wait for your response, didn’t even give you the chance to argue. It was as if he had decided for both of you, and that was that.

You stood there, still clutching the Astronomy book in your hands, your heart racing and your mouth parted slightly. Tom’s parting words echoed in your head, sending a ripple of confusion and unease through you.

As his tall figure disappeared from view, you blinked, finally finding your voice—too late, of course. “Wait, what?”

But the only response was the soft rustle of parchment and the quiet crackling of candle flames in the distant corners of the library.

You turned away from the rows of books and walked back toward the table where Ben and Cressida were still engrossed in their DADA study materials. The earlier encounter with Tom had left you in a whirl of thoughts and emotions, but you pushed it aside for now, focusing on your friends.

“I’m going to head back to the common room. It’s almost curfew, and the library closes an hour before.”

Ben glanced at his watch, then at Cressida. “You’re right. We should probably get going too; we can finish up the last bit of our notes in the morning.”

“Good call,” Cressida agreed, gathering her things as you slid into your seat to help them pack up.

As you collected your scattered parchment and books, you couldn’t shake the conversation with Tom from your mind. The casual way he’d announced that you were going to the Slug Club party, as if you didn’t have a choice, left you feeling unsettled. You hadn’t even gotten a chance to respond.

You were kind of glad, it seemed as if you didn’t have to do anything to get close to Riddle. Maybe this task could work that Dumbledore gave you.

Once finished, you waved goodbye to your two new friends and left the library, stepping into the cool hallway of Hogwarts. The castle felt eerily quiet at this hour, the only sound being the soft echo of your footsteps against the stone floor and some students who were lingering around. You navigated the winding corridors, the familiar path to Gryffindor Tower comforting in its predictability.

After saying the password to the Fat Lady, you stepped into the Gryffindor common room a familiar warmth washed over you. The cozy fire crackled in the hearth, casting a soft orange glow that made the red and gold accents of the room even more inviting. It was a huge comfort after the strange encounter. Your mind still whirled with confusion—his words, his tone—but you pushed it to the back of your mind, not wanting to dwell on it now.

You spotted Lucas sitting with a few other boys. While Maeve, Lilith and Alicia were sitting on one of the large, cushioned sofas near the fire, talking and laughing with a small group of other Gryffindors. Maeve, with her infectious energy, was gesturing animatedly, while Alicia leaned in, clearly amused by whatever story was being told. It was a scene of easy camaraderie, one that made you feel a bit lighter just watching.

“Y/n! Come join us!” she called, scooting over on the sofa to make room.

You hesitated for a moment, thinking about heading upstairs to the dormitory to mull over the day, but then decided against it. Maybe what you needed wasn’t to be alone with your thoughts—maybe what you needed was a distraction. Something normal, something that reminded you that despite the strange and unsettling things happening, you were still just a student at Hogwarts. 

So, you made your way over to where Lilith, Maeve and Alicia sat.

You smiled and slid into the open spot next to Alicia, feeling the warmth of the fire on your face. “What are you guys talking about?”

Maeve smirked, leaning forward slightly. “Alicia's just been telling everyone how she ‘accidentally’ lit her cauldron on fire in Potions today.”

Alicia gave an exaggerated huff, crossing her arms. “It was not my fault. The instructions were so vague! How was I supposed to know the boomslang skin needed to be chopped and not sliced? Slughorn didn't even seem surprised.”

Everyone laughed, including you. Being around Maeve and Alicia always had a way of making things feel lighter, less complicated.

“At least you didn’t blow up the entire classroom,” you teased, nudging her shoulder. “Could’ve been worse.”

“Oh, don’t tempt fate,” Maeve said with a grin. “She’s bound to do that next.”

“Honestly, Slughorn should give you extra credit for keeping him on his toes,” one of the other Gryffindors, a boy named Colin, chimed in. “He looked half-asleep before you spiced things up.”

Alicia laughed. “Maybe I’ll make a habit of it. Keep everyone entertained during Potions class.”

Lilith shook her head with a fond smile. “You’ll give the poor man a heart attack.”

The conversation flowed easily after that, and you found yourself relaxing into the warmth of the common room, letting the laughter and chatter distract you from the strange events of the past few days. It felt nice, this small escape from the growing complexity of your life at Hogwarts—just sitting with your friends, enjoying the simple pleasures of shared stories and jokes.

“Anyone up for a round of Exploding Snap?” Colin asked, pulling out a deck of cards with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Maeve clapped her hands together. “Absolutely. I’m in.”

Alicia raised an eyebrow at you, a knowing smile on her face. “What about you, Y/n? Feel like playing, or are you going to sneak off to the library again?”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I think I’ve had enough of the library for one day. Count me in.”

The cards were dealt, and soon enough, the table was filled with laughter and shouts as the game began.

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual morning energy as students filed in for breakfast, the long house tables laden with all sorts of delicious food. You slid into a spot between Maeve and Alicia, nodding a quick greeting to Lucas, who was already halfway through a slice of toast. Across from you, Ben was deep in conversation with Cressida, though from the smirk on his face, it looked like their discussion was more playful than serious.

“Morning!” Maeve chirped, her curly dark hair bouncing as she waved excitedly. "You look like you slept through the night for once!”

You laughed, shrugging as you reached for some pumpkin juice. "Guess I needed it after all that Divination nonsense last night. Thanks again for the help.”

“You needed help with Divination?” Lucas asked, his eyebrow raised in mock surprise. “I thought you were born with the gift. You know, seeing into the future and all that.”

“Please,” Alicia cut in with a grin, tossing her long red hair over her shoulder. “The only thing she’s predicting is when we’ll all fail our exams. It’s not exactly professor Onai level.”

“You’d think predicting disaster would score me more points in her class," you said dryly, earning a laugh from Maeve. 

Ben leaned over the table, grabbing another egg roll. “Speaking of disasters, did you hear what happened in Potions yesterday?” He shot Alicia a knowing look, and she groaned dramatically.

“Oh, Merlin, don’t even bring it up. It was a tiny fire! You set one classroom on fire, and no one ever lets you forget it.”

“I mean, it's impressive you didn’t blow up the entire dungeon,” Cressida added with a teasing smile.

"Alicia, if you set something else on fire, you'll be on first-name basis with Filch," Lucas chimed in, his tone dry but playful.

Maeve shot him a mock glare. “You’re one to talk! You’re probably on Filch’s speed dial from all your pranks.”

“Correction,” Lucas said, holding up a finger. “Filch doesn’t know I’m behind them. I’m smarter than that.”

Lucas leaned back with a self-satisfied grin, as if he’d been waiting to drop some news. “Anyway, you’ll never guess what happened last night.”

Lilith raised an eyebrow. “Did you set something on fire?”

“No, better.” Lucas’s grin widened. “Someone asked me to the Slug Club party.”

There was a pause around the table before Maeve nearly choked on her juice. “Wait—what? Someone asked you?”

“Wait, are you serious?” Alicia looked equally surprised, her freckled face scrunching up with curiosity. “Since when are you the kind of person to go to fancy parties with dates?”

Lucas shrugged nonchalantly, though his eyes gleamed with amusement. “It’s just a party. They asked, and I thought, why not?”

“You, at the Slug Club, huh?" Ben looked impressed, though his tone was teasing. "Trying to get in with the elite crowd now?”

“More like trying to eat their fancy food,” Lucas shot back, biting into his toast with a smirk. “And who says I can’t enjoy a party? Besides, this person… well, let's just say they’re persistent.”

“Pass the eggs, would you, Y/N?” Maeve asked from beside you, her dark curls bouncing as she leaned over, ever enthusiastic.

You handed her the plate, grinning as she piled her food.

Before you could get drawn further into the banter, you cleared your throat, feeling a sudden knot tighten in your stomach. “About the Slug party…” you began, a little hesitantly. 

Everyone turned to you, curious, and you immediately regretted how awkward you felt about saying it aloud. You knew how this group loved to react to every little piece of drama.

Ben, narrowed his eyes at you with a grin. “What, don’t tell me you got asked too?”

Alicia leaned in, her curiosity piqued. “Come on, Y/n, spill. Who asked you?”

Taking a deep breath, you set your juice down and tried to keep your voice casual. “So, last night... I was in the library, putting some books away, and... Riddle shows up.”

You could almost feel the temperature drop slightly at the mention of his name. Tom had that effect—he was either admired, feared, or completely misunderstood. And most people didn’t dare cross into his orbit.

“Riddle?” Lucas’ brow furrowed. “What did he want?”

Your lips twitched in irritation. "Well, he said... I’m going with him to the Slug Club party.”

There was a beat of silence, then:

“He what?” Lucas nearly shrieked, his eyes wide.

“He just—said it. Didn’t ask, didn’t wait for a reply. Just told me I’m going with him and walked off before I could even respond.”

Ben snorted, shaking his head. “Classic Riddle. Bloody arrogant, isn’t he?”

“You're telling me!” you said, leaning back in frustration. “I didn’t even agree, and now it’s like everyone’s going to think I’m—”

Cressida leaned in with a sly grin. “That you’re dating him?”

You shot her a look. “Please, no one’s going to think that. It’s just—he’s using me as a social prop or something. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“But why you?” Lucas asked quietly. “Riddle doesn’t just pick people randomly. Maybe he sees something in you.”

“That’s what makes it so weird!” you exclaimed. “I’ve barely spoken to him, and now I’m his date?”

Lucas crossed his arms. “Maybe you should start glaring at him more often, like I do.”

“Yeah, well, according to him, he’s already noticed your glare,” you said dryly, rolling your eyes. “Apparently, he’s very aware of all of us.”

Lucas huffed, clearly unimpressed. “Of course, he is. That guy’s always watching people like they’re chess pieces.”

Alicia giggled. "Well, I guess that means we’re all on his board now. Good luck with that.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I can’t believe this is happening. I don’t even want to go to that stupid party.”

Maeve nudged you gently. “Hey, it might not be so bad. If anything, Lucas’ll be there for moral support, right?”

Ben nodded with a small, encouraging smile. “He’ll keep an eye out for you. If he gets too... Riddle-like, just wave ‘em over.”

“Besides,” Lucas added, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “I’ll be there with my mystery date. You and I can compare horrible dates.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, shaking your head. “You’re impossible, Lucas.”

He winked. “I know.”

Despite the ridiculousness of it all, you felt a little better knowing your friends had your back, even if it meant navigating the Slug Club party with Tom Riddle as your so-called date. You were quite glad that Lucas would be there, otherwise… you didn’t know how you’d survive.

The dim light of the Potions classroom cast an almost mystical glow over the rows of cauldrons, each bubbling and steaming with the concoctions your classmates were diligently working on. You sat at a long table alongside Lucas, Lilith, and Alicia, the air filled with the aromatic scents of various herbs and potions brewing.

“Alright, does anyone actually know what we’re supposed to be doing?” Lucas asked, peering into his cauldron with a skeptical expression. “Because I’m pretty sure my potion looks more like swamp water than anything resembling a Polyjuice Potion.”

You leaned over to inspect his mixture, fighting back a grin. “I think it needs more lacewing flies. And probably less of whatever that is,” you replied, pointing at a suspicious-looking ingredient he’d added.

Alicia chuckled. Let’s see what kind of disaster we can create this time!”

Lilith, who was meticulously measuring her ingredients, glanced up with a shy smile. “Just be careful, okay? We don’t want to blow anything up this time.”

“Not this time,” Lucas said with mock solemnity, as if making a vow. “But I can’t promise anything after all that bad luck we had in Herbology.”

Just as the laughter began to bubble up again, Professor Slughorn approached your table, his round face beaming with warmth and enthusiasm. His robes swished around him as he moved, and he carried an air of joviality that made his presence both comforting and slightly intimidating.

“Well, well! Look who we have here!” Slughorn exclaimed, his eyes sparkling. “Our very own Gryffindor duo—Lucas and Y/n! I’m positively delighted to have you both joining us for the Slug Club party Saturday! It’s sure to be an affair to remember!”

You exchanged a glance with Lucas, both of you caught off guard by the sudden attention from Slughorn. Your stomach twisted a little at the mention of the party, a mix of excitement and nerves washing over you. Lucas, on the other hand, wore a broad grin that seemed to grow even wider. 

“Thanks, Professor!” Lucas replied, leaning back in his chair with a casual air. “I can’t wait. I’ve heard your parties are legendary.”

“Ah, you’ve heard correctly!” Slughorn said, his cheeks flushing with pride. “I do try to make them memorable. The company, the food, the lively discussions! You’re both in for a treat. I’ve planned some delightful surprises this time.”

“What kind of surprises?” Alicia asked, her curiosity piqued. She leaned forward, her long red hair spilling over her shoulders as she regarded the professor with wide eyes.

“Oh, I can’t reveal all my secrets, dear girl! That would spoil the fun,” Slughorn replied, waving a hand dismissively, though a mischievous smile played on his lips. “But I assure you, you won’t be disappointed. Just be sure to dress nicely! A party is only as good as its attendees, after all.”

You exchanged glances with Lucas, feeling the weight of Slughorn’s expectations. “Thanks for the heads up, Professor,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant despite the flutter of nerves in your stomach. “We’ll make sure to dress appropriately.”

Slughorn beamed at you, his eyes twinkling. “Wonderful! I’ll be counting on you both to liven up the evening! Now, I mustn’t keep you from your work. Let’s make sure that cauldron doesn’t boil over, shall we? Merlin knows I have enough cleaning with you, Alicia!”

As he moved on to check on another group, the four of you exchanged looks filled with a mix of excitement and apprehension. 

“What did I get myself into?” you whispered to Lucas, who was now rolling up his sleeves as if preparing for battle.

“Just a party, Y/n! What’s the worst that could happen?” Lucas replied, grinning. “I’m sure it’ll be all fun and games… unless Tom Riddle pulls out his mysterious charms again.”

“Oh, don’t remind me!” you said with a dramatic sigh. “At this point, I’m half-expecting him to show up with a crown or something.”

Lilith giggled softly, her curls bouncing as she nodded in agreement. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Same,” Alicia added, her voice laced with laughter. “But for real, Y/n. Just have fun.”

“Absolutely,” Lucas said, offering you a reassuring grin. “Let’s just survive Potions first, and then we can strategize our party game plan. Besides, I’ll be there to distract you from any of Riddle’s creepy vibes.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the camaraderie, feeling the comforting presence of your friends around you. As you returned your focus to the cauldron, the bubbling liquid within seemed a little less daunting, and the upcoming party, while still nerve-wracking, felt a touch more exciting with your friends by your side.

“Though, I can’t believe Slughorn is actually excited to see us at the party,” Lucas said, breaking into your thoughts. “I mean, I thought we’d be just another couple of faces in the crowd.”

“I know, right?” you replied, rolling your eyes slightly. “As if I’m not already stressed enough about it. What am I supposed to wear? I don’t even know how to match with Riddle.”

Lucas grinned mischievously, leaning closer to you. “I mean, have you considered going in full-on Gryffindor colors? You could practically blind him with your ensemble. Red and gold would definitely make a statement.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “As tempting as that sounds, I don’t think that’s the look I’m going for. I’d like to keep some semblance of style, thank you very much.”

Just then, Lilith, who had been quietly mixing her potion a few seats down, piped up. “Or you could match with Lucas!” she said, her eyes brightening at the idea. “You could be besties who coordinate outfits!”

Lucas’s eyes widened, and he looked at Lilith with mock horror. “Wait, you want me to match with Y/n? How would that even work?”

“Oh, come on!” you exclaimed, feeling a rush of excitement. “That would be hilarious. We could totally rock the matching bestie look! We’d be the life of the party.”

Lilith nodded vigorously. “Exactly! Just imagine it. You two in coordinating outfits, showing everyone how it’s done. You could wear something that complements each other. Think about it—everyone will love it!”

“Okay, I’m in,” Lucas said, a playful grin spreading across his face. “But only if I get to pick the colors. I’m not wearing anything ridiculous like polka dots.”

You laughed again, feeling your anxiety start to melt away. “Deal! As long as it’s something we can both pull off. I just want to make sure we don’t look like clowns or something.”

“Clowns would be a bold choice,” Lucas said, leaning back in his chair. “But we can leave that for the next party.”

“Perfect! So, what are you thinking for colors?” you asked, already feeling a surge of inspiration.

“Definitely something dark and sophisticated to contrast with your outfit. I think deep purple or navy would be awesome. They’d go well with both our styles,” Lucas suggested, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

“Those would look great together! I can see it now—me in a deep purple dress, and you in a navy suit,” you said, your excitement growing. “We’ll be the most stylish duo there!”

“Absolutely! And if anyone gives us grief, we’ll just tell them it’s a statement about friendship,” Lucas added, grinning as he glanced around the room.

Lilith giggled, pleased with the plan. “I can’t wait to see this! You two will be the talk of the party.”

As Professor Slughorn wandered closer, your table quickly redirected your attention to your potion, but the thrill of the idea lingered in your mind. Matching outfits with Lucas felt like just the right balance of fun and confidence you needed to tackle the upcoming Slug Club party.

The Gryffindor common room was bustling with high and loud energy as you and your friends gathered around a large table piled high with books, parchment, and assorted snacks. The fireplace crackled warmly in the background, casting a cozy glow over the space. Lilith sat cross-legged on the floor, engrossed in a thick tome about potion brewing, while Maeve and Alicia were locked in a spirited debate about the merits of various Quidditch teams.

You settled into a comfortable armchair, stretching your legs out in front of you and letting out a contented sigh. It felt nice to be surrounded by friends, especially after the whirlwind of emotions you’d experienced over the past few days.

As you reached for a chocolate frog, you caught sight of a familiar furry figure lounging on the armrest of your chair. Your heart swelled with joy as you recognized your cat, who had been mysteriously absent for days. 

“Hey there, little buddy!” you exclaimed, scooping the cat into your arms. “I haven’t seen you for days! I was starting to worry!”

The cat purred contentedly, nuzzling against your chin as if to say, ‘I’ve been off having adventures, thank you very much.’ You couldn’t help but laugh, scratching behind its ears. “I hope you weren’t off plotting world domination or anything.”

“Maybe he was hanging out with Tom Riddle!” Alicia chimed in, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’ve heard he’s a bit of a cat person.”

You shot her a mock glare, but a smile tugged at your lips. “You know what? I wouldn’t put it past him. He probably thinks he can communicate with Shadow or something.”

“Maybe they’re secretly bonding over dark magic,” Maeve added, feigning a serious expression. “What if they form a feline army?”

“Now that would be terrifying,” Lucas said, emerging from the corner of the room with a plate of biscuits. “A cat army led by Tom Riddle? I can see it now—total chaos.”

You shook your head, laughing at the absurdity of it all. “Well, if my cat is leading the charge, I’m definitely switching sides. I can’t let her rule the world without me!”

Lilith looked up from her book, a smile breaking through her usually reserved demeanor. “At least you’ll have a loyal companion by your side.”

You cradled your cat closer, who seemed to enjoy the attention. “You know, he might be the secret to my success. With Shadow by my side, I feel like I can take on anything—even Riddle.”

The group erupted in laughter, and the mood in the room brightened. You placed your cat back on the armrest, where he settled comfortably, watching everyone with bright, inquisitive eyes.

The weekend had finally arrived, and excitement buzzed in the air as you and Lucas made your way to Hogsmeade for a day of shopping. The streets were alive with chatter, laughter, and the sound of the occasional owl swooping overhead. The weather was crisp, the sky a brilliant blue, perfect for a day out with friends.

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” Lucas said, his voice laced with anticipation as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. He looked sharp today, dressed casually but stylishly in light jeans and a fitted sweater. “This is going to be epic.”

“Right?” you replied, your heart racing with a mix of nerves and excitement. “I feel like we’re on a mission to become the best-dressed duo in Hogwarts history.”

Lucas chuckled, his eyes glinting with mischief. “And to think, it all started with a date to the Slug Club. I’m still half-convinced you just wanted to drag me along to ensure you looked fabulous.”

“Can you blame me? You’re basically a fashion icon,” you teased, nudging him playfully.

As you approached Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, a quaint shop with window displays filled with elegant robes and dresses, you felt a thrill of anticipation. Stepping inside, you were greeted by the familiar scent of fabric and the gentle rustle of garments being tried on. A soft bell chimed as the door closed behind you.

“Alright, let’s find you a stunning dress!” Lucas said, eyes gleaming as he headed toward the racks of colorful robes and dresses. 

You wandered over to the section with formal wear, your heart racing as you scanned the options. After a few minutes of searching, your gaze landed on a beautiful dark purple dress that flowed elegantly to your ankles. The silk shimmered under the shop’s lights, and you could already picture how it would look on you—sleek and sophisticated.

“Lucas, come check this out!” you called, holding up the dress. 

His eyes widened, and a grin spread across his face. “That’s perfect! It’s so elegant and would look stunning on you. Try it on!”

With a quick nod, you grabbed the dress and made your way to the fitting room. Slipping it on, you admired yourself in the mirror. The fabric felt soft against your skin, and the color complemented your features beautifully. You turned to see how it looked from different angles, feeling a rush of confidence.

“Okay, now for the real test,” you said to yourself, stepping out of the fitting room. Lucas’s jaw dropped as he laid eyes on you, his expression a mixture of awe and approval.

“Wow, Y/N. You look absolutely breathtaking!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands in delight. “That dress was made for you!”

“Really? You think so?” you asked, a shy smile spreading across your face. 

“Absolutely. And it’ll look even better when we coordinate with my navy suit,” Lucas said, his voice teasing but sincere. “You’re going to be the star of the show, and I’m just here to support your brilliance.”

“Okay, okay, you’re making me blush,” you replied, playfully rolling your eyes. “But you still need to find your suit, Mr. Best Dressed.”

“Right! Let’s find the perfect navy suit to match my stunning date,” he said, striding over to the section for men’s formal wear. After a few minutes of browsing, he pulled out a dark navy suit that looked incredibly sharp. “What do you think?”

“Looks like a winner to me!” you said, clapping your hands together. “Let’s get you to try it on.”

As Lucas stepped into the fitting room, you waited anxiously outside, your heart pounding with excitement. When he finally emerged, you gasped. The suit fit him perfectly, accentuating his tall frame and dark curls. He looked incredibly handsome.

“Well? What do you think?” Lucas asked, striking a pose with a grin.

“You look fantastic! Seriously, you’re going to turn heads in that suit,” you said, unable to hide your admiration. “We’ll be the best-looking pair at the Slug Club.”

“Agreed,” he said, beaming. “Now let’s finalize our choices. You have to get that dress, and I definitely need this suit.”

After a few moments of browsing through accessories, you settled on a simple silver necklace that would add a touch of elegance without overpowering the dress. Lucas found a matching tie that complemented both his suit and your dress beautifully. 

“Alright, we did it!” you said as you paid for your outfits. “I can’t believe we actually pulled this off.”

“Of course we did! We’re a dynamic duo,” Lucas replied, a grin spreading across his face. “Now all we have to do is perfect our dance moves for the party.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be the center of attention with our dazzling outfits and questionable dancing,” you laughed, nudging him playfully.

“Let’s just hope we don’t end up stepping on each other’s toes,” Lucas quipped as you both stepped back into the bustling streets of Hogsmeade, ready to show the world just how stylish you could be together. 

As you walked side by side, you felt a sense of excitement and confidence. With Lucas by your side, you knew the Slug Club party would be an unforgettable night, no matter what happened.

“So, Luca, you still haven't told me who your date is.” You asked him, nudging him slightly with your elbow.

He chuckled nervously. “Ah, well, about that…”

“Come on,” you teased, nudging him playfully. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

He took a deep breath, his gaze fixed ahead. “It's... not a girl.”

A/N: to be added to taglist - press taglist lol & i have a feeling i basically wrote nothing? does that make sense, anyway THANK YOU for all the support

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊taglist:

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[zelcii]

Can i have Tom riddle X Hufflepuffreader angst

anyway I love your writing so muchh 💗🫶🏻

unnatural | tom riddle

she knew she was playing with fire when they met, so she couldn’t blame him when she got burned.

it was always there, that dark allure about him, the way he moved like he knew secrets about the world no one else could fathom. 

tom riddle wasn’t supposed to be loved, and yet, she loved him. she couldn’t help herself—couldn’t help the way her heart quickened when he was near, the way she melted under his gaze, the way she lost herself in his cold touch. she was never like him; in more ways than one. she was a hufflepuff, kind-hearted and warm, everything that he was not. tom was distant, calculating, and colder than the stone walls of hogwarts, but he was magnetic. no one could deny that.

they started as a secret, a quiet whisper amongst stolen glances.

tom never promised her anything, and she never expected more than what he gave. but you have to understand when i say he gave her his all.

tom was supposed to be a fighter. a man with no weakness. but as he watched her get sorted, feelings started brewing, though he supposed he should’ve expected it.

he tends to want the things he can’t have.

so for months—for mere months was all he needed—he spent his every day pining for the hufflepuff girl in a very calculated manner. and once he had her, there was no way he’d risk throwing away the only chance he had at love. true love.

he tracked the routes she took to every class to increase his chances in initiating conversation. he observed her eating patterns, reserving her favourite desserts so he could be the one to serve them to her. he even tracked her cycle to act accordingly.

she once thought she was prepared for the inevitable. early into their relationship, she was nothing but cautious, never putting in enough effort to regret it once he would obviously eventually break her heart.

after all, tom was born for something far greater than a fleeting romance. 

tom riddle was perfect, composed, and intelligent beyond measure, but the cracks were there—if you knew where to look.

she could see it every time he read a letter from his mother, the hint of disdain mixed with nothing but sadness towards her desperate words. she could see it when he held his breath, awaiting a grade for his exams, the way he both expected nothing but perfect yet continued to dread over the possibility of something lower (although it was a chance slim to none).

tom riddle was a puzzle of fractured pieces, all sharp edges and hollow spaces. there was an emptiness in him, something so profound it made her ache. and yet, in the quiet moments, when he let his guard slip—just for a breath—she could see something else.

he loved her. both of them knew it. there was something different about the way he looked at her. there was something raw and fragile churning in his merciless heart that he feared, and it held him back from ever truly keeping her.

he wanted her out of his life because it couldn’t have been natural. tom had fully convinced himself that he was utterly unloveable and that he himself, a product of a blatant breach in all magical and natural laws, shouldn't have been able to love someone so much. yet he knew that what he felt for the girl was pure, unadulterated love. 

at sixteen, tom killed his father. 

he never felt more free.

it was clear then that the longer he held onto the notion of love, the harder it would be to achieve the very things he believed he was born to do. 

so he pushed the girl away. his girl.

it broke him how she held on to every string that tied the two of them together. she held on because love was meant to be messy, wasn’t it? love was supposed to hurt. but oh, how it hurt.

he left after two short years—no words, no explanation—at the ripe age of seventeen. he had said that he had plans for a greater future. plans for a life worth living. and after all is done and every prophecy is fulfilled, he would come back to her, his only love. 

then tom had simply walked away, leaving nothing but the cold space where he’d once stood and an empty promise of “one day.” 

she cried. but not because she was surprised. no, this was very much expected if not inevitable. 

she cried because, in that moment, she realised just how far gone tom was. she cried because he had lost himself in the heat of what he believed to be his destiny. 

in the dumbledore’s office, harry stood idly by the pensieve watching as the old wizard spoke to him, explaining to him to find the one memory that recalled the very moment in which the dark lord decided to devote his life to his violent cause.

“it is time, now that you know what prompted Lord Voldemort to try and kill you fifteen years ago, for you to be given certain information,” albus mumbled as he stirred the magical liquid, beams light dancing above.

“whose memories will these be?” the boy asked, watching the light dance around the bottom of the basin.

“a hufflepuff’s,” the professor answered curtly.

harry stood with his hands on either side of the stone basin, before dunking his head into the liquid light.

the first thing he recognized was the astronomy tower, stars dancing just outside the large arched windows of the building.

the next thing is tom marvolo riddle. he looks young, a little younger then he’s used to seeing him, though familiar. his eyes droop, heavy but his jaw is clenched tightly, a subtle anger that he rarely wore on display.

but then a girl, no older than tom, entered the room from the long, precarious staircase. harry had never seen her before.

“tom,” she uttered breathlessly.

“love, i told you, we cannot meet like this,” he whispered firmly, his tone reprimanding. but harry could see the way his eyes softened at the sight of her. he saw the way the tension in his jaw faded, the way his brows knitted ever so slightly in concern, and the drowse in his eyes melting away in an instant.

not to mention the warmth in the way he called her love with such ease.

after all, the hufflepuff was still tom’s love; he was simply setting her aside to focus on things he found far more important.

"but i need you," she said, frustration creeping into her tone. "i know there are… other things you care about, but i can’t shake the feeling you don’t want anything to do with me anymore—"

"now, i never said that," tom replied, placing his hands on either side of her face, eyes calm. "i only ask for time, my love."

it took her a moment, searching his eyes for a meaning that went on deeper than his words. 

"your love?"

"my only," he confirmed with a steady nod.

she took a breath, but her brow stayed furrowed.  

"your only?" she repeated, a mix of disbelief and exasperation slipping through. 

before tom could answer, she shook her head, letting out a frustrated huff. she knew there was always something else that held his heart just a little more tightly.

“hey, no. what was that?” tom asked firmly, his hands moving from her face down to her squared shoulders. he was referring to the way her eyebrows knitted together, tempting him to lift his hand up to smooth out the creases.

harry watched, feeling a strange pang in his chest as he witnessed the tenderness in tom's touch—something he never could have imagined coming from voldemort. 

the girl, however, wasn’t easily soothed.  

“tom, i hate this," she admitted, her voice quieter now, laced with something close to desperation but grounded in stubborn strength. "i hate that i have to compete with your... obsession. am i even enough for you? really?"

tom hesitated, his gaze flickering, and for a moment, harry thought he saw a hint of doubt cross the future dark lord’s face. tom’s fingers tightened slightly on her shoulders. harry could tell the girl noticed it, too. all three of them knew tom wanted more.

"you are, my love," he replied, though there was a rare, unsteady note in his voice. "i promise you—no matter what happens, i will make it out of this alive. i’ll come back to you, and then we’ll have everything. together.”

she held his gaze, a glimmer of belief in her eyes, but there was a lingering sadness, too, one harry could feel even through the distance of a memory. her fingers slid down his forearm, clasping his hand tightly, almost as if she were grounding herself in his touch.

harry’s heart sank as the memory faded, his mind already piecing together what it all meant, feeling an inevitable, dark realisation set in. 

for tom to get her back, harry would need to be removed from the equation. tom’s only way to keep his promise, to return to his “only love” was by ending harry’s life.

[megwritesriddles]

In the Middle of the Night (In My Dreams!) ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Kinktober 2024 Day 21 - Somnophilia. Riddle has to figure out a way to keep Reader happy and covering for his ever increasing duties outside of the castle. What initially starts as a transaction escalates when they're both more willing than he expected, leading them to explore the slightly more forbidden together.

Tags: Somnophilia (consensual), Mildly dubious consent, Fingering, Hand jobs, Oral sex (f and m receiving), Friends with benefits, Denial of feelings, SoftDom!Riddle, HeadGirl!Reader, Manipulation, Faking an illness (chronic fatigue is very real, he's just a lying POS, only briefly mentioned).

READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED!!!!

Word count: 5.1k

Read it on ao3! | Masterlist

Authors note: Okay so despite this poll (sorry), I edited this into a less dark kinktober fic and will then release a much darker (non-con elements) part two after I finally finish kinktober!! This works as a stand alone if you're not into reading that kinda stuff (which I totally understand, ily dw)!! It just felt too dark for kinktober... even tho I literally have non-con as the prompt for day 25.... idk okay!! Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

PART 2 COMING SOON !! (but works as stand alone)

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The moment the two of you had been announced as Head Boy and Girl at the start of the year, Riddle knew he had to get on your good side. Not only for the purposes of professional engagements and living in the same quarters but also because there would be a lot he’d need from you. Last year, he had found a flaw in the enchantments around the castle, discovering that apparition in and out of the castle was in fact possible, so long as you did so from the room of requirements. He has started attending to business outside of the castle regularly, rallying supporters in closed-off magical communities, among trolls and elves. He also searches for artefacts and researches dark magic when he finds the time, visiting isolated collections owned by old eccentrics who he is able to charm easily. He’s made himself a busy life outside of Hogwarts which he’s determined to keep up in order for his plans post-graduation to go as smoothly as possible. Which is where you come in. 

He leaves for these expeditions every weekend, but obviously, he’s not actually allowed to leave the castle. He has to ask you to cover for him if anyone asks where he’s gone. He concocts a rubbish story about having chronic fatigue and having to rest all the time he can, and that he can’t possibly be disturbed while he’s resting as he’s taking special potions for sleep. It’s all a lie, playing on your empathy, which he knows you have droves of, something you are widely admired for. He tells you that he’s horribly embarrassed about it and doesn’t want anyone to think he’s incapable of being Head Boy because of it, so asks you to cover for him if anyone asks about him. You give him those big sympathetic eyes and agree, workshopping a litany of excuses with him. He almost feels bad with how seriously you’re taking this, how much you want him to feel okay, even though you’ve never liked him much before. Almost. It won’t happen a lot either way, he’s told his ‘friends’ that he will be out of reach and very sternly told them not to question, so they won’t poke around, and anyone else who needs him won’t need him often. He makes a show of being very tired in the evenings in the common room the first few weeks you live together. Soon after, he drops the charade and you don’t seem to notice the falsification happening right in front of you, continuing to cover for him every now and then when it comes up. You even comment optimistically that he seems more energetic lately, to which he smiles.

“I suppose so, yes, it must be that I can finally get the rest I need, thanks to you,” he says smoothly, proud of himself for taking this as another opportunity to keep you pliable. You seem overjoyed to be helping.

In return, he keeps you sweet. At first, he merely observes you to get an idea of what might keep him on your good side. Then, he starts showing up for you. He brings your favourite pastries from breakfast (you have a bad habit of sleeping in, which sometimes makes him wonder how you got this job, but alas), accompanied by a coffee just how you like it. Complimenting you whenever you try a new hairstyle or dress up nicely on weekends. The first time he’d done it, he’d commented on a trim you’d gotten to your hair over the weekend in Hogsmeade. You were baffled, saying no one had noticed a thing all day. He sensed that you found the fact that he was the only one to notice odd, but he couldn’t help being observant. He told you as much, and you just smiled. He makes sure to do any favours you ask of him, so you can’t throw his refusal back in his face in case you want to stop helping him, he needs something to hold over your head. It’s never much, perhaps helping you with a bit of schoolwork, listening to a speech you’ve prepared for Head duties or just jostling the logs in the fireplace of the common room when the flames die down. He’s surprised you don’t ask for more, considering that he starts asking for a lot from you. 

His schedule outside of Hogwarts gets complicated, requiring him to head out occasionally in the middle of the week. You always cover for him, insisting to professors that he’s ill in bed, even though it’s clear by now that you’ve realised he’s actually missing during these periods. Your enthusiasm over helping him out has dwindled as you get the sense you’re being played, but he treats you well enough that you seem to assume the best intentions. How naive. Having someone so respected by the professors, the head girl herself, lying for him, he knows, is the only reason he’s been getting away with it for this long. He’s ‘sick’ far too often and never seen at the hospital wing, never requesting any medicine or showing any symptoms. He wonders what you think he’s doing when he’s away, doubting you could guess the truth, but you never ask despite your increasingly suspicious looks, which he appreciates. He likes you, you’re discreet, a surprising trait for such a goody-two-shoes as you are. He spends more and more time with you in the common room in his free time, charming you and winning you over, making sure he’s there if you need a favour or a ‘friend’ to talk to. He finds you to be intelligent and likeable, you’re funny, even if he prefers a bit of a darker humour than you have. There are silences as you sit together where you stare at him while he works on whatever schoolwork he deems most important that day, he knows you’re formulating all sorts of theories, your brain turning as you try to make a guess.

“I appreciate you being discreet,” he says simply one night as you sit together, working separately on assignments. The statement is followed by a silence in which he is tempted to look over at you to see your reaction but resists the urge.

“I don’t suppose you’ll ever tell me what you’re up to?” It’s meant to be a question, but it comes out as a statement. You already know he won’t, and he knows it too. No matter how good you’ve proved to be about covering for him, if you knew the true nature of what he was up to, you’d run. Tattle before even letting him explain, which really wouldn’t help either way. He turns to you, extending an arm. 

“Come here,” he nods his head in his direction. You look confused, and he doesn’t blame you for feeling that way, he isn’t affectionate with anyone. He makes a point of never being seen as being soft, which is easy given he isn’t soft for anyone. But he knows the type you are, so sweet and kind, the type that you can be won over with a little affection. There’s no one here to see either of you anyway, he can risk it this once. You slowly scoot into his side and he wraps an arm around your shoulders. He brushes an errant strand of hair from your face and holds you to his side. “I really do appreciate it, I’m always here if you need anything from me,” he whispers. You look up at him and nod. “Good,” he hums. You spend the rest of the night pressed into his side as you do your homework, it’s odd, but he’s warm and solid, and most girls at Hogwarts would kill to be in your position, so you let it be. It becomes a fairly frequent scene, the two of you snuggled up by the fire, especially as the days grow colder and colder. His hands like to wander, brushing places they probably shouldn’t, but you never stop him or say a word, letting your own hands wander a little too. You don’t talk about it, not with him or with anyone else. You know without words that he doesn’t want it to leave the room. It’s just another secret you have to keep for him. 

He starts having the need for more frequent meetings with his little group of in-school followers, the Knights of Walpurgis, as his plans get closer and closer to their time of fruition. The Head Common Room is the perfect place to host, spacious and completely secret, except for from you. He knows he has to sweeten the deal once more to have you leave the common room for long periods in the evening. So one night, while the two of you study together snuggled up, he kisses you. You’re alarmed but immediately kiss back. He knew you would, every girl in the damn school would, but it still feels like an unexpectedly simple triumph. His hand grips your jaw, not allowing you to move away, not that you’re trying to. Your hand gently cups the side of his neck, keeping him close as his tongue carefully breaches your lips, slightly surprised by how willing you are for him. He has a multitude of things he’s considered doing to you, but for tonight, he has to stick with something focused on your pleasure. He doesn’t mind, pleasuring you is an act of domination in its own right. By the end of the night, he has you sat between his legs, your back to his chest as his fingers thrust in and out of you. You squirm and mewl in his ear, your head thrown back on his shoulder, as he holds you securely with an arm around your middle, fucking you on his fingers. He’s high off of the fact he has you completely nude apart from your socks before him, while he’s still fully dressed.

“There we go, darling,” he purrs in your ear, gently pressing his lips to your jaw. “I bet you’ve wanted this for quite a while, haven’t you?” he teases, grinding the heel of his palm against you as his fingers press in and out. You must have, given how quickly you’d let him strip you down, manoeuvre you into the position he wanted, just how soaking wet you’d been from a couple of strategic words of praise. He’d wrongly assumed you’d be a little more prudish, but he was pleasantly surprised otherwise. “I want you to do something for me,” he whispers, slowing his movements a little so you can focus on his words. You whine softly in protest and he smirks. “Tomorrow evening, could you make yourself scarce for… let’s say three hours? Starting from… six thirty?” his fingers caress your inner walls torturously lightly, almost tickling, making you squirm unhappily.

“Where would I go?” you exhale.

“Library? Walk the grounds? Astronomy tower? I don’t mind, darling, as long as you’re not here,” he kisses behind your ear softly. He expects some questions or protests, but none come, only a simple nod. He’s a little surprised how easy things are with you, although it may have a lot to do with how his fingers are currently buried deep in your cunt at present, he concedes to himself. But you’re always easy, always helpful, so willing to give him the benefit of the doubt even though you were more than smart enough to know better. “That’s a lovely girl,” he smiles against your skin. He hesitates, unsure whether to reveal the transactional nature of his kindness toward you, but he feels he must assure you somehow that it will be worthwhile. “I’ll reward you accordingly, I promise. You’ll hurry back to me at nine-thirty, won’t you? I’ll be missing you by then,” he purrs, trying to further pull the wool over your eyes with some flattery. He straightens up to look down at you, your head still resting back on his shoulder. “Won’t you?” he prompts again, kissing your forehead. You nod, giving him a pleading look and bucking your hips helplessly. You want him to keep going, feeling half-insane from his unmoving fingers filling you up.

And that he does, finger-fucking you through two mind-blowing orgasms that night, showering you with ever more ridiculous praises as the night goes on. It’s unclear whether you’re losing your mind to the pleasure and not understanding him, or if he’s just spewing every compliment he can possibly think of. Once you’re thoroughly debauched, he helps you into your bed as your legs are too shaky on their own, laying you down and kissing you goodnight with a slightly stilted tenderness. You watch him in quiet confusion as he retreats from your room, feeling satisfied and yet completely confused. 

It becomes a bit of a routine, whenever he needs you to stay away from the common room, or otherwise go out of your way for him, he pulls you into his lap in the evening and tugs down your underwear, pleasuring you expertly. Soon, it becomes harder to tell, as he begins to get you off every night, whether he’s after something or not. You don’t know if it’s just his efforts to make sure you don’t forget to think of him positively, you’re far from oblivious to the fact you’re being bribed, or if he’s just enjoying it at this point. He stretches out your encounters more and more, especially when you start returning the favour, using your hand on him while he does the same to you. You’re pleasantly surprised how aroused he gets just from fucking you on his fingers, always at least half-hard by the time you can get your hands on him. When he introduces his mouth into the equation, you’re sure he’ll be asking something big of you soon. But he doesn’t, nothing new comes up, other than you also beginning to use your mouth on him. He seems to love it, so you suppose it must have been motivation enough. He likes to take his time, to make you feel helpless and desperate, not seeming to care if it leads him to spend long periods of time kneeling before you, which was something you were certain he would have never been caught doing for anyone.

It’s a nice relationship in Riddle's opinion, he gets off and he gets what he wants from you. You make yourself scarce and Riddle is able to conduct his meetings in peace in a perfect setting. Whether you’re using mouths or hands, it’s always intensely pleasurable. He grows attached to the sight of you on your knees before him, his cock deep in your mouth as you look up at him with those wide innocent eyes. You’re amazing with your mouth, and usually willing to get on your knees whenever he’d like you to. It’s a perfect arrangement in this way. He loves to hold you down and make you scream using nothing but his tongue. Some of his friends say that eating out a woman is demeaning, but he never feels more powerful than when he has you crying and begging. He loves to make you beg, long-forgotten is the fact he’s meant to be doing this just to keep you sweet, just to manipulate you into helping him. He’s lost in it now, and no matter how selfish he gets in bed, you keep covering for him, seeming to misinterpret him as generous rather than intensely power-hungry. It works well for his purposes, so he lets you think of him as a giving lover.

He’s a little surprised that you haven’t asked for any exclusivity or any indication of whether he’s bringing in other girls at the times he asks you to keep away. He’s not, of course, but he doesn’t understand why you don’t care to ask. He tells himself that it doesn’t matter, but deep down it does bother him, every other girl he’d ever been involved with, even briefly, had asked to be his one and only. You’re a sweet girl, the type he assumed would fall in love with him the moment he first got his hands on (and in) you, but you haven’t indicated this in any way. He knows you’re not seeing any other men because he keeps an eye on you whenever he can. Even having gone so far as to cancel a meeting with a tradesman in Diagon Alley to stay back and watch you while you think he’s away. Nothing. You go about your day as normal, come back to the common room and curl up to read your book. Just before bed, you attempt to get yourself off and fail, pouting through your night routine. You can’t do it without him, he notes smugly. He wishes he could come help, but he can’t without revealing his spying. By the time he gets back legitimately, you’re fast asleep. Given all of this, he still doesn’t understand why you’re not asking him for a commitment. It’s not that he wants to commit to you, he doesn’t like the idea of being tied down, even if he currently has no interest or energy to pursue anyone but you, but the fact you haven’t asked drives him nuts. You seem happy to get off with him and go to sleep without asking a single question. He lingers in your doorway, watching your frame rise and fall under your blanket with slow breaths, wondering about you.

He’s surprised when you bring it up. How you’d felt his presence in your doorway while you’d been asleep, despite not being fully awake. He explained that he’d been wanting to help you out (his own evasive phrasing) but that you’d been visibly asleep so he’d left instead. At your expression, he asks you teasingly if you’d have liked him to do it anyway, his teasing smirk only growing when you blush and nod. And so a system was set, he tells you to sleep on the sofa in the common room if you’d like his attention during the night, as he has a habit of waking up in the middle of the night to fetch water. You agree and you proceed together like normal for the next few days, pleasuring each other in the evenings when he isn’t busy. Every night, even on nights he wasn’t actually waking up naturally, he would come into the common room to check for you. For a long time, you’re not there, and he’s a little frustrated with you. Why dangle such a tantalising idea in front of him if you never meant to go through with it? He’d been a perfect gentleman, telling you that you could say no if the idea made you uncomfortable, but at the time, you’d seemed apprehensively excited about it, yet now, nothing. His eyes stay glued on your door as he goes about getting his water each night, wishing he could go in there. He tries his best not to show his disappointment when he spends time with you in the daytime, not wanting to come off as pushy and drive you away. He needed you to like him, staying on your good side was non-negotiable and pushing you on a matter like this was generally frowned upon. About a week and a half later, he trudges from his room to top up his glass and sees a lump under a blanket on the sofa. It’s you.

He immediately slows and lightens his footsteps, not wanting to wake you as it would ruin the fun. He hadn’t had time for you the last four days, between increasing stakes when it came to schoolwork and closing in on a magical artefact outside of it, he’d been gone for everything but class and sleep. He creeps over to you, seeing your peaceful face squished against the velvet throw pillow. You must have missed him, he thinks, since you started your little mutual arrangement you’ve never gone more than two days without each other before, mostly because Riddle found himself quite insatiable. He’d always told himself he was uninterested in matters of the flesh, that he enjoyed indulging but could easily control himself, and that he was only doing what he was with you to manufacture a sense of closeness and keep you in the palm of his hand. Yet, he had to admit that he doesn’t usually go so far for the purposes of manipulation and that he never would have done this in the first place if he hadn’t found you attractive. He was unwilling to sacrifice his own happiness for his manipulation, beyond a bit of necessary flattering drivel. So when he’d allowed himself into this arrangement, even simply under a pretence, he had quickly lost control of it and become ravenous for the sensations you could offer. He watches your parted lips as you breathe softly. Gently, he rolls you onto your back, waiting to see if you wake. You don’t. He slips the plush blanket down your body and exposes you to his eyes. You’re dressed in a sweet feminine nightgown and he finds the look to be sweet on you, fitting. You were a perfect thing to corrupt. Yet, he smirks to himself, you had agreed to this, you were already corrupted, so desperate for him that you wanted him even in your sleep. Surely you did want exclusivity from him, you were just trying to appear laid back to not scare him off. You could be endearingly shy like that at times. Yes, you agreeing to this was surely evidence that you wanted more from him than you had. That you needed him.

He slowly and cautiously shifts you around until he can settle comfortably between your legs. His hands run up and down the soft skin of your thighs, keeping a close eye to see if you stir. He wonders if you’re really such a heavy sleeper, or if you’re merely pretending not to have woken for his benefit. At the moment it doesn’t matter to him, you seem asleep enough, and if you are conscious, you’re hardly objecting. He pushes up the hem of your nightdress and grins at the sight of you already bare for him, with no underwear in sight. Naughty girl, he thinks to himself as his hands skim up and down your inner thighs, leaning forward to press a soft kiss just above the little patch of hair shielding the part of you he wants most. He would love to tease you and draw it out more, but he doesn’t want you to wake before he can explore the more intimate aspects. He carefully lies down, guiding one of your supple thighs over his shoulder, spreading you open for his eager eyes. You’re already a little wet, he wonders if it’s from his teasing now, or perhaps your dreamy anticipation. He knows he can get you wetter easily. He uses two fingers to gently spread you open even more, revealing the sensitive pearl nestled within your folds. He blows lightly on it, making you twitch a little. He grins.

Still trying to let you stay asleep for now, he leans in and very gently touches his tongue to your bundle of nerves. You sigh softly in your sleep but don’t seem to wake. Your dreams are turning sticky-sweet, you begin to feel warm and floaty, but you’re not conscious enough to register this change properly. You squirm slightly and moan as his tongue gently swirls around your clit, not touching to keep you just bubbling below waking. Your breath is hitching softly, and little noises are leaving your throat. He can tell you’ll wake soon unless he stops, but he figures he doesn’t mind. He wants to see your face when you wake up to his head between your legs. Will you be shocked to start with? Or immediately eager and accepting? He was oddly thrilled to discover this. Your hands slide away from where they rested on your stomach, trying to grab something as he starts to lap at you just a little faster, your breath hitching a little more, exhaling shakily. He’s surprised you’re still asleep, he’s tempted to use legilimency on you to discover what you’re dreaming of. Your face is flushed and your lips parted blissfully, so he figures it’s something nice. His tongue slides up and down between your slick folds, the familiar taste of you spreading across his tongue as you become more and more aroused. He gently kneads the skin of your hip, pulling you a little closer to his mouth, trying to coax you awake without startling you too much. Your eyelids flutter, but you remain asleep, whimpering quietly. He focuses the tip of his tongue on your clit, making the stimulation just a little more intense, watching for your reaction intently. Your fingers tangle into the crumpled blanket by your side, curling into the plush material, and he knows you're on the very verge of wakefulness. He smirks, gently suckling your clit into his mouth. 

This rips a loud moan from your chest, which in turn makes your eyes snap open. You try to sit up, blinking blearily, looking a little bewildered, trying to make out shapes in the dim moonlight, to understand why you feel lost in a haze of pleasure. Riddle's hand moves, splaying out on your stomach, pushing you back down and holding you there. Your eyes snap to him, he grins up at you from between your legs, looking unbelievably smug, his eyes glinting in the light of the moon. The sight of him between your legs, the knowledge of what he’d been doing while you’d been sleeping, coaxes another moan from your lips. He eases up a little now you’re awake, going back to gentle teasing licks against your bundle of nerves. Your heart pounds and you breathe rapidly, partially reeling from the sudden awakening, but mostly just feeling amazing. You lie back against the sofa, trying your best to get your bearings while he continues smothering you with unrelenting bliss. He pulls back for a moment, though he instantly replaces his mouth with his fingers, not giving you a moment to think. 

“Naughty girl, sleeping without underwear to give me access,” he purrs, his voice rumbling in a self-satisfied manner. You giggle sleepily. You had done that, hadn’t you? He smiles up at you. “Was it a nice awakening, my darling?” he murmurs smoothly, leaning back in to continue his dedicated licks. You whimper softly, your hips twitching before he holds you solidly in place, tutting against your sensitive skin.

“The best awakening, so unbelievably arousing,” you whisper, your voice hoarse, watching him work his magic between your legs. He hums against you. He knows this of course, this was quite possibly the wettest he’d ever had you, only increasing since you’d woken up and become conscious of what he was doing. Your hands slide into his short curls as he works, usually, he might complain about this, but you’re still a little sleepy, and he decides to let it go. You sigh pleasurably, your hooded eyes locked on him. His eyes look up to meet yours as he begins to suckle on your clit once more. Intense pleasure floods over you, your head lolling back, your hands tightening slightly in his hair. You let out a string of desperate moans, moans he’s become intimately familiar with over the past few weeks. You’re close and he intends to get you there, to show you how much you need him, to remind you that you can no longer achieve this alone, if you ever could. He doubles down on his actions, gripping your hip a little tighter to keep you firmly in place. “Oh… Tom!” you plead, trying to grind your centre up into his face. You could get so desperate sometimes, Riddle tuts to himself. “Please,” you beg, anticipating his desire to tease you and hoping to get ahead of it. You need this, badly, he hasn’t been around to help you for days, and the scenario was driving you mad with lust. He’s uncharacteristically gracious, not relenting, continuing to lavish you with exquisite sensation, building you up and up. You look down again, and as his eyes meet yours, the coil in your belly snaps. Your whole body tenses, your back arching off of the sofa, a guttural cry escaping you. He holds your hips in place, continuing his assault as you ride out the climax. Tears gather in your eyes and you feel a little humiliated by how intensely this is affecting you. 

After several desperate sobs, you finally collapse back, your hands slipping from his hair. You take several deep breaths as he withdraws from between your legs, sitting up to look down at you. He grabs a tissue from the coffee table, wiping his mouth and discarding it haphazardly. You smile tiredly, and you feel exhausted by your sudden wake-up, but completely heavenly at the same time. You stare at each other for a moment. It’s an oddly domestic moment. You’ve never seen him in his pyjamas before, a matching shirt and trousers, made of silk or some other such soft material, the type that’s popular with the rich Slytherin boys. His hair is a little curly naturally, this you did know from him getting back to the common room on rainy days, but is now slightly messed up from your hands in it. You cover yourself back up, tugging the hem of your nightdress back down as he watches. He looks almost sweet, he has been sweet to you, in his own way. He reaches over and touches your flushed cheek, rubbing it softly with his thumb, unsure whether he’s trying to prove his effect on you, or just wishing to touch you. 

“I’ll have to think of something to ask of you in exchange for doing that,” he jokes a little unnaturally. You laugh honestly. 

“You didn’t already have something?” you tease, moving to sit up. He smiles, enjoying the way you see through him, just enough to prove you’re not stupid, but not enough to compromise any plans. Perhaps that’s why you haven’t asked for exclusivity with him, you’re not stupid like the others, whether you want it or not being irrelevant to the facts. The facts that were feeling more like theories lately.

“No, believe it or not,” he chuckles, pushing your hair behind your shoulder. “But it’ll be easy enough to think of something,” he pulls you onto his lap and kisses you goodnight. “You always find a way of being useful,”

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xoxoxo

[iveriee]

tom riddle x sub ! clingy ! reader

( headcanons )

— no mention of reader's gender. tom is a toxic fucking bastard. reader is desperate. emotional manipulation. kind of fluffy. sexually explicit material in the nfsw section. oral. sadism. slight crack. aftercare (?). crumbs of sub ! tom. pulled this one out of my drafts aswell. NOT PROOFREAD !! can be read as a summarisation / alternate universe of escape.

— he doesn't know whether to be annoyed or flattered, for you rarely let him get out of your sight — often clinging to him like a parasite, head buried in his chest, arms wrapped around his neck.

— at first, he finds it endearing how you pout whenever he leaves. you're like an accessory to him — a prized possession that can't live without him.

— you take his hand, oh-so-gently and kiss him every single day. you tell him everything about your day, from the tiniest fragments to entire events.

— and it's nice of you — it really is. but unfortunately it is getting tiring.

— it is getting tiring to listen to your rambles, he thinks as you go on a tangent about how you accidentally spilled ink over your benchmate and how they 'overeacted'.

— you're like a bug now.

— weak. needy. pathetic.

— and he has no time for people with such characteristics, he cannot afford to.

— so he begins to ignore you. slowly but surely he does.

— and you grow crazy.

— why is he ignoring you? what did you do even do? did you mess up?

— you try to talk to him but he doesn't pay any attention.

— fuck. fuck. fuck.

— you always mess things up. you should've never overstepped his boundaries. you should've never clung to him like a fucking parasite. you never should have.

— so you do something you never should have done. again.

— ( you'll never change, will you ? )

— you beg for forgiveness on your knees — tears streaming down your cheeks.

— and he smirks ever so slightly. a sort of sadistic delight jolts through him.

— he pats your head and tells you there's no need to act this way — and that you're being silly.

— this fucker, you think before nodding at his words.

— he fucking ignored you and now he's saying that you're being silly for complaining ?

— you decide to let it be and focus on the positive aspects: you have him back now.

— (..presumably.)

— and so it happens again — you hug him so tight that your arms begin to sore. you tell him about your day. (albeit less), you kiss his cheeks and you gawk at his intelligence and you're...happy.

— or are you?

— because beneath all that affection, you are hollow.

— he can't love you, no, — but he'll accept your affection. it strokes his ego, probably.

— and you don't mind as much as you thought you would.

* what if you try to make him jealous ? or cheat on him. ?

oh merlin. you're screwed. done for. ended. dead. because, (i) it's highly unlikely that he'll fall for your pretense and (ii) if he somehow does, he'll make sure to make that fucker's life a living hell and perhaps yours too. how dare you fucking betray him for some piece of worthless shit? how the fuck could you?

he wasted so much of his time on you. so much of his time that could've been utilised. and yet he spent it reassuring you of your worth, listening to your tangents, helping you, and being..yours. you were his, obviously, but even more surprisingly, he was, in some twisted way, yours too.

and now you cheated on him. after he took the time to be vulnerable with you, after he exposed his true colours to you, after you peeled back his cold exterior. (after he let you pepper kisses all over his face and boop his nose!)

he thought he was the cruel one. but it seems you are. and you're not just cruel, no, — you're a fucking monster. something he never thought he'd use to describe you. a word usually reserved for him, back at that stupid muggle orphanage.

* how would he react to you being thoughtful and remembering the tiniest things about him ?

he'd be flattered, really — it's his most common reaction to your shenanigans, after all. he does indeed love having his ego stroked and your dedication to him would surely do that. you remembered how he prefers using fountain quills ? how endearing. you remembered his favourite colour, his favourite subject, his boundaries, his interests—

still, it's adorable. how you take the time to memorize everything about him in that pretty little head of yours. but that's not all. let's say — you remembered his..... birthday. actually, fuck no. he hates his birthday and would probably give you a nasty glare before walking off.

there are certain things that he doesn't want you knowing, obviously and if you find out, he'll obliviate you or if he can't do that, he'd ghost you or threaten you, depending on what you know. ("love. how can you even say that I went to the girl's lavatory? you have no reason to think that. and no, i absolutely was not being a cree— what are you even on about?")

but still, I'd say his outlook would usually be positive.

* how would he react to you being jealous ?

— he would be, to say the least, amused. it would mean that you do indeed care about him. perhaps a bit too much...

— he taps his nails against his desk smugly as you pout in your classic fashion and yell at him. tom doesn't understand how you feel even a twinge of the hot, burning embarassment you are supposed to feel when acting so utterly ridiculous.

— when you finally stop ( and merlin it is after a long time when you do ) there might aswell be smoke puffing out of your nose.

— he takes your flushed cheeks and squishes them, hands digging into your flesh. when you groan out in protest, he shhs you as if you are a fucking child.

— "you're jealous." he whispers, his lips curling. and he knows he's right, by the way your eyes divert and your breathing turns ragged.

— "trust me, i am yours. why would you think that way? do you not trust me?" he then smoochs your forehead and FUCKING LEAVES !!!! the bastard leaves.

— he can't help but chuckle as he walks out. you are mortifying. ridiculous. stupid. and oh so naive. you are all of that indeed. and worse, even.

— alas, he cannot leave you. you are entertaining. overly so. ( and because he loves you but he would never admit that)

* what if you comfort him because of his past ? what if you just can't handle that the person you love had to suffer ?

he'd be... astonished. despite feigning displeasure, he would be, in somewhere deep in his heart, utterly and completely, — flattered. you. sweet you. hugging him — apologizing for something you were not even apart of. sniffling, hands softly trailing across his cheeks. you had always been affectionate, yes — but this? nobody had done this for him.

and for that, he leans into your touch; your sweet, honey-dripping kisses and words. he feels strange. a strange kind of heat creeps up his body and he doesn't know if he hates it or if he loves it. all he knows that you're the reason why the sudden warmth erupts in his stomach in the first place. you. you.

he's scared. so scared. scared that he might aswell peel back all the boundaries he's been keeping for long, held together by his sheer unwillingness to show a fleck of vulnerability. he doesn't want you thinking he's weak and even more, that...he loves you.

nfsw.

— oh shit.

— you are eager — really eager.

— and he doesn't know how to react to it.

— his drive really isn't all that high, so you have to be the one to initiate it.

— most of the time, you let him take the lead and do he wants to.

— he fucking LOVES teasing you in public places.

— he'll trail his fingers across your thighs in the midst of a class and tell you to be quiet when you whimper ever so slightly.

— and it's torturous — how he coaxes involuntary gasps out of you. how he does not give a flying fuck about your dignity.

— what can you do but sniffle and grip the table tightly, lips trembling? merlin, you want, no, need him. and there's a hot, gashing fire inside of you — all consuming, heavy and ravenous .

— he likes giving you oral too. maybe even more than he likes recieving it.

— he'd drag his tongue between your legs and you'd cry out his name and grab his hair even more tightly, all while he never breaks eye contact. you'd be the one sobbing and breathless, not him — despite him being on his knees.

— it somehow brings him satisfaction to know that you'll always be beneath him.

— he's not that great at aftercare — he doesn't know how to 'comfort' you, so he just holds you suffocatingly tight until you fall sleep.

* would he let you take control ?

not reeeeally ?? yes but also no. he'd let you be in charge occasionally, of course, but if you tried to convince him again, he'd merely chuckle and roll his eyes. ("no, love — i'm not letting you tie me up again. not after what you did. and don't try to manipulate me with those puppy eyes.")

but secretly, he would enjoy it. although he'd die rather than admit it. your eyes seem to light up whenever he says that you can take the lead and obviously.. you're quite enthusiastic and this enthusiasm translates...strangely during the act. he finds that he doesn't mind, closing his eyes and lying back for once. but it is so very mortifying to beg you for more.

[mrsmikaelsxn]

What Did You Do

masterlist

pairing: tom riddle x female reader, voldemort x female reader

warnings: angst, tiny bit of fluff

summary: throughout your years at hogwarts, you and tom were inseparable, now as a professor you see what happened to him at the battle of hogwarts - requested by anon

a/n: i'm going to age down voldemort and the reader (meaning because mcgonagall is a little younger than voldemort, the reader would be so old lmao. so i'm just imagining the reader is like remus' age, it wont affect the time line, idk if that makes sense sorry)

song: the night we met - lord huron

Tom was brilliant, so were you. You were both the top of your classes since your first year at Hogwarts.

That's how you two started talking. You would be partnered with each other in most of your classes, you made an excellent pair.

Throughout the years there, you two had grown a bond. Eventually, you both had feelings for each other.

You knew of your affections towards him, you didn't tell him because you didn't want to ruin your close friendship. But Tom had been in a sort of denial, seeing as how he was conceived under a love potion, he didn't think it was possible.

Around your sixth year, he had come to terms with how he felt. You two had confessed to each other after one of Slughorns dinner parties, he had attended as your date.

It came as a shock to most students when the news of you getting together spread.

They had know he had a soft spot for you, but he had never shown any romantic feelings towards anyone before.

It was seventh year and Tom had confessed to you of his plans and becoming Lord Voldemort.

He asked you to join him and be his partner but you couldn't. It was wrong and you knew it, he knew it deep down too.

You figured this was caused by his horrible childhood at the orphanage, he told you all about how he was treated.

He asked you one final time to join or he would have to continue without you.

You stood there in front of him with tears streaming down your face as you shook your head.

He wanted to wipe the tears from your beautiful face, but he knew it would make him tempted to give up the plans he worked so hard for.

So he turned his back on you and left you behind while you cried and begged him to stop what he was doing.

After that night, you hadn't seen him again.

"Harry!" you call your student, a student who was like a son to you.

You knew of how he got his scar, as did everyone else. It broke your heart each time you thought of what had caused it.

"Harry, be safe, I'll be right behind you," you kiss his head. He goes and runs off to find Voldemort as students and staff start to fill the courtyard and go into a circle.

You quickly walked through the empty halls of Hogwarts, making sure there were no student that needed help.

You finally went outside and saw Harry and Voldemort in a duel.

You gasp at how he looks, this wasn't your Tom. You hadn't seen how he looked since that night so long ago.

You rush over ignoring the calls of people to stop.

"Tom! Stop this!" you yell with angry tears forming in your eyes.

Voldemort blocks Harry's spell and sends one to knock him out for a little while he drops his arm to look at you.

People watching were frozen in their places as they took in the scene in front of them. There were very few people who were aware of your past relationship with Tom.

"Y/n."

"What did you do," you cry. He almost winces at the pain in your voice.

He slowly walks over to you and stops about three feet from you.

"I got the power I've always desired," he explains in a monotone voice.

"Tom... we could have had a future together, look what you've become," you whisper.

"You didn't wish to join me, you didn't expect me to drop everything I've worked for, did you?"

"Yes, I did, because you could have and I would have done the same for you," you try your best to keep your voice from cracking.

He knows you're right. He couldn't look you in your eyes. He looks around at the faces watching as he tries to not think about how beautiful you still are.

You had grown into a stunning woman, and well, he felt embarrassed by what he had come to.

"Stop!" Voldemort shouts, annoyed at his now conflicted emotions.

He feels tempted to stop and apparate you and him somewhere to stay, like how you always dreamed of.

He couldn't, not now. He decided an apology was the only thing he could do, as he went to apologize to you, he suddenly felt pain all over.

He turned his head to see Harry with his wand pointed at him. It was then you both realized he was truly gone.

As he starts to turn to stone, he uses all the energy left in him to look at you, in the eyes this time.

He watches as so many emotions flash through your eyes. He memorized your features in the few seconds he has.

You look at Voldemort on his knees, almost all stone. You see him mouth something, it looks like 'I'm sorry', but you can't be sure.

You watch as he looks you dead in the eye, finally turning completely to stone and dissolving into nothing.

People around you start cheering and hugging as they all celebrate.

Harry turns to you and sees the devastated look on your face.

"I'm sorry that you lost him," Harry says as he hugs you, "not Voldemort, but Tom," he continues.

"I'm sorry too, but you're safe, along with everyone else," you sigh, "that's all that matters," you kiss his forehead and hug him back.

It took you a while to finally accept that Tom- Voldemort, was gone.

Things slowly got back to normal. Hogwarts was rebuilt and repaired. You continued your teaching career there.

You were sat in your room, in a cottage where you and Tom were supposed to be living.

You decided that if he couldn't be there to live life, you would do it for the both of you.

You pick up some letters he would send you when you were dating, you had saved them all. You look at the box and see one that hasn't been opened. Your eyebrows furrow as you open it. Then, a tear slides down your face as you read it.

My y/n,

If you are reading this, that means I have become Lord Voldemort, and am likely dead now.

I need you to understand that I am not the Tom you once knew. I also need you to understand that I have regretted walking away from you each and every day since I did so.

You were my family, my love, my everything.

I'm sorry I threw that away for power. I know now that it is far too late to go back.

I wish I could though, and spend life with you in that place you always use to tell me about. Unfortunately, it isn't possible. But know that if it was, I would take that opportunity in a heartbeat.

Stay true to yourself, don't turn your back on the people you love, I regrettably made that mistake.

You are a beautiful person, my love, I hope you accomplish all of the things you use to rant to me about.

Please forgive me.

Yours always,

Tom Riddle

[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.

༻♛༺