Welcome all She/her | 20 years old | Finnish | Your resident Tom Riddle girl and lover of the Black family | I do not support JK Rowling You can come make friends with me if you want :)
SUMMARY: sucking off Professor Riddle while he's talking to a student. that's the summary. have fun. ;)
WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. nasty nasty stuff. messy blowjob. exhibitionism, rough oral m!receiving, teasing, slight dumbification, he watches you in the mirror, choking on it, MESSY blowjob again bc I MEAN it, wtf is wrong with me genuinely, reader LOVES gagging on it, cumming in mouth, face slapping, cockwarming
AUTHOR'S NOTE: sometimes I question my sanity while writing these. then I get horny. then I remember yall love me. then, I hit the post button.
wordcount: 3,1k
Your knees ache, dark bruises blooming beneath the thin skin above your joints as you scrape against the rough, worn-down wooden panels of his study. You`ve been here for no more than twenty minutes—not wasting time with unnecessary talking before you sank to your knees and crawled underneath his desk, eager fingers fumbling with the metal of his belt.
Whatever this is between you two—it has shifted into something more than originally intended.
Just once, he said. One time, to improve your grade—he'd sworn to it. To himself more than to you. But one time didn't just stay one time. After two weeks of trying to convince himself he didn't crave you as much as you craved him, his resolve finally shattered.
That very day, he ordered you to stay behind after class ended, and not two minutes later, you were bent over his desk at the front of the classroom, skirt bunched around your waist, his fingers digging into your hips with a bruising grip as his cock slid inside you with one ruthless thrust.
Since that moment, visits in his study have become rather routine than exception—at first, every two weeks. Now, you visit him nearly every day—late at night, when the girls in your dorm are soundly asleep, you slip from beneath the soft warmth of your duvet, cover your pyjamas with your robes, and hurry down the dark, eerily quiet corridors until you reach his study.
Just one issue today—you've been invited to a birthday party of one of your friends after dinner, and you couldn't possibly miss out on that just for the sake of your secret rendezvous with your professor.
However, after seeing him in class earlier today, his new suit fit his beautifully sculptured body to perfection—you couldn't resist. Your thighs pressed together beneath the surface of your desk, and for the rest of your lesson, the only thing on your mind was his pretty cock stuffing you full.
Needless to say, you've been aching for him the rest of the day, and when classes finally ended, you did not even bother returning to your own dorm. Instead, you looked to your left and right before taking the corner leading to the professor's residences and, with four brief knocks—as you agreed upon—announced your presence.
The door flung open with the help of a wandless spell muttered by him, not bothering to interrupt his work for your sake.
Tom knew what you came here for. Knew it the second your gaze lingered on him for too long during class, watched as your thighs clenched together whenever he so much as looked in your direction.
Needy girl.
For you to come here earlier than usual was no surprise. For you to sink to your knees before even speaking a single word wasn't either. So, he lets you do as you please without speaking a word as he continues correcting essays.
The first sound you earn from him is when you work his zipper open and free his already semi-hard cock from the confinement of his trousers, eagerly wrapping your hand around his girthy length—a low growl reverberating from the depths of his chest, dick pulsing to life in your hand.
Professor Riddle isn't a man you can impress easily. Not with outstanding performances in class, and certainly not by being bold and loud—but you, you have found a way.
An incredibly filthy one.
It was your idea to place a mirror opposite his work desk. Your idea to only wear your tiniest skirts and thongs when paying him a visit.
And Tom—he's quickly grown quite fond of your proposition for various reasons.
While he still pretended to focus on the paper in front of him when you entered, as soon as you sank to your knees, he straightened his gaze, watching as you crawled underneath the table on all fours. Your skirt slipped up far enough for him to see it—the red lace thong he left in a box beneath your duvet as a present now slick and soaked with your want for him.
This is the exact reason why he loves this goddamn mirror so much.
Beneath the table, you begin stroking him softly—not tightly enough for it to feel good, but enough to get him hard for you. His cock twitches in your hand, a pearly bead of precum rolling down his flushed tip.
From the corner of your vision, you see his arms still, the faint sound of his fountain pen adding corrections to the essay in front of him fading into silence. That's when you know you've got his full attention on you—on the feeling of your hand pleasuring him, on your reflection in the mirror as you wriggle your ass for him.
"Concentrate, professor." you murmur, collecting the wetness on the head of his cock with the tip of your tongue, humming in approval at the familiar taste. "Wouldn't want you to make a mistake, hm?"
"Quiet," he replies almost instantly, voice raspy, his cock now pulsing and rock-hard in your palm. "Finish what you've started, brat."
His left hand drops to his lap, finds your hair, and pulls you closer—an unspoken warning not to get too brave with him. At the same time, he flips up your skirt with his fine leather shoes again, which slipped down the curve of your ass.
"Now, arch your back and get to work. Want to watch how wet you get just from sucking me."
You do as he says, of course, one hand on his thigh, the other tightly wrapped around his base as you guide the first few inches of him past your glossed lips. He groans lowly when he feels your wet, hot tongue circle the sensitive head of his cock, relaxing back against his chair, his pen slipping from his hand, eyes fluttering closed.
God, he needs this after today.
You take him deeper then—eager to taste his hot cum on your tongue.
But then—just as you're about to choke around him for the first time that evening—two sharp knocks echo from the door to his study.
He tenses instantly, and you draw back in surprise. If anyone sees you two like this, you are in trouble. Big trouble. You inch closer to him beneath the desk, sitting in between his legs in order to make as little of you visible as you can—but clearly Tom isn't satisfied with that solution.
"Hide yourself in the closet," he hisses beneath his breath, watching the door handle as the person knocks another time. "Now!"
You roll your eyes at that, because the closet in his study is fucking tiny—but you decide to listen for once. Or at least, you want to listen for once—however, before you get to do so, the door flies open, and an exasperated student of the second year bursts inside, losing a few papers on the way, stopping right before his desk.
"Professor Riddle, I have something urgent to discuss!"
You sit back down, breathing out a relieved breath. He didn't see you at first glance, thank Merlin and thank whatever gods Muggles believe in.
Tom must be equally relieved, easing the tension in his muscles slightly. He clears his throat before he speaks. "What is it, Mr. Flewett?"
The younger student goes on to explain said urgent matter—and you have to keep yourself from giggling and subsequently getting yourself caught. His very urgent matter is the project due in two days. He's asking—begging—Tom for an extension.
The student must be new here. No one else would dare even think of asking Riddle this—or bursting into his study without permission.
He's talking on and on, without a single break. Trying to explain how busy he's been, that he hasn't yet started with the preparation. Making it worse for him without even meaning to do so.
This is good, you think—he's so caught up in his own problem, in his nervousness, that he doesn't notice you at all, neither as a soft laugh escapes your lips when Tom relaxes fully, and you can clearly imagine the disinterested look that must be etched into his features currently.
His hand finds your hair again then—tugging at the roots gently, shutting you up.
The student is still talking.
And your professor's cock? Twitching right before your lips and so fucking hard, his tip is glistening with precum.
What a terrible waste.
An idea comes to your mind then—lips curving into an evil little smile. This will be fun.
You arch your back again—skirt still bunched around your waist, lace of your panties damp with arousal. The sight of it earns you a low growl from him, shifting slightly in his seat.
The student stumbles over his next words, but keeps talking, explaining, apologising.
Poor Tom—he must be so damn bored. So why not spice it up a little?
Your fingers hook into the lace of your panties, slowly, teasingly easing them down your thighs until they're just above your knees, where they're bent on the floor—your soaked pussy now perfectly angled towards the mirror.
Because you know his eyes are on your reflection in his mirror, not on the student pleading with him to grant him extra time for his project. Riddle stills completely at the sight right before his eyes—but he keeps his composure. For now.
With a relaxed, bored voice, he answers his student that it's not possible to extend the due date. That this is his own fault, a missed chance for a good grade when he is already failing his class.
Tom is so good at this. So awfully talented at keeping his voice steady, his expression neutral and strict, even when his cock is leaking precum, the thick vein on the underside pulsing, practically begging for your lips and mouth. So good at answering nonchalantly, while every hidden part of his body is telling an entirely different story—hand in your hair tightening to a level that's bordering painful, thigh muscles flexing beneath your touch.
Another pearl of precum forms on top of his pretty cock, and this time—this time, you can't resist.
Your face is mere centimetres from his dick, and you close the distance within less than a second, swiping your tongue over the wet, reddened head of his cock, letting the taste of him flood your senses, thighs clenching.
Tom hisses, his hips barely staying seated with much effort on his side. He fucking hisses, not quietly either—shutting the student's rambles up effectively.
His fingers stay buried in your hair—but he doesn't make a move to push you away, instead, he keeps you right there.
"A-Are you alright, Mr. Riddle?" the younger student manages, voice trembling, as do his legs not a metre away from you.
Tom takes his sweet time to respond to that. Moments that must feel like hours to the guy pleading with him, probably already realising his mistake. In the meanwhile, your tongue darts out again, brushing over his tip with short kitten licks, essentially having his hips buck into your touch.
"Yes, yes, I am." Tom grits out, eyes focused on the mirror behind the student, watching you tease him. "We will speak about this matter later—you're dismissed."
From the periphery of your vision, you catch the blonde guy shake his head. "But professor, this is urgent… I—"
You decide it's a good time to wrap your lips around the aching head of his cock, suckling gently, one hand wrapped around his thick, throbbing base—slick with your spit and precum—the second cupping his balls, massaging gently.
"Later," I said." Tom responds, voice shaky. The student gulps, taking a cautious step backwards. "Can you not see I am quite occupied?"
Poor guy. Probably thinking this is because of him.
He nods then, retreating towards the door. "Yes sir, my deepest apologies."
When Tom doesn't spare him more than a strict glance, he leaves in a haste, the door falling shut behind him.
Tom pulls you off his cock with a wet sound the second the lock clicks.
"Dumb little girl," he murmurs, glaring down at the innocent eyes you're offering him. "I expect you to make this up to me later—now, finish what you've started. And show me, with extra effort, just how sorry you are."
"I am not sorry, though." You say decidedly before you spit on his cock, watching it cascade down the side before taking him back in your mouth.
He pretends he didn't hear you. For your sake.
The thing is, you like it messy—and Tom, Tom loves it messy. He adores how filthy you sound with him stuffing your mouth full, when you drool around him and soak him with your spit. Undoubtedly though, his favourite part is when you let his cum dribble back onto his cock and watch it drip down to his balls, mixing with your saliva before you suck it back in and swallow the mess you've created.
He fucking loves how nasty you are for him.
Right now, he's observing you bob your head up and down his length, gagging around him each time his tip hits the back of your throat—the vibrations having his fingers fist your hair more roughly, groaning lowly.
"Mmm, y’ taste so good," you mumble around his cock denting your cheek, sucking eagerly. He twitches inside you at that, hissing when your hot tongue swipes over the crown of him.
"You have a filthy mouth on you, darling." Tom replies, guiding your head down on his length until you choke—keeping you there for a little longer before he lets you catch your breath.
You smile up at him, then. "You love it, professor. Don't pretend it's any different."
The next few minutes, you gradually increase your pace—keep him lodged in your throat for longer, spluttering around him before you withdraw and wet his cock with your spit, licking it back up before your lips close around him again, and you repeat the process.
Your hand leaves his thigh, wandering between your own instead—gently rubbing circles around your neglected, puffy clit, spreading your folds as you run two fingers down your slick slit.
"Fuck," Tom's head dips back at that view. Your glistening, slick-coated pussy on display for him while you make the filthiest sounds sucking him off, gagging and moaning around him.
He is embarrassingly close. Already.
The things you are doing to him…
…And the things he will do to you in return…
"Should have you write an essay on how to pleasure a man," he rasps, hips jerking upwards when you choke around him again, allowing him to feel the vibrations of your muscles. He hisses lowly, wetting his lips at the slick sounds your fingers are drawing from your cunt.
You ease off of him for a second then, blinking up at him innocently.
"Would you let me pass—," you ask him, licking a thick stripe up the pulsing vein on the underside of his cock, holding eye contact while you do so. "—professor?"
"Fuck—" he responds, groaning in pleasure when you suck him back into your warm mouth. "With an Outstanding, even."
Professor Riddle has never once given anyone the highest mark—claiming that no work can ever be perfect. It simply doesn't exist for him. Never has.
"Mmmmh," you purr, suckling on his oversensitive tip, purposely keeping him right on that blissful edge he's currently teetering on. "Generous."
He shakes his head, cock throbbing inside your mouth, your head sinking down on him until your nose is pressed against his lower abdomen. "No. Well deserved."
You quicken your pace at that, and he growls, gritting his teeth, jaw clenched tightly—he is going to come. He is going to fucking come so hard, you'll fucking struggle with it.
When both of his hands fist your hair, pushing you down on his pulsing length, you know he is going to spill down your throat any second—and when your throat closes around the invasion, and you struggle against his grip, he finally does.
Accompanied by a string of mumbled curses, he empties himself deep inside your mouth with thick, hot ropes of white cum, making you swallow around him eagerly before he lets you go.
You pull off him, sucking in deep breaths as you cough violently, a string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to his flushed tip.
When your breathing slows down, an eager grin spreads on your lips. You dive back in—tongue cleaning your thick spit and the remnants of his cum off his cock, making nasty, slick sounds.
"Come here," he grunts, chair screeching against the wooden planks of his floor as he lifts you onto his lap, kissing your lips and wiping the drool from your chin. "You are a nasty fucking girl. Y'know that?"
Your head dips to press a kiss to his tense jaw. "Only for my favourite professor. With the others I am good. Mostly."
SMACK!
Your head whips to the side at the sharp impact his palm makes with your cheek, leaving behind a blissful sting, coaxing a moan from your lips.
"Sit down on it," he orders, dark brown eyes leaving no room for argument as they flick from your own to his hardening cock mere inches from your slick pussy. "I don't want to hear another word from that filthy mouth until I am done correcting these essays."
Your head turns to find a huge pile of papers on his desk.
No fucking way.
"But I am invited to a birthday party," you pout, fighting the hold he has on you—without success.
He huffs a laugh, lifts your hips, and sinks into your weeping, pulsing hole with one single, vicious thrust—then, lodged deep in your warm, velvety walls, he averts his attention back to the paper he left abandoned on his desk around half an hour ago.
"You will not move a single inch until I am done here with you, sweetheart. Even dumb little girls like you have to learn that every action comes with its consequences."
little funfact: I rushed through writing this as I am currently at a birthday party posting this. yep. you heard that right.
thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3
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masterlist. | oneshots.
♡ SUMMARY: your professor deserves a little punishment after leaving you aching and denied the last time you two met—one that he isn't quite fond of at all. ;)
♡ WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. forced sub!Tom, bondage. revenge orgasm denial m!rec. professor tied to his classroom chair. semi public sex, riding, edging, teasing, begging, good luck trying to ever be on top again after this, lol.
♡ AUTHOR'S NOTE: heheheh as promised, part two. :3
wordcount: 1,9k
this is part two of BEHAVE. <33
The warm afternoon sun filters through the high, stained glass windows, bathing you in a subtle golden glow—but that doesn't distract you from the fact that you are currently sitting on top of your professor's lap, facing him as you grind your slick pussy over his hard cock.
"Learned a new trick, huh? Tom breathes, his head tilted forwards, a few of his brown curls falling over his forehead. Darkened eyes watch you struggle as frustrated whimpers slip from your lips—the flushed, leaking head of his cock nudging at your entrance, just shy of slipping inside.
He fights against the binds keeping him tightly secured to his chair, but it's no use. Too rigid are the ropes of the spell you used on him minutes ago, doing exactly what you need them to. Keep him in place, make him unable to move, no matter how much he strains his well-built muscles.
This is your form of payback. Your own little lesson to teach to your professor, who was mean enough to leave you dripping with both of his and your own arousal for the entirety of the night the last time he had you for himself in his study—and the first class the next morning, which he didn't wake you up early enough for, either. On purpose too, which you figured out judging by the stupid grin plastered on his face as he studied you hurriedly getting ready whilst he casually sipped his tea and read the newspaper.
"Had—oh God—had the best teacher, didn't I?" you retort, eyes fluttering closed with pleasure when you manage to fit the first inch inside of you, and you both gasp at the same time—you, at the delicious stretch of him, Tom, at the snug warmth of your pussy.
Your skirt is bunched up just high enough for him to see you stretch around him, to have a visual to the sensation. And fuck, does it feel good—having you struggle to take him in this position, two of your fingers not nearly having been sufficient enough of a replacement for two of his own to prepare you for him.
Is he annoyed with you taking advantage of his trust, allowing you enough time to hex him when he wasn't paying attention? Yes. Will he retaliate later tonight, perhaps keeping you locked in his bedroom for the entire weekend? Very likely. But, most importantly—will he first enjoy watching you fuck yourself on his cock like a good little slut? Most fucking definitely.
You've managed to accommodate about half of him when a slight upwards thrust of his hips makes you hiss, your eyes finding his instantly. He isn't supposed to be able to move. At all.
"Riddle, I swear— stay the fuck still." you seethe, one of your hands leaving his shoulders and curling around his throat instead, feeling his adam's apple bob beneath your touch.
But Tom—he just smirks at you, all arrogant, all self-assured. If you had a free hand, you'd use it to smack him across his stupidly handsome face. Once. Maybe twice.
"Can't even take all of me. Show me you're worthy of being my best student, sweetheart. Come on, work for it."
Three times, it is.
Your eyebrows pinch together in annoyance, but you are determined. Determined to drag this out as long as you have to for him to learn not to leave you aching for his touch again—because today, you will show him just how torturous it is to be deprived of what you need most. Release.
"You don't get to tell me what to do. You're the one tied up, remember?" you breathe, steadying yourself with both hands on his chest as you lower yourself further, nearly having fit all of him.
"Tied up and helpless while I—fuck—take what I need. What you didn't give me last time." You grit your teeth, pushing yourself to your limit to take all of him, your walls clamped around him like a vice.
You feel his scorching hot gaze on you as you struggle—really struggle—to fit all of him in this position. Most of the time when he allows you to be on top, he guides your hips, praises you, circles the pad of his thumb over your clit. But now, with his hands tied and him being awfully uncooperative with his punishment, he merely looks at you amusedly, taking pleasure in your effort.
None of that, you decide.
Your hips roll against his, letting the head of his cock nudge at your cervix—and instead of the familiar sting you expect, an electric wave of pleasure floods your core, making your head tip backwards, moaning.
A small smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth, and with the help of your hands on Tom's shoulders, you slowly, gently lift yourself about halfway off his swollen, pulsing cock before you sink back down, grinding down on him.
Tom groans. Fucking groans when he feels your velvety walls part around him again, sucking him right back into their treacherous warmth, clenching down so sweetly around him, it has stars dance in front of his vision.
"Fuck— God, you're— you're impossible."
You set a pace, then—slow half-thrusts at first, allowing yourself to explore your favourite angles and pace, your eyes locked onto the deep, dark honey brown of his own. And dark they are—especially now, when your tits bounce right in front of his face, buttons of your blouse strained, your lips parting for sweet, serenading little gasps and moans, almost like a mermaid would sing for a fisherman beneath the blanket of the starry night sky to lure him into the depths of her stormy waters.
One of your hands wanders to that aching, neglected spot between your thighs—your clit. Slowly, you begin circling your fingers around the swollen, sensitive bud, and Tom's eyes follow the movements intently, jaw clenched tightly.
God, how deeply he wishes this was his hand rubbing your sweet little pussy.
His wrists ache due to the tight, rough ropes rubbing his skin raw, and yet he cannot stop himself from trying to yank himself free. He fucking needs to touch you—needs to feel the swell of your tits beneath his palms, wants to taste the slick dripping down his cock, staining his favourite trousers.
Tom cannot bring himself to care about the latter—not now, at least. Now, he uses his special trick on you, which has almost always gotten him what he wanted.
"Please," he murmurs, softened, big brown doe eyes lifting to yours. "Please let me touch you, darling. I'll make up for last time. Make you feel so good. I promise—fuck, I will do anything, just please, please let me—"
Your muscles fucking ache, trembling with the strain of your rapid movements up and down his soaked cock—and yet, you see right through him. Through the game he's playing with you. And today, you will not lose.
The sound of skin slapping on skin and your combined moans and groans fills the large classroom, echoing off the walls, wrapping you both in a cloud of lust and pleasure. You've been trying to drag this out for as long as you can—but the overwhelming need to come overwrites any desire of vengeance, nerve endings tickling with electricity and held-back pleasure.
As if on cue, Tom's cock twitches in anticipation, wrapped snugly in between your slick, pulsing walls.
"Sweetheart, please— I—"
Beads of sweat have formed on his forehead, colouring some of his curls an even darker brown than usual, and it's truly a beautiful sight—one you'll gladly frame with gold in your mind, tucking it away safely for later use.
His pleading gaze has you huff, pressing a gentle kiss to his tense jaw.
"Whatever would your students think of you? Letting me do this to you. Letting me unravel you to the point you're begging for me. Fucking pathetic, Professor Riddle."
Your fingers rubbing at your clit speed up, pace faltering to a slow, deep rhythm that has every ridge and vein of his length massage your sweet spots, inadvertently pushing you closer to that high you've been chasing ever since you ground your clothed pussy over the bulge in his trousers around an hour ago.
"Hardly have a choice, do I?" he sneers in response, clenching his hands into tight fists behind his back, knuckles turning white from the strain. "If you don't fucking let me touch you, I pray to Merlin he has mercy on you tonight—because I certainly will not."
You pay no mind to his threat—your mind too fuzzy with pleasure, the knot inside your tummy winding tighter with each passing second.
"Shut up, Riddle," you breathe, slapping a hand over his mouth. "Shut the fuck up and take it like you were made to."
The high of your courage to utter these words plus an angry, irritated upwards thrust of his hips has you tumble over the edge. You cry out his name as your walls pulse and clench around his achingly hard cock, your whole body trembling with the force of your climax.
As the feeling slowly subsides, you curl forwards, resting your head on his chest—smiling to yourself.
Victory.
A swift look at the clock mounted to the front of the classroom has you ease yourself off him. His cock is still so hard, so swollen, tip flushed and soaked with both his precum and your arousal, now resting against his lower abdomen, twitching with neglect.
"Don't. you. fucking. dare." Tom grits out, the sheer anger radiating off him sending a vase on a nearby counter toppling over the edge and shattering on the wooden panels of the floor.
You grin at him, turning your back to him as you walk towards the exit of the Defence Against Dark Arts classroom.
"Lesson starts in five minutes. Better get that raging boner under control, professor. Wouldn't want anyone to suspect you may be doing inappropriate things in your own classroom, would you?"
His expression turns venomous, voice pure, undiluted poison. "You will pay for this. Just you wait, brat."
From a safe distance, you turn around one last time to undo his binds, and then, before he manages to fetch his own wand, you disappear behind the thick, dark oak doors of his classroom, walking back to your dorm.
Now, you're smiling with the satisfaction of having successfully given him his punishment—but later that night, you're crying big hot tears, begging him to stop making you come, begging him for a break.
Of course he doesn't give you that break. Of course, naturally, he has you come around his cock so often, you lose your goddamn mind, turning you into a blabbering, broken little toy.
And it may just be his favourite look on you—sobbing, crying out his name with each mean, deep thrust of his hips into your sensitive, dripping cunt.
His broken, dumb little brat.
thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3
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masterlist. | oneshots.
Summary: amour fou /ˌamʊə ˈfuː,ˌamɔː ˈfuː/ noun/ uncontrollable or obsessive passion.
Please proceed with caution, my dear readers. I don't believe this is extremely explicit but I do advise you skip this fic if these particular topics trigger you.
A/N: This is lowkey the most psychotic piece of fiction ive ever written. i had plans to write a little more for it but tbh i started feeling icky after a certain point so i stopped it here...i think dark romance is just not for me lol
hope you like it bb @tomriddlehyperfixataion
credits to @dividers-are-us
At Hogwarts, there were certain facts everyone seemed to agree on.
The lake was cold year-round.
The staircases moved when they pleased.
And Tom Riddle was the dreamiest boy in the entire school.
No one even argued about it anymore.
Girls whispered about him in corridors and leaned across tables in the Great Hall just for a better look when he walked in. His name appeared in folded notes, carved into desks, scribbled in the margins of homework. Fifth-years, seventh-years, even the occasional bold fourth-year—everyone could go on and on about what a gentleman he was.
It was easy to see why.
Tom Riddle was beautiful in a way that felt almost unfair—dark hair always perfectly in place, sharp cheekbones, eyes so striking they made people forget what they were saying halfway through a sentence. But it wasn’t just that. He was brilliant. Top of every class. Prefect. Professors adored him. Students admired him.
Even the whispers about his parentage—the quiet mentions that he came from an orphanage, that he had no respectable wizarding family behind him—never seemed to stick.
His looks and his mind more than made up for it.
There was only one problem.
Tom Riddle had absolutely no interest in dating.
Not even a little.
It didn’t matter how obvious they made it. The lingering glances, the nervous giggles, the accidental brushes of hands in the hallway—he ignored it all with the same polite, distant smile. If someone worked up the courage to ask him out, he declined with perfect courtesy and zero hesitation.
He never flirted.
Never chased.
Never seemed tempted.
Most girls eventually gave up, deciding he was simply too focused on his studies, or too proud, or perhaps waiting for someone exceptional enough to catch his attention.
But you—
You had never been very good at giving up.
By fifth year, the excitement surrounding Tom had hardly faded.
If anything, it had become worse.
At Hogwarts, admiration tended to grow with proximity, and Tom Riddle had only grown more impressive with time. He had become a prefect that year—though no one had been surprised by that—and he carried the silver badge on his robes with the same effortless authority he carried everything else.
He moved through the corridors as if the castle belonged to him.
Students parted for him without quite realizing they had done so. Professors trusted him without hesitation. Younger students looked at him with something bordering on awe. Even his fellow prefects deferred to him more often than not.
And still, despite all the attention he received, he remained stubbornly uninterested in it.
Girls still fell over themselves to speak to him, of course. That had not changed. What had changed was the quiet understanding that it would lead nowhere. Riddle was polite, even kind when it suited him, but there was always a wall there. An invisible line no one was permitted to cross.
It had been that way for years.
Which was precisely why the sight of you standing at the entrance of the fifth-floor corridor made him stop.
Tom slowed slightly, dark eyes narrowing just enough to show his displeasure.
You stood beside one of the tall windows overlooking the grounds, prefect badge gleaming faintly in the torchlight. The winter wind rattled the glass behind you, though you seemed perfectly comfortable, hands folded neatly behind your back as if you had been waiting there for quite some time.
Tom approached with measured steps.
“I’m supposed to be patrolling with Lestrange.” He said, voice calm, precise—every word chosen carefully, as if testing the air for deception.
Your smile was immediate—pleasant, warm, almost apologetic. “Unfortunately,” You said, voice soft but deliberate, “it seems she has come down with something dreadful. Food poisoning, I believe. Madam Pomfrey insisted she remain in the hospital wing.”
Tom did not return the smile.
He regarded you with quiet skepticism, those dark eyes narrowing just enough to unsettle. The explanation was perfectly reasonable. Sensible, even. Students fell ill all the time in the castle, and prefect rounds had to be covered.
But Tom Riddle had spent years navigating the social ecosystem of Hogwarts. There were patterns he had learned to read like a finely inked map. And this pattern, unfortunately, was familiar.
It was not the first time a girl had attempted to rearrange prefect schedules in order to walk the corridors beside him. He had seen every variation: And now, apparently, there was another.
“You volunteered to cover her shift.” He said, voice even, but with a slight edge. It was not a question.
You weren’t even in the same house. There was no way Lestrange would have asked a Gryffindor—much less a half-blood like you—to take her place. The only reason you were here was because you had chosen to be.
Your smile didn’t falter.
“Well,” You said, light as a feather but edged with an unspoken certainty, “someone had to.”
“How charitable.” Tom replied, arching one dark brow.
“I do try.” You said, tilting your head ever so slightly, as if that small gesture made the world seem brighter.
He studied you carefully. Hands folded behind your back, posture impeccable. Expression bright, almost friendly—but Tom knew better than to trust appearances. There was nothing outwardly improper about the situation, yet something in the precise way you held yourself told him you were entirely aware of the power in the moment.
And yet—
Tom had the distinct impression that none of it was coincidental.
“I assume,” He said slowly, deliberately, “that the schedule change was approved.”
“Of course.”
“And the Head Girl knows.”
“Absolutely.”
A silence stretched, heavy with subtle tension. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t hesitate. You simply met his gaze, unwavering.
“Then we should begin our rounds,” He said at last, pivoting smoothly toward the staircase, “Unless you’d prefer to return to the hospital wing and check if Lestrange is feeling any better to take your place.”
Your footsteps fell easily into pace beside him, the echo of your shoes soft against the stone floor. “Oh, I’m sure she’s in excellent hands.” You said, letting your words carry a touch of warmth that wasn’t entirely innocent.
Tom did not look at you as the two of you moved through the dim corridor, the castle quiet around you except for the distant crackle of torches.
But you, quietly, felt the thrill. Beneath the smooth folds of your robes, your fingers brushed against the vial tucked into your pocket. The small concoction of laxative potion rested there.
A small, sly smile curved your lips—sweet, innocent, and utterly calculated.
The library was quiet, the air heavy with the faint scent of old parchment and ink. Tom Riddle moved deliberately between the towering shelves, fingers brushing along the spines of leather-bound books as if memorizing their texture as well as their titles. He had an essay due for Charms that evening—a paper that required research in a volume he knew was kept in the restricted stacks.
He stopped in front of the shelf where the book should have been, frowned, and muttered under his breath, “Impossible…”
He had already checked the obvious sections twice. The third shelf from the top, the fourth from the bottom—everywhere—but the volume he required remained elusive. With a sigh, he was about to turn toward Madam Pince’s desk, ready to ask where the book had gone, when he saw it.
There you were, sleeves rolled up, hair tucked neatly behind your ears, holding the exact tome in your hands.
His steps faltered.
“That’s… I needed that book.” He said, his voice low, controlled, a flicker of annoyance hidden behind impeccable manners.
You looked up, startled for just a moment, then smiled sweetly, wide-eyed and innocent. “Oh! I had no idea,” You said lightly, as though the situation were purely coincidental, “I just needed it for my essay.”
Tom’s gaze sharpened, narrowing ever so slightly. “Well, I need it as well.”
You bit your lip in mock consideration, tilting your head with exaggerated thoughtfulness. Then, casually, almost playfully, you said, “I’m sure we could work something out.”
“Work something out?”
You stepped just slightly closer, giving him a small, teasing smile, “Yes. We could share it. You could meet me here in the library for the next couple of days and… work on our essays together.”
Tom’s brows furrowed, the faintest crease appearing between them. He already disliked inefficiency—this plan sounded inconvenient, messy, unnecessary. He opened his mouth, ready to object, but you leaned closer, just enough for him to notice the faint scent of parchment and lavender clinging to your robes.
“Or,” You added softly, almost purring, “you could always stop by my dorm once I’m done with it.”
For a moment, Tom didn’t reply. He stared at you, trying to pinpoint the exact nature of your intent.
You handed him the book with a careful, slow gesture, fingers brushing briefly against his, casual enough to seem accidental but deliberate enough to make him notice.
“See you in a few hours?” You asked lightly.
The Potions classroom carried its usual mixture of heat, crushed herbs, and simmering glassware. Steam drifted lazily through the air, curling beneath the low stone ceiling as cauldrons bubbled across the long rows of worktables.
Tom stood near the front of the room beside Professor Slughorn, sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows as he leaned over a student's cauldron.
“Not quite,” He said calmly, taking the stirring rod from the flustered Hufflepuff boy, “You’ve allowed the mixture to thicken too quickly. Counterclockwise first, then clockwise. Like this.”
The potion shifted color almost instantly, smoothing into the proper consistency as he corrected it.
The boy looked relieved.
“Brilliant, Riddle,” Slughorn beamed from across the room, his walrus mustache twitching with delight, “Always knew you had the makings of a master brewer. My unofficial assistant today, class! Best student Hogwarts has produced in years.”
Tom offered a modest incline of his head, though the praise barely registered. He was already moving to the next table, inspecting ingredients with quiet efficiency.
Across the room, you watched him.
As you had been for most of the lesson.
Every movement of his was precise, controlled, deliberate. Even in something as mundane as correcting a potion, there was a quiet authority about him that drew the eye. Students listened when he spoke, adjusted their techniques under his direction, and even Slughorn seemed content to leave half the instruction in Tom’s capable hands.
Which made it all the more obvious that he had not looked at you once.
Not when you entered the classroom.
Not when Slughorn announced his role.
Not even when you deliberately positioned yourself at a worktable within easy sight of him.
At first you had assumed he simply hadn’t noticed.
But Tom Riddle noticed everything.
Meaning the conclusion was obvious.
He was ignoring you.
Deliberately.
Your lips pressed together slightly as you diced a knot of valerian root on the wooden board in front of you, the small knife glinting beneath the dungeon lights.
Across the room, Tom leaned over a Gryffindor student’s cauldron, offering quiet guidance while the girl listened with rapt attention.
You lifted your hand slightly.
“Riddle.” You called sweetly.
No response.
His attention remained entirely on the potion in front of him.
You tilted your head.
Interesting.
A moment later Slughorn clapped his hands together loudly near the front desk.
“Right then, carry on brewing! I’ve just remembered something I left in my office. Riddle, my boy, would you mind keeping an eye on things while I pop upstairs?”
“Of course, Professor.”
The door shut behind Slughorn with a heavy click.
Immediately the room grew a little louder as students relaxed under the absence of direct supervision.
Tom didn’t look up from the ingredient list he was checking.
But he was aware of everything.
The shift in noise levels. The careless stirring of cauldrons. The faint scrape of knives against cutting boards.
And, somewhere across the room—
You.
Your irritation sharpened.
You had been patient. Exceptionally patient, in fact.
His cool avoidance now was nothing more than a childish attempt to regain control of the situation.
Which, frankly, was rude.
Your gaze dropped slowly to the knife in your hand.
The blade was thin and clean, designed for delicate ingredient preparation. It caught the light as you turned it slightly between your fingers.
Across the room, Tom straightened from a student’s cauldron and moved toward another table, calmly correcting someone’s slicing technique.
Still not looking at you.
Fine.
If he wished to ignore you, you would simply make that impossible.
Your grip shifted on the knife.
Then, with quiet precision—
You dragged the blade across the side of your palm.
The sting came instantly, sharp and hot. Blood welled quickly along the shallow cut, spilling down your skin in a dark red line before dripping onto the stone floor.
You let out a soft, startled gasp.
Not too loud.
Just enough.
The reaction was immediate.
Several students turned.
Tom turned with them.
His eyes landed on you across the room—and for the first time that entire lesson, his attention locked fully onto you.
You were standing very still beside your worktable, staring down at your hand as crimson slid slowly between your fingers.
Tom’s expression darkened almost imperceptibly.
He crossed the room in long, controlled strides.
By the time he reached you, his voice was quiet but edged with irritation.
“You should be more careful.”
He reached for your wrist before you could respond, turning your hand slightly so he could examine the cut. His grip was firm, steady, clinical—already assessing the depth of the wound.
It wasn’t serious.
Of course it wasn’t.
Just enough to bleed.
His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours.
Your expression was a perfect mixture of embarrassment and sheepish charm.
“Sorry,” You said softly, “I'm so clumsy.”
Your fingers curled slightly in his grasp.
Up close, your smile returned—small, sweet, entirely unbothered.
And for the briefest moment, Tom had the distinct impression that the entire situation had unfolded exactly the way you wanted it to.
“Riddle, wait—”
The voice cut through the quiet corridor just as Tom stepped out of the Charms classroom.
He stopped.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned.
His brows knit together almost immediately when he saw you hurrying toward him.
A few weeks ago, he was certain he had never seen you before. Never spoken to you, never crossed paths in the corridors. Yet lately it seemed as though you appeared everywhere he went—like some persistent coincidence he had yet to solve.
But Tom did not believe in patterns of coincidence.
You reached him and stopped a comfortable distance away, just close enough to speak without raising your voice. A soft breath escaped you, like you’d hurried to catch him.
“There you are.” You said lightly, relief coloring your tone.
Tom didn’t respond.
His dark eyes simply studied you.
You were smiling—pleasant, open, the kind of expression that disarmed most people instantly. There was nothing pushy about it, nothing demanding. Just quiet friendliness.
It was irritating.
Then you lifted something from behind your back and held it out.
A dark notebook.
For the first time, genuine confusion flickered across Tom’s face.
“I believe this is yours?” You said, “I found it in Charms earlier. Thought you might want it back.”
The notebook rested in your palm, familiar and unmistakable.
Tom stared at it.
His brows furrowed deeper.
It was his.
He knew every scratch on the cover, every faint bend in the spine from years of careful use.
And Tom Riddle did not lose things.
Ever.
His mind moved instantly, reconstructing the day with sharp precision.
He had placed the notebook inside his bag that morning. He remembered the exact motion—sliding it between two textbooks before leaving the dormitory. After that he had attended Transfiguration, then Potions, then lunch.
Charms had been his fourth class.
At no point had he removed it.
At no point had he misplaced it.
And most importantly—
At no point had you been close enough to him to take it.
His eyes lifted slowly from the notebook to your face.
You were watching him with open patience, as though waiting politely for him to take it.
“I almost handed it to Professor Flitwick,” You continued conversationally, tilting your head slightly, “But then I saw your name written inside the cover.”
Tom felt something sharp stir in the back of his mind.
A quiet prickle of suspicion.
He studied you more carefully now.
Your posture was relaxed, shoulders loose. Your fingers held the notebook lightly rather than clutching it. Even your expression was perfectly balanced—concerned enough to look helpful, but not eager enough to appear desperate for praise.
Tom took the notebook from your hand slowly.
Your fingers brushed his for the briefest moment before withdrawing and he watched as a pretty flush spread across your cheeks.
“How thoughtful of you.”
"That's me, ever so thoughtful." You said brightly.
Tom’s gaze lingered on you, searching.
He was accustomed to understanding people quickly. Most of them were painfully transparent—jealousy, ambition, fear. Their motives showed themselves with very little effort.
But you…
You stood there looking utterly unbothered by his scrutiny.
If anything, you seemed amused by it.
His voice, when he spoke, was smooth and composed once more.
“You should head back to your dorm, Ms. (L/N).”
You blinked once at the sudden formality.
“I’m sure you’re aware of the recent petrifications,” He continued calmly, his dark eyes studying your reaction carefully, “And the rumors circulating about a creature roaming the castle.”
“Thank you for your concern about me,” you said lightly after a moment, clasping your hands behind your back as though the gesture pleased you greatly. “I’m glad I was able to return your book.”
You rocked back gently on your heels, your expression bright.
“Well,” you said, “I won’t keep you.”
Your eyes flicked briefly toward the notebook tucked beneath his arm.
Then back to his face.
You flashed him one last charming smile.
“See you around, Tom.”
The sound of his first name coming from your mouth sounded both offensive and intriguing. He found himself wanting to bite your lip, if only to get you to stop saying it.
Then you stepped aside and continued down the corridor.
Tom remained where he was.
Watching you walk away.
Your stride was easy and unhurried, robes swaying softly with each step as though the entire interaction had been nothing more than a trivial act of courtesy. Students passed you without a second glance.
Nothing about you looked suspicious.
Nothing about you looked unusual.
Yet the feeling in Tom’s chest refused to settle.
He lowered his gaze to the notebook resting in his hand.
His fingers slid across the worn leather cover, tracing the faint crease along the spine he had memorized long ago. The weight of it felt right. The edges of the parchment within were exactly as he remembered.
Everything was precisely where it should be.
Which only made the situation more irritating.
Tom opened the notebook.
His intention had been simple—to confirm nothing inside had been disturbed.
The first page flipped over beneath his thumb.
And he froze.
For a moment he simply stared.
Because right there, pressed neatly into the corner of the page, was a mark that absolutely did not belong there.
A lipstick kiss.
Soft red, unmistakable.
Perfectly shaped.
Tom’s jaw tightened almost immediately as red, hot anger began to bleed from his chest into the rest of his body and his head snapped up, only to find the corridor completely empty now.
Further down the corridor, you passed a student standing stiffly beside the wall.
Their posture was wrong. Rigid. Unnatural. Their eyes stared ahead with a dull, glassy vacancy.
Good.
You slowed your steps.
Just slightly.
You leaned closer to them as you walked past, your wand barely peeking out of your robes, your voice barely more than a whisper.
“Finite.”
The spell slipped from your lips like breath.
Instantly the student blinked.
Their expression crumpled in confusion as awareness flooded back into their face.
“Wait—what…?”
They glanced around the corridor in disorientation.
“What am I doing here?”
You simply continued walking while small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of your lips.
The Imperius Curse had proven remarkably useful.
The corridors of Hogwarts were unusually silent, the castle holding its breath as whispers of petrified students and rumors of a hidden monster made the few remaining passersby hurry along, heads down, ears alert.
You walked alone, steps unhurried, almost casual. Weeks of careful research had led you here. Every legend, every rumor about the Chamber of Secrets, every library scroll that mentioned serpents, pipes, and ancient Hogwarts secrets—it all pointed to one undeniable truth. The creature stalking the halls was a basilisk.
And you knew exactly when Tom Riddle would be alone.
Tonight, that knowledge had positioned you here, perched casually on one of the sinks in the second-floor girls’ bathroom. Legs swinging slightly, a soft, teasing smile curving your lips, as if waiting for a friend. Not a boy capable of killing you with a flick of his wand.
The scrape of stone and metal told you he had arrived before he even entered your line of sight. Tom stepped into the room, eyes scanning cautiously. He froze when he spotted you.
You tilted your head, innocently playful. “Wow. You certainly took your sweet time.” Your smile widened, calm, almost amused.
His grip on his wand tightened. Dark eyes narrowed. “How did you find me?” He asked, voice clipped, dangerous.
“You tend to be quite cute when you think you’re being… oh so sneaky, Tom,” You teased, voice light, “I find it rather endearing. I’d advise against trying to hurt me or kill me here—your magic would be traced, and we both know it. And your little friend wouldn’t arrive fast enough to stop me from sending a message to Headmaster Dippet.”
His jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed danger, “What do you want?”
You leaned back against the sink, entirely relaxed, letting the faintest curl of amusement touch your voice. “Relax, darling,” You said smoothly, and his brow twitched at the term of endearment, “If I were looking to tell anyone, I would’ve told Headmaster Dippet last week when your little pet attacked Gallagher, or maybe Coughan the week before that.”
His eyes flashed with anger. He had been meticulous, methodical, careful—every movement, every spell calculated. How did you know? How much had you seen?
“I won’t tell anyone,” You added lightly, letting your gaze meet his, steady and unafraid, “All I ask in return is… one little favor.”
His jaw twitched, “And what is it you want in return?”
A low, sultry smile crossed your face. “Your company,” You said softly, “Next weekend at Hogsmeade. Just a simple, innocent outing.”
Tom’s mind whirled. Fury mixed with disbelief. His lips pressed into a thin line, jaw tightening, a hand curling into a fist at his side. No one had ever dared corner him like this, force him into a position where he had to consider their terms.
“You think you can threaten me?” He asked finally, voice icy, each word measured, precise.
You chuckled softly, tilting your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh, Tom. I’m not threatening you. I’m simply… negotiating.” You leaned forward slightly, letting the charm in your voice coat every word, “And really, one measly little date at Hogsmeade hardly seems like too high a price to pay for keeping my lips sealed about your… extracurricular activities.”
His eyes darkened, a storm behind them. Control had always been his currency, his comfort. And yet here you were, calm, smiling, daring him in a way that unsettled him more than any warning could.
Fury built behind the measured calm, coiling in his chest like a serpent ready to strike. His teeth ground together, fists flexing. This would not, could not, go unanswered. No one, not you, not anyone, would undermine him without consequence.
His gaze bore into yours, cold, sharp, and lethal. The calculated calm returned to his features, but it was brittle now, barely holding back the fire beneath.
He made a decision then, slow and deliberate, every movement weighted with quiet menace. You had forced his hand, exposed his secrets, dared him—and he would not, could not, let it go unpunished.
Tom Riddle turned, stepping back from the sink, the faintest trace of a smile still playing at his lips—but his eyes were ice and fire. A storm was coming, and you had lit the spark.
Tom Riddle did not sleep well that night.
Not because of fear.
Tom Riddle did not fear anyone.
But fury was another matter entirely.
It simmered beneath the immaculate mask he wore in the days that followed, burning quietly behind his polite smiles and flawless manners. No one noticed the change. Professors still praised him. Students still admired him. He attended every class, answered every question with effortless brilliance, walked the halls with the same composed grace he always had.
The model student.
The golden boy of Hogwarts.
But beneath that calm exterior, something darker churned.
Relentless.
His mind worked through the memory again and again, dissecting every second of the encounter with cold precision.
You had cornered him.
Threatened him.
Smiled while doing it.
And worst of all—you had done it with the confidence of someone who believed they had the upper hand.
The audacity of it made his jaw tighten even now.
You.
A student. An inconvenience. A trivial little obstacle that should have been beneath his notice.
And yet you had stood there, looking at him like you understood him.
Like you had him cornered.
The insult of it burned.
Tom had spent years carefully building control over every aspect of his life—his reputation, his influence, the fear and admiration people felt in his presence. Every move he made was deliberate. Calculated. Precise.
And somehow, you had slipped through the cracks of that control.
He would correct that mistake.
The following evening, he sent you a note.
The parchment was neat, the ink perfectly measured. Anyone who read it would have seen nothing unusual—just the elegant, polite scrawl of Hogwarts’ most well-mannered student.
But beneath the smooth strokes of his handwriting simmered a rage so sharp it made his fingers ache.
A part of him imagined tearing you apart with his bare hands.
Imagined the sound of your bones snapping between his fingers.
Imagined sinking his teeth into your throat just to watch that insufferable little smile disappear.
The thought brought him a moment of grim satisfaction.
The note itself was simple.
Next weekend. Hogsmeade.
Nothing more.
He sealed it, calm and composed, as though the message were nothing more than a casual confirmation.
But the truth was far simpler.
You would never make it to Hogsmeade.
You had tried to use his own secret against him.
How fitting, then, that the very creature you thought gave you power would be the cause of your undoing.
If the basilisk killed you, you would become nothing more than another unfortunate victim of the Chamber of Secrets. A foolish girl who had wandered somewhere she did not belong. Another whispered tragedy the professors would wring their hands over.
And your little game—your threats, your smug little smiles—would die with you.
The opportunity arrived sooner than Tom expected.
Late evening. The castle corridors were nearly empty, the torches burning low along the stone walls. Tom stood hidden just beyond the entrance to the second-floor bathroom, perfectly still, listening.
In all honesty, he hadn’t planned to deal with you tonight.
But when the basilisk returned after petrifying another Muggle-born, and he saw you walking calmly toward the very bathroom that concealed the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, the irony was simply too perfect to ignore.
It was almost as though you were asking for it.
Did you truly think yourself so untouchable that you would willingly walk into the only place in the castle you knew housed the monster responsible for the attacks?
A faint smile curled at the corner of Tom’s mouth as he watched you push open the bathroom door and disappear inside.
Perfect.
He waited only a moment before whispering the command.
The familiar hiss of Parseltongue slid from his lips, quiet and sharp.
From somewhere deep within the walls, the basilisk answered.
A violent shudder ran through the pipes.
Then—
A scream.
High. Sharp. Panicked.
A body struck the tile floor with a dull, lifeless thud.
The sound echoed through the empty bathroom.
Tom stepped inside.
His expression was calm, controlled, utterly composed.
Until he saw the body.
The girl lying on the floor was not you.
For a long moment he simply stared.
Round glasses sat crooked against the tile. A small, crumpled figure lay sprawled beside the sinks, eyes wide and frozen in terror. Ravenclaw blue bled through the folds of her uniform.
Something cold washed over him.
“Oh dear.”
Tom snapped around.
And there you were.
Leaning casually in the doorway as though you had been watching the entire scene unfold.
Your eyes drifted down to the body.
A small smile tugged at your lips.
“Should I be offended,” You said lightly, “that you can’t tell the difference between a beauty like myself and a cow like her?”
In an instant Tom crossed the room.
His hand seized the front of your robes and slammed you hard against the stone wall. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, cold tile biting through the fabric against your back.
His fingers slid up your throat.
Not enough to kill you.
But more than enough to remind you that he easily could.
“You think you’re clever.” He hissed.
His eyes flashed red with fury. You would be lying if you said the sight didn’t send a shiver down your spine. His voice sounded strained, the control in it fraying from the effort it took to hold his temper back.
His grip tightened.
“You think you’re smarter than me?”
Your pulse jumped beneath his fingers, but your expression remained infuriatingly calm.
You even smiled.
“No.” You said softly.
Your voice was steady despite the pressure on your throat.
“But I’m also not as stupid as you seem to think I am.”
You smirked.
“Did you really think I’d be naïve enough to walk into this room after threatening you like that? Surely you couldn’t have thought me that stupid, Tom.”
Your eyes glinted with something dangerously close to amusement.
“After all… I’ve been watching you for a long time.”
You tilted your head slightly.
“I know what you’re like.”
A pause.
“I know who the real monster is.”
Tom’s eyes flashed with pure rage.
The fury that had been simmering for days surged violently to the surface. His grip tightened as he pressed you harder into the wall, thumbs digging into the soft skin of your throat as your windpipe strained beneath his fingers.
The thought was intoxicating.
Just a little more pressure.
Just a little more—
and you would be gone.
Out of his life.
Out of his problems.
Out of his way.
Slowly, deliberately, you lifted a hand and touched his wrist where it held you pinned. Your fingers were light, almost gentle and you ran the pads of them along the prominent veins on his hand, almost enchanted.
You smirked and then you leaned closer, your voice dropping to a whisper.
“Harder.”
For several long seconds Tom said nothing.
His fingers were still tight around your throat, your back pressed against the cold stone wall. The bathroom was silent now except for the faint dripping of water from one of the sinks and the distant rumble of the basilisk retreating through the pipes.
And Myrtle’s body lay crumpled across the tiles behind him.
Tom’s breathing was steady, but there was a dangerous edge to it now—thin, controlled, as though fury was being forced through clenched teeth.
You watched him calmly.
Abruptly he released you.
You sucked in a breath as air rushed back into your lungs, coughing once as your hand came up to rub your throat. The skin would bruise, you knew. His fingers had dug deep enough for that.
Tom stepped back slowly, eyes never leaving you.
Behind him, Myrtle’s body still lay crumpled on the tile floor.
The silence stretched.
Then you sighed.
“Well,” You said lightly, straightening your robes as though the last thirty seconds had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience, “this is awkward.”
Tom said nothing.
His gaze was sharp now. Assessing. Calculating.
You smiled.
“You know, originally I really was planning to leave you alone after our little Hogsmeade arrangement. All I wanted was one little date in Hogsmeade,” You said lightly, “A harmless afternoon. Maybe a butterbeer.”
You tilted your head as you looked at him, studying his expression as though carefully weighing the situation.
“But circumstances have changed.”
Tom’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Your gaze drifted briefly to the floor before returning to him, that same maddening smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
“Your list of crimes has grown rather dramatically since our last conversation.”
His eyes flashed at that, dark and dangerous, but you continued speaking before he could respond.
“And that,” You added pleasantly, “means the price of my silence has gone up.”
The way you said it—calm, conversational, as though discussing the weather rather than murder—made something dark twist inside Tom’s chest.
“I don’t negotiate with parasites.” He said coldly.
Behind the words, his mind was already racing. He measured distances, possibilities, weaknesses. There were a dozen ways he could silence you. A dozen ways he could make this problem disappear forever. But you were watching him too closely, studying every shift in his expression as though you could hear the gears turning in his head.
Just like before.
That infuriating smile never left your face.
“So,” You said after a moment, clasping your hands behind your back as if you were proposing a perfectly reasonable arrangement, “I’ve decided on new terms.”
Tom’s gaze sharpened, “You believe you can extort me?”
You shrugged slightly, “I think I’m entitled to more compensation.”
“And what,” He asked slowly, dangerously, “exactly do you believe you are entitled to?”
You met his eyes without the slightest hesitation.
“Your time,” You said simply. Then, after a small pause, “Your attention.”
He stared at you, completely still.
“And your devotion.”
For the first time since you had known him, Tom Riddle actually looked stunned.
Silence stretched between you, thick and electric. His hands slowly curled into fists at his sides as the full weight of what you were suggesting settled over him. The audacity of it was staggering. You—blackmailing him. Commanding him. Trying to reduce him into some lovesick schoolboy.
The humiliation alone made something savage coil in his chest.
And yet beneath the fury—beneath the instinctive urge to bite you til you bled—there was something else.
Tom studied you carefully, his mind already calculating ten different ways this arrangement could end with your destruction.
The expression was sharp and cold, and it never reached his eyes.
“Fine,” he said quietly.
The word sounded almost bitter on his tongue.
“But understand something, (Y/N),” He leaned slightly closer, his voice lowering into something soft and dangerous, “One day you will regret forcing my hand.”
Your smile only widened.
“Oh, darling.”
You stepped past him then, brushing lightly against his shoulder as you moved toward the door.
“I’m counting on it.”
The first day you did not appear beside him in the corridors, Tom barely noticed.
Hogwarts functioned as it always did and for once, there was no sharp voice at his shoulder making some infuriating remark, no insistent hands tugging at his until you were practically pressed up against him, no tacky lipstick on his cheeks, no quiet reminder that you held something over him. The absence was… pleasant. Quiet. Efficient.
By the second day, he decided it was a blessing.
By the third, he told himself you had likely grown bored of the arrangement. Perhaps the novelty had worn off. Perhaps you had decided the trouble of maintaining your leverage was not worth it. The thought brought him a brief moment of satisfaction. If you wished to disappear from his life of your own accord, he would hardly object.
By the fifth day, however, he noticed.
It was not that he expected to see you constantly, but you had a way of appearing where he least expected—waiting in a corridor, slipping into the seat beside him in the library, watching him from across the Great Hall with that same infuriatingly confident smile.
Without those small intrusions, the castle felt strangely different. Students still whispered about the two of you, of course. Rumors did not die easily at Hogwarts. If anything, they had only grown more dramatic in your absence.
Tom heard them everywhere.
Some said the two of you had quarreled. Others believed he had discarded you already. A few insisted the relationship had been some elaborate scheme from the beginning.
Tom ignored them all.
Still, the question lingered.
Where had you gone?
By the seventh evening, curiosity had grown irritating enough that he decided to resolve the matter personally. It was late when he made his way through the castle, the corridors nearly empty as most students settled into their dormitories.
The girls’ dormitory entrance was hardly a barrier; a quiet charm and careful timing were more than enough for someone with Tom’s talents. Within minutes he found himself standing outside your door, the faint glow of candlelight visible beneath the frame.
He knocked only once before the door creaked open slightly. You peeked through, not opening the door the entire way. Your eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across your face before it quickly hardened into something more defensive.
“What are you doing here?” You asked, your voice sharper than usual.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He said flatly, though the accusation lacked its usual bite.
You chuckled lightly, offering him an airy smile, "I’ve simply been occupied.”
“With what?” He asked, his tone colder now as he stepped closer, hand braced against the door like he was going to push it open. You remained firm.
"Nothing that requires your concern, I'm sure. Have a good night."
Tom stepped inside despite your protests and attempts to shut the door on him, closing the door behind him as his gaze moved slowly over you. At first he could not quite understand what he was looking at. Then the candlelight shifted, revealing angry red boils scattered across your skin—your arms, your collarbone, even along your jaw. Some were already darkening into ugly purple welts.
For a long moment, Tom simply stared.
“Who did this?” He asked quietly.
Tom studied the boils again, recognition flickering behind his eyes. It was a hex designed more for humiliation than true harm—painful, unsightly, and irritatingly persistent if left untreated.
You shrugged one shoulder, though the movement clearly hurt, “One of your admirers, I imagine. A rather passionate Slytherin who didn’t appreciate that I’m your girlfriend now.”
You avoided his gaze as you continued speaking, your tone attempting nonchalance but failing to hide the faint edge of embarrassment beneath it, “I don’t know the counter-curse.”
The admission sounded reluctant.
The room fell quiet.
Tom said nothing for a moment, though something colder than anger settled behind his expression. The entire student body was under the impression that you belonged to him. The rumors had made that abundantly clear. That was all anybody could talk about for weeks.
Which meant whoever had done this had acted with the full knowledge of that assumption.
Someone had dared to attack you anyway.
It was an insult he did not particularly appreciate.
Without another word, Tom moved closer and reached for your arm. You tensed slightly as his fingers closed around your wrist, turning it gently so he could examine one of the worse boils near your elbow. His touch was firm but careful, his eyes narrowing slightly as he murmured a quiet incantation under his breath.
The effect was almost immediate.
The angry swelling softened, the dark color fading slowly as the curse unraveled beneath his magic. Another spell followed, then another, each one precise and controlled as he worked methodically through the marks scattered across your skin. You watched him in silence as he moved from one injury to the next with quiet focus.
"Why did you come looking for me?" You asked after a while, your voice softer now, "Surely, it wasn't because you missed me?"
Tom did not look up from the bruise along your collarbone as he murmured another counter-charm. The last of the boils faded beneath his wand, leaving only faint redness behind. When he finally stepped back, the room had grown noticeably quieter. The candles had burned low, their light flickering softly across the walls.
You flexed your arm experimentally, surprised at the absence of pain.
“Well,” You said slowly, glancing up at him, “Thank you.”
Tom did not respond immediately.
For a moment he simply watched you, his expression unreadable as his mind turned over the situation once more. Then his gaze sharpened slightly, the faintest trace of something colder settling into his voice.
“See to it that the person responsible is dealt with.”
You blinked faintly, surprised by the sudden shift.
Tom continued before you could respond, his tone calm but edged with quiet menace.
“I cannot have the worms in this castle believing they can lay a hand on what is mine.” His eyes flicked briefly over the fading marks on your skin before returning to your face, “An insult to my property is, by extension, an insult to me.”
Then, without another word, he turned and moved toward the door.
It was well past midnight when he finally left your dormitory, the castle corridors silent as he walked back through them.
Behind him, the door closed softly.
And you were left alone in your dorm with a hot blush crawling along your body.
He called you his.
The next morning dawned bright and deceptively peaceful, sunlight spilling across the Great Hall windows as students shuffled in for breakfast. Conversations buzzed around the tables as usual, though every so often a pair of curious eyes drifted toward you before quickly darting away again.
You had barely sat down when someone approached your table.
A younger girl from your house—one of those students who seemed to know everything about everyone—hovered uncertainly beside you, clutching her books against her chest. Her expression carried that particular mix of curiosity and poorly concealed excitement that only appeared when someone believed they had discovered a piece of valuable gossip.
“I… um,” She began, glancing around before leaning closer, “I saw something last night.”
You looked up at her slowly, blinking as though confused.
“What sort of something?”
She lowered her voice immediately, her eyes shining with anticipation, “I saw Tom Riddle leaving your dormitory.”
You froze.
Just for a second.
Then your gaze darted quickly around the room as though suddenly terrified someone might overhear.
“You saw that?” You whispered, your voice dropping to an urgent hush.
The girl nodded eagerly.
Your shoulders sagged as though the weight of the world had just landed on them, and you pressed your hands to your face with dramatic despair.
“Oh Merlin,” You murmured, “This is exactly what I was afraid of.”
Her eyes widened further, clearly sensing she had stumbled into something far more scandalous than she had originally imagined.
“You can’t tell anyone,” You said quickly, leaning forward and grabbing her wrist in sudden desperation, “Please. If people found out about this… if they knew Tom and I were—”
You stopped yourself mid-sentence, biting your lip as though the words had slipped out accidentally.
The girl’s mouth fell open.
"So it's true then?!"
Your expression shifted immediately into something panicked and pleading.
“Please,” You whispered again, lowering your voice even further, “You have to promise you won’t repeat it. It would ruin him if people started talking about it. You know how everyone watches him—how the professors expect so much. If rumors started spreading about him sneaking into girls’ dormitories—”
You shook your head quickly as though the thought alone made you ill.
“He’d never forgive me.”
The girl nodded rapidly, already vibrating with the effort of containing such explosive information.
“Of course,” She said, though her voice trembled with excitement, “I won’t say anything.”
You gave her a grateful smile, squeezing her wrist before letting go.
“Thank you,” You said softly. “I knew I could trust you.”
She hurried away moments later, clearly struggling to appear normal as she returned to her own table.
You watched her go.
And then, very slowly, your anxious expression faded.
The panic melted from your features, replaced instead with a quiet, satisfied smile as you reached calmly for your breakfast.
Because you knew exactly what would happen next.
Within the hour, half the castle would know.
By lunchtime, the entire school would be whispering about how Tom Riddle had spent the night in your dormitory.
And once that rumor took hold—once it spread through the halls and common rooms and eventually reached the professors—Tom would have no choice.
After all, his reputation was everything.
And if the entire student body believed that Tom Riddle had compromised a girl’s reputation by sneaking into her room in the middle of the night…
Well.
A man of his impeccable character would surely feel obligated to make things right.
You took a slow sip of your drink, hiding your smile behind the rim of the cup.
All according to plan.
Tom found you that evening in one of the quieter corridors of the castle, where the torches burned low and the sound of the Great Hall had long since faded into distant echoes. You barely had time to look up before he seized your arm and pushed you sharply back against the cold stone wall.
The impact knocked the breath from your lungs.
His hand closed around your throat a second later, not quite tight enough to choke you, but more than enough to make the threat clear.
Tom’s eyes were burning.
“Good evening to you too, Tom.”
"You've been busy." He seethed.
His words were quiet, but the fury behind it made the air feel suddenly thinner.
You studied him for a moment, taking in the anger radiating from him like heat. Instead of fear, however, your expression softened into something almost thoughtful.
“Ah,” You said lightly, “You heard.”
Tom’s jaw clenched so tightly it was a miracle his teeth didn’t crack.
“The entire school believes I spent the night in your dormitory.”
You shrugged lightly.
“Well, you did leave my room past midnight,” You replied lightly, “People are bound to notice such things.”
His hand slammed harder against the wall beside your head with enough force to make the hanging portraits shudder.
“You know exactly what they mean.”
“Oh, I do.”
“You are playing a very dangerous game. And I'm not giving into your whims this time."
You folded your arms, looking up at him with an expression of exaggerated concern, “Oh, Tom, surely you don’t want people thinking poorly of you.”
His eyes narrowed.
You continued before he could interrupt, your tone thoughtful in a way that was almost insulting.
“Imagine what they’d say if you denied it now. Sneaking into a girl’s dormitory in the middle of the night and then pretending nothing happened?” You gave a small, sympathetic shake of your head, “People might think you’re the sort of man who would take a girl’s virtue and abandon her the next morning.”
The words landed like sparks in dry tinder.
For a second Tom simply stared at you.
Then the fury exploded.
“You manipulative little—”
His hand tightened suddenly around your throat, pressing you harder against the wall as the last threads of his patience snapped. His face was inches from yours now, his expression twisted with barely contained fury.
“I will kill you.” He said, his voice dropping into something low and deadly.
“Well,” You said softly, even as his fingers tightened slightly against your skin, “if that’s how it ends, I suppose I’ll die happy.”
Tom’s expression darkened further.
You leaned your head back against the stone, completely unbothered by the danger of the moment, your eyes meeting his with quiet amusement.
“After all,” You added sweetly, “til death do us part.”
For a long moment neither of you moved.
Tom stared down at you, fury blazing behind his eyes, his mind racing through a dozen violent possibilities. He could end this right now. One spell. One movement of his hand. No more blackmail, no more games, no more infuriating smiles. His fingers were still loosely curled at your throat, the warmth of your pulse beating steadily against his skin, and the thought crossed his mind—dark, fleeting, dangerously tempting—that it would be very easy to tighten his grip and silence you forever.
And yet he didn’t.
Perhaps it was curiosity. Perhaps it was pride refusing to grant you the dramatic ending you seemed so comfortable provoking. Or perhaps it was the simple fact that you were still looking at him with that same maddening composure, as though the outcome of this confrontation had already been decided in your favor and the rest of it was merely a formality.
Your hand shot up, catching the front of his robes before he could step away, and with a sharp, decisive tug you pulled him down toward you.
The movement was so sudden that for the first time since you had known him, Tom Riddle was caught completely off guard.
Your lips crashed into his.
For half a second his mind simply went blank.
The corridor seemed to fall utterly silent around you, the distant sounds of the castle fading into nothing as shock replaced fury in a way Tom had not experienced in years. No one—no one—had ever dared take that sort of liberty with him.
And yet here you were.
Kissing him like you had every right to.
Like he belonged to you.
The realization should have filled him with pure rage.
Instead something darker stirred beneath the anger, something sharp and electric that twisted low in his chest as your fingers tightened in his robes to keep him from pulling away. The kiss itself was not soft or hesitant—it was bold, deliberate, almost mocking in its confidence, as though you were sealing a deal you had already won.
When you finally pulled back, the distance between you was barely an inch.
For once, he looked genuinely stunned.
The fury was still there—burning, sharp, dangerous—but it had tangled now with something far more complicated. His eyes searched your face as though trying to understand how someone could possibly stand in front of him with such fearless audacity, provoking him again and again without the slightest hesitation.
Your expression didn’t waver.
If anything, you looked pleased.
Tom’s jaw tightened slowly as his composure began to return, piece by piece, the familiar cold control settling back over his features like armor. But the look he gave you now was different from before.
“You are either extraordinarily brave,” He said quietly, his voice low enough that it barely carried beyond the two of you, “or catastrophically foolish.”
You shrugged lightly.
“Perhaps both.”
Slowly, very slowly, his grip loosened.
“Enjoy your victory while you can.” He murmured quietly.
Then he stepped away.
bonus:
Morning light filtered through the heavy drapes, washing the bedroom in muted gold. You stirred beneath the blankets, stretching lazily before opening your eyes.
Tom sat beside you, already awake, spine straight against the headboard. A book rested in his hand, his dark eyes scanning the page with the same quiet intensity he gave everything. Even in the soft light of morning he looked impossibly composed, untouched by sleep or softness.
“Mmm… good morning.” You murmured, voice thick with sleep and a hint of amusement.
His gaze lifted from the page, sharp and measured as always. “Good morning.” Tom replied evenly, setting the book aside with deliberate care.
You rolled onto your side and propped your head on your hand, studying him. One brow arched in challenge.
“Give me a kiss,” You said lazily, “or I swear I’ll kill Abraxas.”
At the mention of his right-hand man, Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly. The faintest flicker of irritation crossed his face.
“You’re insufferable.” He muttered, though the insult lacked any real heat.
Still, he leaned down and brushed his lips against yours in a brief, restrained peck.
Not nearly enough.
Your hands shot up instantly, fingers curling into the nape of his neck before he could pull away. You dragged him back down, pressing your lips firmly against his.
For a moment he stiffened—a reflex born of pride, of control—but it didn’t last.
His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer against him as the kiss deepened, slow and heated. There was possession in it, quiet and undeniable. Not tenderness exactly… but something far more dangerous.
Minutes slipped by unnoticed. Soft breaths mingled, the quiet rustle of sheets, the slow slide of lips and teeth. The book lay forgotten on the bedside table as the sun crept higher beyond the curtains.
Eventually the spell broke with the soft creak of the bedroom door.
Both of you glanced toward it, mildly annoyed.
Nagini slithered gracefully across the floor and climbed onto the bed, curling comfortably at your feet.
A second later, a small head peeked through the doorway.
A young boy, no older than three, stood there hesitantly. His wide eyes moved between the two of you, waiting.
You immediately opened your arms.
“Come to mummy, baby.” You cooed.
His face brightened, a shy grin tugging at his lips. But he paused halfway across the room, glancing toward Tom for approval.
Tom watched him for a moment, his expression carefully neutral. Then, almost imperceptibly, something softened in his gaze.
“Do as your mother says, Mattheo.” He said quietly.
That was all the encouragement the boy needed.
Mattheo burst into motion, racing across the room before scrambling onto the bed. You scooped him up instantly, covering his round cheeks with kisses as he squealed with laughter.
Tom leaned back against the headboard, observing the chaos you created with a calm, almost detached air.
Mattheo wriggled happily between the two of you, giggling as you continued to smother him with affection.
“You know, baby,” You said with a sly smile, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, “if you want some morning kisses from Daddy, all you have to do is threaten to kill one of his men.”
Mattheo’s eyes widened with delight.
Tom let out a slow, tired sigh.
“Don’t give him ideas,” he said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself. “You spoil him far too much.”
You giggled and hugged Mattheo closer.
The boy leaned toward you conspiratorially, then glanced back at Tom with careful curiosity.
“If I say I’m going to kill Lestrange,” He asked thoughtfully, “will Daddy grant me a wish?”
You and Tom exchanged a brief glance. It was rare for Mattheo to ask for anything—every desire of his was usually fulfilled before he even voiced it.
You smiled softly and kissed the top of his head.
“And what would that wish be, my love?”
Mattheo wrapped his arms around your neck and tugged you closer until his tiny voice was just a whisper against your ear.
“A baby sister.”
Tom answered before you could.
“Absolutely not.”
The response was immediate, sharp, and final.
Mattheo’s little face crumpled in disappointment.
You quickly kissed his cheeks, pressing your nose against his soft skin.
“Don’t worry, my love.” You murmured gently.
Then you lifted your gaze toward Tom, a wicked smirk spreading slowly across your face.
Tom narrowed his eyes at you instantly, recognizing that expression far too well.
You only smiled wider.
“You forget,” You said sweetly, stroking Mattheo’s hair, “your mummy is an excellent negotiator.”
Tom exhaled slowly, glaring at you with weary irritation.
And yet, despite himself, his hand reached out—almost unconsciously—to steady Mattheo as the boy bounced excitedly on the bed between you.
After all—
you had never lost an argument with Tom Riddle before.
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