summary:: Just a short oneshot with dad!Bucky having a princess daughter.
warnings:: Girls with daddy issues? Buckle or Bucky (that was awful) up. But...Nothing sirius I suppose. Slight angst,baby crying. It's just fluff
word count:: 0,9k
A/N:: Heey! I'm so glad my last post got so much love,it means a lot <33
The TV flickered in the corner, casting a soft, golden static over the darkened living room. You were curled up on the couch, your legs drawn close to your chest, with your little girl nestled warmly in your lap.
She was still so smallâso tiny that it sometimes caught you off guard. Her little fingers latched onto the fabric of your shirt while you mindlessly clicked through the channels.Cartoons shifted into old black-and-white movies, but you weren't really watching. You were just trying to pass the time.
A soft hum escaped her lipsâ drifting into sleep. You paused, resting your chin against her hair, breathing in her familiar scent. God, you loved her. It was a heavy, aching kind of love that made your chest feel tight if you thought about it for too long.And him. You loved him, too. It was a quiet, inevitable sort of love.
The television glowed on, but your entire world was right here on this worn couch, filled with your daughter's soft breathing and the lingering ache of his absence.
Suddenly, a broadcast caught your eye, and your thumb froze on the remote.The screen sharpened into a live press conference. Cold lights, polished floors, and that sterile, political atmosphere. And there he was â Bucky,he stood near the back, his shoulders tense. The metal of his arm caught the studio light, looking completely out of place in that clean, corporate world. The Thunderbolts were lined up, with Valentina commanding the center of the room.
In your lap, your daughter shifted, blinking up at the screen with sleepy curiosity. Her tiny hand lifted, pointing straight at the television with absolute certainty.âDaâŚda.â
Your grip tightened on the remote, but you couldnât bring yourself to change the channel.âDadaâŚâ she said again, softer this time, as if confirming it to herself.
A shaky breath escaped youâhalfway between a laugh and a sob. âYeah,â you whispered, your voice barely audible as you brushed a stray hair from her forehead. âThatâs him, baby.â
The TV droned on, Valentina's practiced speech fading into background noise. All you could see was Bucky, bathed in that silver screen light.
But the comfort didn't last. Your little girl stirred again, her face crumpling as she realized he wasn't actually there. A lonely little sigh escaped her, and tears began to well up in her eyes. Your heart sank when she clutched your shirt tightly, her voice trembling in that heartbreaking way that always tore you apart.âDada⌠where dadaâŚ?â
The words weren't perfectly clear, but you understood them perfectly.You pulled her close, rocking her gently against your chest, trying to soothe the trembling in her small body.
âHey⌠hey, sweetie,â you murmured, keeping your voice low and steady despite the lump in your throat. âItâs okay. Itâs okay.â
Her tears slipped down her cheeks as she looked past your shoulder, toward the front door, as if expecting him to walk through it right then. Like he used to.
Your eyes flicked back to the screenâjust for a secondâwatching Bucky stand in a world that constantly demanded him to leave. You lowered the volume, but you couldn't bring yourself to turn it off completely.
âHeâs coming home,â you whispered, pressing a kiss to her warm, salty temple.
She hiccuped softly. You swallowed the lump in your throat, hating the empty promise but needing to comfort her. âHe just⌠he has to help some people first. Your daddy's a superhero.â
âBut he always comes back to us,â you added, softer now, speaking more to yourself than to her. âAlways.â
Her crying gradually stopped, her grip loosening as she snuggled deeper into your chest, trusting your words completely.
The night settled into a quiet hum. The TV remained on, low and flickering, but you had stopped paying attention.
You were almost drifting off yourself when the front door clicked.It was a quiet, careful sound, as if whoever was on the other side was terrified of waking the house.Your heart skipped a beat. For a second, you couldnât move.Then the door swung open.
And there he was.Bucky,your Buckyâtired, shoulders slouched, carrying the kind of exhaustion that seemed bone-deep. His eyes found you immediately. He always did that, as if he could only relax once he confirmed you were still there.Still his,still safe.
You didnât even get a chance to speak.The sudden movement woke your daughter. She blinked against the dim light, and then she was wide awake, reaching out her small hands as recognition hit her.
âDada!â It was louder this time.Happy,like she never doubted he would come back.Bucky froze for a split second,then all the tension left him at once. He just let go of the heavy weight heâd been holding for too long. His face softened into a look of disbelief and pure warmth as he crossed the room in a few quick strides.
"Hey, princess," he murmured.Your daughter was already leaning toward him, arms wide and demanding. Bucky didn't hesitate. He scooped her up with absolute care, handling her like she was the most fragile thing in the world.
She giggled immediately, burying her face into his neck, her tiny fingers grabbing at his jacket and his hair.âDada⌠dadaâŚâ
âIâm here,â he whispered against her skin, repeating it like a vow to you both. âIâm here, sweetheart. Iâve got you.â
The light caught his metal arm, but it didn't look cold. Not while it was wrapped so gently around her. Not while he held her close, as if she was the only thing keeping him anchored to reality.
Your chest tightened in that quiet, overwhelming way again.Watching them felt like a dream you were terrified to wake up from.Bucky pressed a long kiss to her hair, keeping his eyes shut for a beat too long. Then he looked up at you,in a way that told you coming home wasnât about walking through the front door. It was about finding you.
âHeyâ he said softly.It carried everything he didnât know how to put into words.
Your daughter giggled between you, still gripping his shirt as if he might vanish if she let go.But tonight he was right hereâwith her in his arms and with you on the couch.He was home.
Summary::Caramel coffee, chess games, and late-night talksâŚwith Professor Riddle seem like what you need.
Warnings::18+,smut,piv,unprotected (stay safe ya'll) ,age gap,student x professor,but he's not HER professor,so it's okay đ¤âď¸(no,it's not),manipulative Tom Riddle,at one point he thinks about "silencing her",jealousy
Word count::10k
Authorâs note::Guess who's back babygirls.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom had always been a little colder than the others. and you had been sitting in your place for some time, your elbow resting on the desk as the pale light streaming through the tall windows slowly slid across the floor.
The other students were talking quietly. Laughter, whispers, the tapping of quills on wooden desks.
But the teacherâs chair was still empty. Someone always came in to substituteâan anxious professor who rattled through the lesson quickly.
Usually, Galatea Merrythought taught this class, at least on paper. Her name was attached to the room, the syllabus, the old notes. But in recent weeks, she seemed to have disappeared from the corridors. Someone else always came in her place, and none of them stayed long.
You felt someone glance at you, perhaps one of your classmates. But it didnât last. Just a quick, measuring look, the kind you knew well.
People often looked at each other like that. As if they were only seeing the cover of a book and deciding what was inside just from that. From the colors, the outward appearances, the way someone sat, or even just listened.
As if no one thought to read the story itself.
By now, the light at the window had dimmed, turning from gold to gray on the stone floor. The ticking of the clock echoed softly off the walls. Someone was standing by the window, others leaning partially on the desks, chatting, as if this class had long since lost its importance.
Then the doorknob moved. Just a soft click. Conversations died quickly. The door slowly opened. The pale, cold light of the corridor spilled into the room for a moment, and the silhouette of a tall figure appeared.
Tom Riddle stepped in. He didnât hurry; his movements were too calm to be accidental. The silence of the classroom seemed to belong naturally to him. The door closed behind him.
As he came closer, the pale afternoon light touched his face. He was strangely beautifulânot in a kind, warm sense. More in a way that made one instinctively step back. Sharp features, pale skin, and those dark eyes that had lingered too long on a face, as if trying to strip away its layers.
There was something⌠contradictory about him. As if beneath the surface, a poisonous calm was lurking. Something cold. And yet all of this wrapped in a perfect, almost unsettling elegance, making it impossible to decide whether to step back or keep looking.
Beauty and danger. That was the best way to describe Tom Riddle.
Eventually, Riddle slowly leaned against the edge of the desk, the whole situation providing him with some quiet amusement. His gaze swept across the desks.
âIâve heard,â he said at last, âthat in recent weeks this class⌠has been somewhat irregular.â
Someone at the back chuckled softly.
âI thought,â he continued, âwe can start in a less formal way. Ask anything you like.â
Immediately, the classroom stirred. Quills slid aside, chairs creaked, and some students looked at each other as if trying to decide whether he was serious.
The first hand went up surprisingly fast. A blonde girl in the front row, who had been sitting unusually straight.
âProfessor,â she began, her voice a shade softer than what would be required for a simple question, âdid you really get a teaching position at such a young age?â
âMerlinâŚâ whispered a boy.
But the girl held Riddleâs gaze steadily, as if it were the most natural question in the world. His eyes settled on her. He was not disturbed by the question.
âThe Ministry sometimes⌠makes peculiar decisions,â he replied calmly.
The girl smiled. âIâm sure that wasnât the only reason.â A few girls stifled giggles after the sentence.
A girl in the third rowâdark, wavy hair and the confidence that usually comes only when one knows they are being watchedâslowly raised her hand. She didnât really wait for permission.
âProfessor,â she said, her voice calm but a playful glint in her eyes, âif we may ask anythingâŚâ
Now the entire room was watching. A few boys buried their faces in books to avoid laughing out loud.
âIs it true the rumor that youâve⌠dueled someone outside of school?â
Someone at the back laughed. âOh, this is going to be good.â
But the girl continued as if it were a completely serious question. âBecause if soâŚâ she tilted her head slightly to the side, âI can imagine it must have been quite⌠impressive to witness.â
The professor looked at the questioner for a moment. Not embarrassed. Not offended either.
âDuelingâŚâ he said, âis usually not meant to be a spectacle.â His voice was polite. Yet beneath the sentence, there was something cold. Something that reminded the classroom, even briefly, that this was still a Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
The laughter slowly died away. It seemed most questions had been asked. Some students fiddled with their quills, others leaned back in their chairs as if the lesson was winding down.
Tom Riddleâs gaze swept across the class. âAny more questions?â he finally asked.
For a moment, you looked at your book on the desk, as if weighing whether to speak.
Then you lifted your eyes. âProfessor,â you said at last.
The room went silent immediately. Perhaps because your voice was completely different from the previous questions. There was no playfulness, no stifled laughter.
âI would like to knowâŚâ you began slowly, âin your opinion, what truly defines success in a wizardâs life?â
Some students looked puzzled. You continued.âPeople often talk about it as if success is something external. Power, influence⌠or simply money. As if these are the signs everyone uses to decide who has gone far in life.â
You looked briefly at the light by the window before meeting Riddleâs gaze again. Your voice remained calm.
âBut often I feel people accept this standard too quickly. As if wealth or social rank alone proves someone is⌠successful.â
You paused briefly, then continued. âDo you think money is the anthem of success?â
The question hung in the air. No one laughed. Not even the girls who had flirted quietly earlier.
Tom Riddle didnât answer immediately. His gaze stayed on you. Not like when he was scanning the class before. Now he looked at you as if reading the first page of a particularly interesting book.
Then he slowly tilted his head thoughtfully. âInteresting question,â he said finally.
He genuinely seemed to be considering it. Slowly, he walked alongside the desk. âMoneyâŚâ he continued, âundoubtedly brings power.â
His voice was calm, almost contemplative. âIt opens many doors more easily than any spell.â
His gaze swept the classroom for a moment. âBut in itself, it rarely makes someone successful. It is more a consequence.â
He paused. âThose who achieve truly great things⌠usually arenât seeking money.â
His eyes found yours again. âBut something else. Influence. Knowledge. Or simply⌠superiority.â
Then Riddle smiled faintly. âAnd interestingly,â he added, âsuch people often end up acquiring wealth anyway.â
The lesson slowly ended. The tapping of quills and creaking of chairs gradually faded into the silence of the room.
A few students stepped closer to Tom Riddle. They surrounded him, as if he himself were the light in the dark room, the center in which every shadow made sense.
It was like every glance directed at himâhe was an invisible nebula, and he himself the gravity to which every particle was drawn. As if he were heaven itself on Earth.
You didnât join the circle. You closed your book and put down your quill. You didnât want to participate in the admiration. You were already heading toward the door, your footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor, when his voice spoke behind you.
âWait,â said Tom Riddle, his voice not commanding, yet not dismissive. âI would like to talk more about your question.â
You stopped. Your heart beat a little faster, but not from fear. Just⌠from curiosity and the feeling that overcame you being near him.
Riddle slowly raised his hand, with an elegant, subtle gesture signaling you to follow him. Then he excused himself to the others and said goodbye.
âShall we?â he said softly, still calm but firm. âLetâs move a little aside.âAs you passed the desks, Riddle touched your shoulder, guiding you.
The gesture was small but significant.Something warm, but not intrusive, ran through you; as if the scent of summer had quietly drifted into the air.
And his gaze⌠looking into his eyes was like the world briefly became lighter, tallerâas if heaven itself were hidden in his gaze.
You stopped at a secluded corner of the corridor. Riddle looked at you slowly, weighing his words before speaking.
âSo⌠weâre talking about money,â he began, his voice calm. âIâm interested in your own opinion as well.â
You took a deep breath before beginning. âTrue success,â you continued, âis when one is capable of creating something lasting, regardless of how much gold is in their pocket. The knowledge, the impact we have on others, the consequences of our choices⌠these measures are far more enduring than wealth.â
Riddle slowly lifted his gaze. His dark eyes fixed on you, a tension vibrating in them, stopping the air in the corridor.He looked at you as if trying to control his thoughts. Trying to restrain himself,trying hard not to get into trouble, yet in every movement there was⌠a war in his mind.As if trying to contain an internal bloodbath. A battlefield where thoughts and instincts clashed, yet in every motion he exercised strict control.
Riddle nodded slowly. âInteresting,â he said, his voice quiet and deep, still looking at you. âFew see the world this way. Most follow appearances. Money, title⌠these easily distract from what truly matters.â
A tiny, almost imperceptible smile crossed his face. âAnd the fact that you think this wayâŚâ he added, as if carefully choosing the next word, ââŚis rarely granted, MissâŚâ
His gaze swept over you, waiting for an answer, as if every moment mattered. Silence stretched slowly.
After you said your name, Riddle nodded slightly, but his smile remained mysterious and slightly weighing. There was no playfulness, only attention and⌠some hard-to-define interest.
He repeated your name slowly, savoring it. Riddle paused for a moment, then stepped back slowly and elegantly.
âYou know,â he began, âmy door is always open to any student. If you ever want to talk⌠anytime.â
âThank you, Professor,â your voice was polite but firm. âI really appreciate it.â
A quiet pause followed, in which you both looked at each other. His gaze was still heavy and attentive.
âGoodbye, Professor,â you said quietly.
âGoodbye.â he replied, with a small, almost imperceptible smile.
âŚ
Every step felt slow. The laughter and chatter of your other friends were just distant noise in your ears.
And yet⌠your thoughts were elsewhere. You could think of nothing but Riddle. Every word he had spoken today, every quiet glance, every small gesture, still seemed to vibrate in the air around you.
Somehow, it felt as if the world were different without him. It was as if something had separated you from the others.
The lessons passed slowly. One spell after another, the teacherâs voice, the tapping of quills. And there you sat, between the pages of your book, yet your thoughts were far away.
âŚ
You lay in bed, the blanket slowly slipping off your shoulders. You didnât even remember how you had ended up in your bed. The room was quiet, the candles flickering faintly, but your eyes were wide open, and your thoughts revolved around Riddle.
You tried to push them away, tried to turn your attention elsewhere, but every attempt proved futile.
You knew it was pointlessâhe was a professor. It was like the stars searching for the sun in the morning skyâimpossible.
Finally, you slowly sat up. You couldnât let this decision simply vanish into the night. You had to go, had to speak with him.
In the shadows of books and quills on the floor, you slowly dressed. You draped the wool coat over your shoulders, put on your shoes. In the mirror, your own face looked back at youâtired, but determined. There was resolve in your eyes.
Quietly, you slipped out of your room, careful not to wake your roommates. The corridor was cool, the stone floor cold beneath your feet. Every step echoed against the silent walls.
You drew closer to the door, though you werenât sure if you were making the right choice. Your heart beat slowly, yet with each thrum there was anticipation and curiosity. The light of the torches along the walls trembled, casting golden shadows across the stone.
Finally, you stopped in front of the door. Dark wood, old and heavy. The handle gleamed coldly in the torchlight. For a moment, you just stood there, hand raised in the air, as if the final part of the decision still hung inside you.
Then you knocked. Three soft raps.
For a few seconds, nothing could be heard from inside. Just the distant draft in the corridors, the faint creaking of the old walls.
Then the soft scrape of a chair across the floor, from inside. Footstepsâhis footsteps. The doorknob slowly turned, and the door opened. Professor Tom Riddle stood there in his glory.
He had the face of a fallen angel, beautiful, almost otherworldly, yet carrying a kind of world-weary, sly charm. A face that could not be forgotten, even if one triedâmade for the role of a beautiful sadist.
You knew he was a troublemaker, steeped in sin. A dark soul. Lucifer. But you had your own sweet choice, your own little path.
His dark eyes assessed you in an instant. Not surprised,he had already accounted for you.
Then that faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his face, the one you had seen in class..â I suspected you might return to our question.â
He stepped half a pace back in the doorway. âcome in.â
The door slowly closed behind you, the soft click of the lock echoing dimly in the room. Riddleâs office was quiet and orderly. Dark bookshelves lined the walls, their spinesâ old golden letters faintly gleaming in the candlelight. In front of the window stood a heavy desk, covered with parchment, ink pots, and a few carefully stacked books.
The air carried the scent of ink, old paper, and something delicate and tangy. Riddle moved toward his desk with calm steps.âPlease, have a seat.â he said, gesturing toward a comfortable armchair on the other side of the desk.
You sat in the soft chair; its armrest was cool under your hand. Your back remained straight, almost instinctively. The professor also seated himself behind the desk. For a moment, he clasped his fingers together, then fixed his gaze on you.
His dark eyes now seemed even more attentive. âWellâ â he said quietly at last, âIâm glad you came.â
"I hope itâs not a problem that I came so late. The castle⌠at night is sometimes better for thinking."
A faint, almost playful smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Indeed," he said calmly. "Most are already asleep by now. But I cannot complain," he added. "If I tell my students that my door is open, I ought to keep to that."
His gaze lingered for a moment on the door, then returned to you. "And officially, it is open for another hour still."
His dark eyes studied you carefully. "What is it that still occupies your mind?"
"This time it's more about... something else"
Riddleâs brow moved just slightly. "Money is more of a⌠phenomenon," you continued calmly. "A tool. People often treat it as a symbol of success because itâs easy to measure."
You paused briefly before continuing. "But thatâs not what Iâm really interested in."
Tom now leaned slightly forward over the desk. His gaze sharpened, more attentive. "Then what?" he asked quietly.
The candle flame flickered between you. "Power," you said at last.
For a moment, you met Riddleâs eyes, and you saw satisfaction in them, as if he had been expecting that answer.
"The kind of power I desire is that which can shape things. Influence people, shape the futureâŚ"
The man leaned back slowly. "I see," he said quietly at last.
For a moment, he just looked at you, as if turning a thought over in his mind, like a chess piece between his fingers. Then his fingers slowly interlaced on the desk. "PowerâŚ" he repeated softly.
"You know, many believe such things⌠are grim, fateful. That anyone who speaks of power is already halfway down a dark path."
A small, barely noticeable smile appeared on his face. "Yet sometimes, itâs nothing more than a game."
Riddleâs fingers slowly traced the edge of the parchment on the desk. "Dark" he continued softly. "But just a game."
His gaze returned to you. "People take positions in life. They move forward, back, circle around one another⌠and all the while think they are in control."
His dark eyes now locked onto yours. "Tell me," he asked calmly, "what kind of player would you be in this⌠game?"
For a moment, you just looked at him, then tilted your head slightly to the side. "Perhaps we should see," you said calmly.
Riddleâs brow lifted almost imperceptibly. Your gaze flicked to a corner of the desk, then back to him. "Letâs see it in a chess game."
For a moment, complete silence. Then the professor chuckled softly. "You assume a professor would be willing to play chess with a student at this hour."
There was a light, ironic edge to his voiceâbut not dismissive. He stepped toward one of the bookshelves and pulled open a lower drawer. Some parchment slipped aside, and then his hand found a small, dark wooden box.
He returned to the desk, opened the box, and produced an old chess set. Riddle slowly set up the board between you. The pieces were placed one by one, each settling with a quiet click.
"Well," he said at last, as he placed the final piece, "if you insist on the demonstrationâŚ"
He looked up at you, dark eyes now clearly gleaming with interest. "Letâs see what kind of player you are."
Riddle began. The pawn in front of the king moved forward two squares. A simple opening. Classic.
You studied the board for a few seconds, then responded. The game started slowly, but after a few moves it was clear neither of you was playing merely out of politeness.
Riddle occasionally glanced at you as you considered your moves. He didnât rush you. He simply observed how you looked at the board, how you assessed your options. "Tell me," he spoke a few moves later, moving a bishop, "do you always think so⌠strategically?"
You moved a knight. "Only when necessary."A few minutes later, with a bold move, you captured one of his bishops. The candlelight flickered as the piece fell from the board.
Riddle did not speak immediately. He just studied the board, then slowly leaned back in his chair. "Interesting," he said softly. Now he wasnât observing the pieces. He was observing you.
Riddleâs fingers lightly touched his queen, but he did not move it. His eyes now shone vividly. "You know," he said finally, "I thought you had returned because of an interesting question."
A faint smile appeared on his face. "But now I begin to think⌠itâs not just the question that is interesting."
After the sentence, silence fell for a moment. Only the faint crackle of the candle could be heard on the desk. You were just adjusting a piece back to the center of a square when you realized what he had really meant. The words reached you slowly, as if assembling in your mind a moment later.
Your face warmed. A faint blush ran across your cheeks, which you tried in vain to hide by looking at the board again.
Riddle noticed, of course. His dark eyes lingered on you for a moment, and that faint half-smile reappeared at the corner of his mouth.
"It seems," he remarked quietly, "compliments are sometimes more dangerous than a good chess move."
"You⌠did that on purpose, didnât you?" you asked slowly, a little flustered, yet still looking him straight in the eyes.
Riddle paused for a moment. His eyes were dark, but now a hint of genuine curiosity shone in them.
"Yes," he said quietly, and after a brief pause added, "but that doesnât change the fact that I was telling the truth."
Tom Riddle found you interestinging.
...
Since that conversation, something had changed between you.
It wasnât friendship⌠but it wasnât just a teacher-student relationship either. You already called him âTom,â at his request. He wasnât your professor, he didnât teach you, so the formalities felt unnecessary.
Throughout the week, you seized every small opportunity, every pretext, to meet him again. A question asked in the castle corridors, a book you âaccidentallyâ brought to his officeâeach served to spark a new conversation, another shared moment between you.
Now you were sitting in Tomâs office, leaning slightly on the desk, nervously twirling a quill in your hand.
âSeriously⌠Dumbledore gives so much work that thereâs barely time to rest,â you muttered, your voice a mix of frustration and boredom. âItâs like the whole week revolves around studying for his lessons.â
A small smile crossed Riddleâs face, playful yet satisfied. âAh,â he said slowly, a faint glimmer of pleasure in his voice, âyes⌠Dumbledore and his âcharmingâ methods.â
âI wouldnât say Iâve ever particularly liked his style,â you added softly. âHe overcomplicates everything, too⌠rule-bound.â
As you looked at him, you saw his smile widen for a moment. You knew he was proud of you, and it made you feel very good.
âYou knowâŚâ he began slowly, âsometimes I feel Dumbledoreâs methods are overly rigid. Always the rules, the obligations, the paperwork⌠as if every student were trapped by duty. A little freedom, a little play⌠well, that never hurt anyone. Somehow, I feel we were all created to be free.â
âBut TomâŚâ you began, slightly embarrassed, gripping the armrest of your chair, âI still have an essay due next week, and⌠honestly, I barely understand the material.â
Riddleâs gaze immediately brightened; his eyes sparkled as if he had discovered a new opportunity. A small, almost imperceptible smile crossed his face.
âWell,â he said quietly, âif youâd like, Iâd be happy to help. We can go over the material together, discuss the harder parts.â
For a moment, you fell silent, and a faint blush of embarrassment swept over you. "ThisâŚ," you began cautiously, "technically doesnât count as cheating, does it?"
Tom leaned back slowly in his chair. His dark eyes stayed fixed on yours. "No," he said firmly. "Because Iâm not writing the essay for you. Iâm only helping you understand the material. Sharing knowledge is not cheating." There was a faint, secret pleasure in his voice, as if he enjoyed that someone dared to approach him and gently test moral boundaries.
"TomâŚ" you began, but he interrupted with a small gesture of his hand.
"Iâm helping," he repeated calmly, though his tone carried that stubborn determination that made you feel arguing with him would be completely pointless. "Iâll even get you coffee," he added.
"You mean⌠weâre going for coffee?" you asked slowly. "Just the two of us?"
A faint amusement glimmered in Tomâs eyes. "Studying, mostly," he replied calmly. Then, after a small pause, almost deliberately, he added, "But yes. Coffee too."
"Then we should pick a time," you remarked calmly.
The man thought for a moment. "Friday?"
"That works. Where?" you asked.
"The Hogâs Head?"
You raised an eyebrow."Not the most elegant place, but thatâs exactly why itâs ideal. Few pay attention to who talks to whom there," he said.
His eyes lingered on you for a moment. "Friday evening," he said finally, quietly. "Coffee, studying⌠and maybe a slightly less unbearable explanation of Dumbledoreâs tasks." His voice carried that dry humor he rarely allowed himself.
"Perfect," you replied.
Friday evening fell quietly over the streets of Hogsmeade. Candlelit lamps cast faint golden-yellow shadows on the cobblestones.
You stepped through the door of The Hogâs Head, immediately hit by the tavernâs characteristic, tangy smell: ale, cinnamon, smoke, and a faintly dusty aroma that was at once cozy and mysterious.
Tom was already there, sitting at a corner table, his dark eyes attentively scanning the entrance. As soon as he saw you, he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile and gestured to an empty chair with the tip of his finger.
"Right on time," he said calmly, his features sharp in the soft candlelight. "Sit down."
As you sat across from him, a cup of coffee was already waiting on the table: its steam curling slowly into the air, its bitter scent mingling delicately with the tavernâs tangy aroma.
You picked up the cup and looked at him curiously. "What kind of coffee is this?" you asked.
Tom rested his elbow casually on the table, as if the question amused him. "Caramel. QuiteâŚsweet," he replied simply.
"How did you know I like that?"
He twirled his own cup between his fingers. "Just a guess. Based on your personality."
"My personality?" you asked, slightly incredulous.
Tom nodded. "Yes."
He took a sip of his own coffee, which was much simplerâdark and strong, without any adornment. Then he looked at you again. "Most people choose what suits them," he said calmly.
You swirled your cup in your hands; the caramel scent still rose warmly from it. For a moment, you thought, then looked up at him, a playful glint in your eyes. "So you think⌠Iâm sweet?"
Tom paused for a moment. That half-smile you had begun to recognize slowly appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Not exactly that," he said at last. "But I didnât say you werenât." An interesting contradiction.
He rested his elbow on the table and tilted slightly toward your cup. "Someone who talks about power⌠thinks in chess⌠and drinks caramel coffee." That slow half-smile appeared again at the corner of his mouth. "Not the combination youâd expect at first."
Then he took a sip of his coffee. "And those kinds of combinations⌠are usually much more interesting."
A brief silence settled between you, broken only by the quiet murmur of the tavern. Your heart beat fast, and you felt a slight blush. Then he leaned back lightly in his chair, his gaze drifting toward your bag.
"Alright," he said finally, calmly. "Letâs see how serious you are about this studying. What did you bring?"
With a small sigh, you pulled your bag into your lap. "Quite a lot," you said.
You opened it and began pulling out your notes: parchment, bookmarks, a thick notebook⌠and finally a small ink bottle. You slid the notebook across the table. "Here are my notes."
Tom leaned closer and began flipping through them. He was perfectly calm on the first page. On the second, however, the corner of his mouth slowly moved. By the third page, he was clearly smiling.
You noticed immediately. "What is it?" you asked suspiciously.
Tom didnât answer immediately. He just turned another page, where more colors alternated: blue, purple, green, pink notes. Then he looked up at you.
"If I had to judge you only by our conversations," he said slowly, "I would think Iâm dealing with an intelligent strategist." He paused for a moment. "Someone who thinks in chess⌠talks about power⌠and calculates every move in advance."
Then he gently lifted your notebook. "But your notes tell a completely different story." He turned the notebook toward you so you could see the page. "Colored inks. Carefully organized remarks. Marks on every little detail."
The half-smile returned to his face. "Not the kind of notes youâd expect from someone⌠contemplating power."
"Orderliness is a strategic advantage," you replied, blushing slightly.
Tomâs eyes lit up for a moment. "Of course," he said quietly. He picked up a pen from the table. "Alright," he continued. "Letâs see where Dumbledore really started being cruel with this assignment."
His voice was even, patient. His finger slowly followed the lines, occasionally underlining a word, then adding a brief explanation. He didnât rush; he unpacked each sentence carefully, as if his goal truly was to make everything perfectly understandable.
Tom nudged your notebook closer, gently pointing to the edge of the page. "Look," he said calmly, "Dumbledore isnât testing the theory itself hereâhe wants you to understand the connections."
You watched him. At first, really, the material. Then, after a while⌠more him. The way he spoke. The way his eyebrows slightly furrowed when explaining a more complicated section. He was completely absorbed in the explanation, as if the noise around you had ceased to exist.And somehow⌠that seemed amusing. A small smile appeared on your face, then another.
After a while, Tom noticed and looked up at you. "Whatâs the matter?" he asked suddenly, with that measured, professorial tone.
The situation suddenly became even more absurd. Your smile nearly turned into laughter. "Nothing, Professor," you said quickly, trying to remain serious.
One of Tomâs eyebrows lifted slightly. "Then perhaps youâll share with me whatâs so amusing?"
"Just⌠interesting."
"What?"
After a quiet breath, you answered, "That the person I talk about power with⌠and play chess withâŚ"
You paused for a moment, then pointed to the notebook and continued, "âŚcan get so absorbed in teaching."
Tomâs expression shifted for a moment. You shrugged. "As if that were the purpose of his life."
A faint smile slowly appeared at the corner of his mouth."AlmostâŚ," you added lightly, "sweet."
"Watch what you say to me," he began slowly, "think about who youâre speaking to." The half-smile and his dark eyes carried no real threat, only that playful, power-laden attention he was always known for.
With a short sigh, you turned back to your notebook, picking up your pen. "Then letâs continue," you said decisively.
Tom nodded, leaned forward slowly, and again delved into the details.As you progressed through the assignment, you got stuck at a complicated section. Your brow furrowed, and you felt that you simply didnât understand something at first glance.
Tom noticed the small hesitation. "Come here, letâs look at it together," he said quietly.
You moved closer, pulling the notebook between you, and as he lifted his finger over the line to show the step, your hands accidentally touched. A light, fleeting contact, but as if the world slowed for a moment.
For a moment, you just looked at each other, but neither moved your hand away. Tom finally gave a slight smile, but his hand remained next to yours. "There it is," he said softly, running his fingers slowly along the notes. "See now?"
Your heart beat faster, but you focused on the studying, even as your hands stayed like that.
...
In the following weeks, Dumbledoreâs famous written exam arrived. The quiet of the room was broken only by the soft scratching of quills on parchment.
Yet you werenât nervous for a moment: you knew the answers to every question. Among your notes and the colorful inks, you could retrieve everything precisely.
As you worked through it, a small smile appeared on your face. Every item, every problem, every little twist⌠came so easily that writing felt almost joyful.
At the end, when you looked up from the completed exam, pride, satisfaction, and a kind of happy relief shone in your eyes, and you could hardly wait to tell Tom.
After submitting the paper, you slung your bag over your shoulder, and your heart gave a small, contented beat as you walked through the quiet corridors of Hogwarts toward his office.
You entered Tomâs office. The professor sat behind his desk, and when he looked up at you, that familiar, restrained half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"So, did you know all the answers?" he asked, his voice carrying satisfaction, as if nothing else mattered.
You nodded with a smile, and he leaned forward over the desk, letting his eyes scan you.
"Iâm not surprised," he said, enunciating each word slowly, almost deliberately, so you could feel his pride.
"Thank you, Tom," you said quietly, sincerely. "You really helped me, and⌠I appreciate that you took the time."
Tom raised one eyebrow briefly, and in his dark eyes there was a faint glimmer of satisfactionâthe kind you only saw when someone truly earned his attention. "Iâm glad you found it useful," he said calmly. "You deserve it."
You blushed slightly, a faint warmth spreading across your face, your gaze fixed on Tom. "Tom⌠why did you help me?" you asked slowly, curiously, but with a hint of playfulness. "Is this⌠part of some interesting game for you?"
Tom slowly glanced at his book, then back at you, his eyes carrying that familiar, dark gleam. "Youâre too clever," he said softly, slowly, emphasizing each word, "sometimes even to your own detriment."
You raised your eyebrow faintly. "You donât have⌠some evil plan, do you?" you asked timidly, but with a little mischief in your voice.
Tom raised one eyebrow, a faint half-smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Weâll see," he replied slowly. "Tomorrow we meet again there, and Iâll help you. Donât be late."
"But⌠I never agreed to this," you protested quietly, afraid of giving away too much.
"Go," he said calmly, firmly, "so you donât miss your next class."
...
Next Friday evening quietly settled over the streets of Hogsmeade. The wind whispered softly beneath the stones, and the golden candlelight gently fell across the small, dim interior of The Hogâs Head. The faint memory of caramel coffee from the previous meeting still lingered in the air.
As you entered the room, you immediately saw Tom already sitting in a corner. His dark eyes scanned the entrance attentively, and when he saw you, that faint, restrained half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth that you had come to know so well. "Right on time," he said calmly.
"Come here," he said quietly, his voice calm but firm. "Donât sit across from me, sit like this, close. I can watch you better."
As you moved the chair closer and sat beside him, your shoulders lightly touched. For a moment, you both paused, feeling the closeness, but neither moved.
"This way itâs much easier to follow what youâre doing," Tom added, gesturing toward the parchment. "And this way you can see better what Iâm showing." Now it really felt as if you had entered a little world of your own, where only studying and closeness mattered.
After a while, leaning over the parchment, your head accidentally rested on Tomâs shoulder for a moment. You jumped up immediately, moving away awkwardly. "Oh⌠sorry!" you stammered.
Tom slowly looked at you, his dark eyes carrying a hint of tenderness. "Itâs alright," he said softly, his voice as if nothing had happened. "You smell like vanilla."
For a moment, you were lost for words, then you looked at him and smiled gently. "Hmm⌠you⌠smell of mint and wood," you noted honestly.
Tom nodded with a half-smile. "Youâre right."
As the parchments and notes slowly went back into your bag, Tom leaned back in his chair. "Tell me," he began quietly, "what would you like to be after leaving school?"
You exhaled briefly, collecting your thoughts. The question wasnât just about your futureâit was also about how closely Tom paid attention to your words and how much he cared about your inner world.
"I donât know completely," you answered slowly, honestly, "but I do know that I want to be someone who creates value⌠and where the knowledge I gain here truly matters."
A faint half-smile appeared on Tomâs face. "I see," he said softly.
After you finished packing, a small sigh escaped your lips. "Thank you for your help, Tom," you said quietly.
"Youâre welcome," he replied.
As you left the small, dim interior of The Hogâs Head and walked along the stones of Hogsmeade toward home, you felt each step lighter, every moment bringing a smile to your face.
The air was cold, but somehow it caressed your face sweetly. Every thought revolved around Tom: his eyes, his smile, his playful attention. Warmth filled your heart, happiness slowly, surely washing over you. You smiled all the way home.
When you entered your room, pausing for a moment after the door closed, your bag still on your shoulder, the silence enveloped youâbut something vibrated inside.
You slowly sat on the edge of your bed, leaning forward, your hands resting on your knees. A small smile appeared on your face, but your thoughts were no longer about studying, notes, or success.
You realized that the entire dayâthe meetings, the closeness, the playful glances, the chess, the coffeeâŚâall revolved around Tom in your mind. A warm, strange feeling crept over you, one you had tried to ignore until now.
It was more than respect or mere curiosity, and you felt your heart beat a little faster.
As you leaned back and stared at the ceiling in the faint light, it became perfectly clear: you harbored feelings for Tom. Not just respect, not just playful curiosity⌠but a deeper, personal attachment, both thrilling and frightening.
...
Tom entered his own room, the quiet crackle of the fireplace accompanying every movement. After the door closed, he paused for a moment and leaned back in his chair.
He knew the game he was playing was dangerous. A student and a professor. Yet instead of being deterred, he enjoyed it.
You came to his mind. Your sharp mind, your strategic sense, your hunger for powerâall shining as brightly as his own dark ambitions. He saw your talent,your potential⌠and the faint shadow of darkness in you that could one day lead you down the path of a Death Eater.
And yet⌠perhaps he felt more. Perhaps he truly liked you. Perhaps he enjoyed your company. Perhaps he liked the scent of vanilla and caramel coffee.
A soft sigh escaped his lips, meant only for himself, as his gaze rested on the empty corner of the room. He was a professor, and you were a studentâŚ
The thoughts slowly circled in his mind: the dayâs events, the smiles, the quiet touches⌠and he knew that this game, this close connection, was leading both of you toward something entirely different.
...
You were now sitting in Tomâs office, half leaning on his desk while he reclined in his chair, watching you. The afternoon light filtered through the window, casting golden streaks across the books lined up on the shelves.
"So you think Dumbledore actually enjoys all these endless assignments?" you asked casually.
"Even if he doesnât enjoy them, he certainly likes seeing the students suffer through them," he said with dry humor.
"Cruel," you noted with a smile.
"More like⌠consistent," Tom corrected.
The conversation was light. Every now and then, Tom would look you over, as if simultaneously analyzing and enjoying your company. You no longer even noticed how natural it felt to sit there in his office, as if you had always belonged there.
"By the wayâŚ" you began a bit more cautiously, "is our⌠coffee-and-study program still on today?"
Tom paused for a moment over the parchment on his desk. "Iâm afraid not this week," he said calmly. "Iâll be quite busy."
The response was simple, matter-of-fact⌠but something in you immediately tightened. Your smile dimmed slightly. "Oh⌠of course," you said quickly, as if you needed to explain yourself even to your own thoughts. "Sorry, that was a stupid question. Obviously youâre busy. Youâre a professor, after all, with so much to do"
Tom just watched for a few seconds. He didnât like seeing your disappointment; he hated that he had caused it. A troubling sense of satisfaction mixed with unease stirred within him, seeing you sad.
"I have a meeting⌠with a certain group," he finally said."Exceptional wizards," he continued calmly. "Those who are never satisfied with what the world offers. They want more. Power. Influence."
His eyes now studied you sharply. "ActuallyâŚ" he said slowly, "if you wanted, you could come with me."
There was a darker curiosity in his gaze. "I think they would find you⌠interesting."
You nodded slowly. "Alright," you finally said. "Iâll go."
Riddleâs gaze lingered on you for a moment. He didnât smile broadly, but there was a flash of satisfaction in his eyes. "Good decision," he said quietly.
You stood up from the chair, gathered your bag, and started toward the door. Before stepping out, you glanced back at him one more time. "So⌠weâll meet there," you said.
Tom nodded slightly. "Iâll be right by your side."
His eyes followed you as you left the office. The door closed slowly behind you, and the sounds of the corridor swallowed your footsteps.
Tom remained at his desk, his fingers tapping slowly on the wood.
Interesting. He had been thinking a lot about you.
He wasnât the kind of man who easily let others get close. People were usually tools to him: useful, clever, ambitious, loyal. If not⌠they were insignificant.
Most people were predictable, but you⌠not entirely. Yes, he saw the darkness in you. The desire for power. The strategic thinking during your chess games. The sharpness with which you observed the world. Exactly the qualities that could make someone valuable on his side. Perhaps⌠one day, even among the Death Eaters.
But that wasnât the only reason he was intrigued. Most of his followers respected, admired, or feared him. But you⌠you spoke with him, debated with him. Sometimes even laughed at him, and for some reason⌠he enjoyed it.
The thought was slightly disconcerting, because when you had felt disappointed earlier⌠it wasnât part of the plan that he would invite you. And yet, he acted instinctively.
...
You stood before the mirror, staring at yourself for a moment. The black dress clung to your figure, the corseted waist subtly accentuating your shape. The dark fabric shimmered elegantly with every movement. You put on black heels. You adjusted your hair, then ran your fingers over the dress. The girl reflected in the mirror was no longer just a student. She was someone ready to step into a far more dangerous game.
This wasnât just a meeting for you. It was something entirely different. Tomâs world. The thought brought a small smile to your lips.
Inside Tomâs room, the dim light cast soft shadows. The embers of the fireplace glowed slowly, throwing orange light across the lined books and dark furniture.
He stood by the window for a moment, arms crossed, reflecting once more on the eveningâthe meeting, the group, and you. The thought made the corner of his mouth curl into a faint, barely noticeable smile.
Finally, he slowly put on his coat. He adjusted it with a single motion over his shoulder, then stepped in front of the mirror. A calm, confident man stared back at himâdark eyes, perfectly groomed hair, natural elegance that drew attention instinctively.
He knew this day shimmered with a cruel kind of destiny. You'd finally see him, not just some boy lost in the dark arts, but a god. A dark lord bathed in glory. He wondered, if you'd tremble, maybe worship him like the fallen, or if, tragically, he'd have to silence you forever.
His fingers smoothed over his shirt cuff. "This will be an interesting evening," he murmured to himself. Then he switched off the light and stepped into the corridor.
...
When you arrived, you paused for a moment at the door to adjust your dress. The black fabric draped elegantly, the corset held your waist snugly, and your heels clicked softly against the stone floor.
He was already there, by the candlelit columns when you drifted in. Shadowed by a dark coat. His eyes, dark pools, saw you whole. You wondered, what those eyes would look like, lost in love, faded and golden. He was the demon you dreamed of, the handsomest angel fallen from grace.
A small, satisfied smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Right on time," he said quietly.
You glanced around the room for a moment. Strange people were gathered in small groups, dressed in dark clothing, engaged in quiet, serious conversations. Several looked toward you, including a woman standing next to Tom. She was tall, in a sleek black outfit made of subtly shimmering fabric that followed her every movement. Her long dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders, yet every strand was perfectly in place, complementing her rigid, commanding posture.
Her face was sharply defined, high cheekbones and dark eyes, filled with a playful sense of danger. Her gaze was both attentive and threatening. You watched her every small motion. You didnât yet know who she was, but something about her aura, her eyes, suggested she was no ordinary woman.
Tom stepped closer to you. "Iâm glad you came," he said softly.
He led you to the center of the room. One step ahead, shoulders straight, his eyes darkly gleaming. They were all looking at him with admiration,you didn't know where to place...was he some kind of leader? Did he lead all of these people?
"Listen, all of you," he began, but his gaze lingered on you, as if his words were primarily for you. "The world is not for the weak. Not for those who fear power, decisions, or responsibility. The world belongs to those who can master themselves and the space around them."
His voice gradually strengthened. "And you, who are here tonight⌠remember, power is not a gift. It is not given to anyone automatically. Power must be earned, with thought and a clear mind. And those who understand this⌠survive, and prevail."
As he spoke, the weight of his words and the intensity of his gaze enveloped you. You felt that he was teaching, observing, and playing with you at the same time. This was not just a speech for the others; in every gesture, Tom made it clear that you were his most important audience.
After the speech, quiet murmurs and the clinking of plates indicated that dinner was approaching. In one corner, candles were already placed on the tables, and the scent of wine mingled with roasted meat, fresh bread, and spices.
Tom slowly guided you to the table. You sat to the right of him, and on your left was the woman whose gaze you had noticed earlier. You still didnât know her exactly, but something in her aura and movements suggested she was far more than a simple companion.
As the first dish were set before you, conversation gradually unfolded. You slowly realized that her eyes frequently flicked toward Tom. When she lightly touched his shoulder with a gentle but deliberate motion, a strange, hot sensation ran through your stomach.
You immediately tried to mask your reaction. A quick glance at your plate, your hand slowly reaching for your glass, as if the movement were natural. "Who⌠is the one sitting on your left?" you asked.
"Bellatrix," he replied. "She is⌠important."
That little tremor down in your soul, it bloomed into something darker, like a faded dream turning green with envy.
Tom immediately noticed that something had changed in you."Whatâs wrong?" he asked quietly, leaning a little closer.
You tried to hide your real feelings with a smile."Nothing, just⌠the atmosphere here is a bit tense," you lied.
Under the table, his hand slowly reached for yours. His touch was gentle. You felt the warmth of his skin beneath yours, and your anxiety slowly easedâyet your heart still beat faster.
"You see," he said softly with a faint smile, "thereâs no reason to be tense. Youâre here now, and Iâm paying attention to you."
The gesture was both protective and intimate. It wasnât intrusive, yet it said everything: he was there for you, and the moment belonged only to the two of you.
After a while, Tom slowly released your hand beneath the table. The movement felt natural. Meanwhile, you tried to regain your composure and shifted your attention to the other side of the table.
The man sitting across from you leaned slightly forward."It seems we havenât met yet," he said politely. "Barty Crouch Jr."
His smile was easy, slightly playful, and when he spoke it was clear he enjoyed the exchange."The Dark Lord rarely brings new people among us," he remarked with curiosity. "Which is why Iâm particularly interested in you."
The Dark Lord...Professor Tom Riddle,who was he, really? The dream you've built of him, it's all faded. Do you even know him at all? Or did you fall for a shadow, a phantom? Was he a dangerous man doomed from the start?
"Then I suppose⌠Iâve been given quite a special honor," you said lightly. "Though I suspect it was more his curiosity that brought me here than any merit of mine."
Barty chuckled softly and leaned a little closer across the table."Oh, no," he shook his head playfully. "The Dark Lordâs curiosity⌠doesnât usually bring such elegant company with it."
"Then I can consider myself lucky," you replied with ease. "Itâs a rare occasion when someone finds themselves among such⌠distinguished company."
"Distinguished?" he repeated, tilting his head slightly. "Thatâs a rather diplomatic word for whatâs happening here. But I must admit, itâs far more interesting when someone doesnât immediately get frightened by this⌠company."
"Perhaps," you said calmly, "because Iâm curious."
Barty laughed again, this time more genuinely."Oh, I like that," he said. "Curiosity is a dangerous trait."
"Especially when it leads someone into the company of the wrong people," you replied.
His gaze lingered on you for a brief moment, and a half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth."Now Iâm beginning to understand why he brought you here.Itâs rather difficult not to notice you."
You paused for a moment before answering, then slowly smiled. You realized that this man was flirting with you."Then perhaps Iâm lucky," you said calmly, gently turning your glass between your fingers.
Bartyâs eyes lit up at your reply."Believe me," he answered playfully, "the word interesting is sometimes far too mild for what happens here."
You raised an eyebrow slightly."So now youâre flattering me?"
"Iâm only observing," Barty said with an easy smile. "And what I see is quiteâŚ"
"Crouch."Tomâs voice cut in.
Bartyâs gaze immediately turned toward him. The playful smile faded from his face in an instant.
Tom didnât look at him for long, just cast a brief, dark glance across the table."If you have so much energy," he said quietly, "perhaps you should focus on our next matter."
Barty straightened in his chair immediately."Of course, my Lord," he replied at once.
The earlier light, flirtatious mood vanished in a moment. Barty said nothing more, instead idly turning his glass while keeping his attention respectfully on the table.
Riddleâs eyes glinted darkly, and beneath his usual calm, elegant manner there was something sharper vibrating thereâa possessive intent."Now," he said slowly, "I understand who is trying to gain whose attention."
The way he looked at Barty, all gestures and honeyed tone, it was clear that this situation was unmistakably his territory. His eyes watched every move, but always drifted back to you. And in that hazy, golden light, it hit you. Tom Riddle consideres you his. And god, it felt like a dream, knowing he felt something, anything...but you were still lost in the shadows of his secret.
"Be careful who you play with here," he added quietly. "I decide what is acceptable."
The moment he touched you,your breath hitched. His hands, they found your thighs, and he held on tight, like they were finally home. His eyes, those pools of desire, watched every little reaction you gave.
"Careful," he murmured. "you're not made for their world." He gestured to his subjects. "You belong with me.To me, forevermore."
Your breath caught, and God, you yearned for it. To be his,to belong with him,utterly. Your heartbeat was faster than ever.
A small, almost disbelieving smile appeared on your face."What about Bellatrix?"
Your gaze briefly slid toward the woman sitting to his left. Bellatrix was speaking with someone else at the moment, but even so her posture remained confident and commanding.
Tom gave you that crooked little smirk. "Don't worry," drawled, his hand heavy on your thigh, possessive as a forgotten dream. "I am not interested in her,she is just faithful. Besides,she's already spoken for."
After the conversation, the murmur at the table slowly faded. The plates were empty, and at the bottom of the wine glasses only a thin red line remained.
He stood up.The chair slid back on the stone floor with a soft scrape, and in that moment the room fell almost completely silent. All eyes turned to him."I think we've talked enough for today," he said calmly.
"You all know what to do." Some nodded, while others were already standing up.Bellatrix was one of the first to stand, then with an elegant motion adjusted her dress and walked out.
Barty Crouch Jr. stood up from his chair. Before he walked away, he cast a brief glance at youâa faint, slightly cheeky half-smileâthen followed the others.
Within a few minutes, the room slowly emptied.The murmur of conversations faded down the corridors, the sound of footsteps died away.
You remained.
"Well," he said softly, "it seems you survived your first evening."
"Thanks to you," you replied quietly, with a small smile you didnât try to hide. "If you hadnât been there⌠I might not even know how to act around these people."
"You see it correctly," he answered calmly, his voice slow and measured. "But donât forget⌠itâs always up to you how you play within the rules. I only show the way."
Tom stood up from the table and looked at you for a moment, as if weighing whether to say something more."Come," he finally said quietly.
The candlelight dimly lit the way as you stepped out into the corridor. Your footsteps echoed on the stone floor while Tom led you through the building with a steady, calm pace.
Outside, the streets were quiet. The air was cool, and the yellow light of distant lanterns stretched long shadows across the stones.For a while, neither of you spoke.
Eventually, he stopped in front of a door. It was a simple dark wooden door, with no special markings.Tom opened it, then stepped aside to let you enter.
"I didnât want you to have to go back alone this late," he said calmly. "I thought⌠it might be better if you rested here for a while."
The room was surprisingly orderly. A fireplace crackled softly, books lined the shelves, and on the table lay a few parchments and an open bottle of ink.
Tom closed the door behind him, then leaned casually against the wall.His gaze settled on you again.
"Is this⌠your room?" you asked quietly.
Riddle looked at you for a moment, then slowly nodded."Yes," he answered simply.
After his reply, the situation suddenly became clear to you. You werenât standing in a guest room. You were in Tomâs room. Alone.
You felt warmth slowly rise to your face. Quickly, you looked away, as if the bookshelf had suddenly become far more interesting.But Tom noticed.
That faint, almost amused half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouthâthe one he wore when he knew exactly what was going through someone elseâs mind.
"Is something wrong?" he asked calmly, though there was a trace of playfulness in his voice.
His gaze slid over you for a moment, then returned to your face, where the blush was still visible."I didnât think the idea would make you this flustered," he added quietly.
For a moment, you awkwardly adjusted the sleeve of your dress, as if buying yourself a little time.
"Iâm not flustered," you finally said quietly, though your voice revealed you were still trying to compose yourself. "I just⌠didnât expect it."
Tom slowly pushed himself away from the wall and took a few steps toward the center of the room. His movements were calm, but with every step he came closer to you."You didnât expect to end up here?" he asked softly.
The candlelight cast faint shadows across his face, and his dark eyes were far more attentive now than they had been at dinner.
You slowly let out a breath."Yeah..." you finally admitted quietly.
Your gaze slipped to the floor for a moment, then returned to him. The faint blush he had already noticed was still visible on your face."I never thought⌠that one day Iâd be standing in your room," you added honestly.
His eyes lingered on you, attentive, as if noticing every small change in your expression. Slowly, a faint, almost satisfied half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth."Interesting," he said quietly.
"Interesting," he said quietly.
He stepped half a step closer, though he still left a little space between you."Because I, on the other handâŚ" he began slowly, "have been expecting it for some time."
The blush on your face deepened, and your heart was beating so fast you were sure he could hear it. For a moment you couldnât even hold his gaze.
You turned away abruptly and walked to the window, putting a little distance between the two of you. The cool glass and the dark night outside helped you steady yourself.Tom watched you silently, his eyes following every movement.
You took a quiet breath."I think⌠we should talk about something else," you said, still facing the window. "Something more important."
Tom tilted his head slightly, studying you."More important?" he repeated calmly. "And what would that be?"
You turned back toward him, your expression now more serious."You," you said simply. "Who you really are."
For a moment Tom didnât seem to understand. His expression barely changed, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes."What exactly do you mean?" he asked slowly.
You folded your arms lightly, gathering your thoughts."You left out a rather important detail," you said. "When you brought me into all of this."
Tomâs eyes narrowed slightly."And that is?"
You held his gaze."The fact that youâre a Dark Lord."
Tom stepped closer to the window with a slow, deliberate pace, stopping behind you but still keeping a respectful distance. His gaze was dark and deep, yet not intrusive; it felt as if he were simultaneously observing and weighing.
âDon't tell me, you're scared of me.â he said calmly.
âNo,â you replied softly, your voice trembling slightly. âI just donât know who you really are.â
Tom slowly stepped closer, his gaze fixed steadily on yours.âYou're the only one who knows me,â he said calmly.
He carefully raised his hand and brushed it along your face. The gesture was gentle, yet deliberate. You instinctively leaned into his touch.
âIâm still the same person,â he continued. âthe one you drink caramel coffee with, the one you tell about your days at school, the one you play chess withâŚâ
He paused briefly,his hand leaving your cheeks.âBut today⌠today you saw another side of me. And you need to know,â he added, his eyes piercing deep into yours, âthat this is a part of me.â
You turned to face him fully, the cool stone at your back. âWho are you to me? Right now, in this moment. The man who drinks coffee with me and pretends to let me win at chess? Or⌠My Lord?â
âI am both,â he whispered. âThe one who craves your thoughts, your sweet little laugh, your presence across a checkered board, bathed in the hazy lamplight⌠and the one who aches for you, my equal, your breath mingling with mine, your very soul entwined with my own. They are not separate. You cannot have one without the other now. Do you understand?â
His words should've scared you away, sent you running for the hills. But a dangerous warmth bloomed instead, low in your soul. The danger of it all, that was the drug. And there it was, that dark, twisted beauty, the way the light fades into the dark. The gentle professor and the dark lord... both real. Both here. Both yours.
âI understand,â you breathed, the words barely audible.
He closed the distance between you in one fluid step. His kiss wasn't soft,it was a coquest, a whispered promise of forever. His mouth swallowed yours whole, a taste of champagne and dangerous authority. You whimpered into him,your hands flying to his chest,pulling him closer.
He broke the kiss, his own breathing ragged. âYou are mine,â he stated, the words leaving no room for argument. His hands left your face, sliding down your neck, over your shoulders, tracing the neckline of your dress. âTell me what you want.â
âYou.â
âGood.âOne hand slipped behind you, finding the delicate zipper of your dress. The sound of it sliding down was obscenely loud in the quiet. Cool air kissed your spine, followed by the scorching trail of his fingertips. He pushed the fabric from your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet in a whisper of silk. You stood before him in only your underwear, exposed to the night and his burning gaze.
"Beautiful," he whispered, like a prayer. His eyes, a hungry, worshipful shadow, traced your figure like a forgotten melody. He spun you around, slow and sweet, your bare skin flush against the dark fabric of his suit, his arms a velvet cage. And the cruel, beautiful ache of him pressed against you.
His lips found that sweet spot where your neck fades into your shoulder, a soft bite, then a gentle surrender of his tongue. One hand found your breast, hidden beneath lace, thumb circling, teasing until you ached. The other hand slid down, past the waistband of your panties finding you already already burning for him.
"Taste so good," he purred. "Tried not to want you this way ,but fuck sweetheart."
A low moan hummed against your very skin. "So eager for your Lord." he breathed,his fingers sliding through your wetness, gathering it, then circling your clit with a precision that made your knees buckle. âIs it the danger that excites you? Or is it simply me?â
Words just wouldn't come. Head heavy, falling back against his shoulder, and a sound escaped your lips as his touch teased, slow circles at first, driving you mad. Then faster, harder, a rhythm that left you panting.His other hand pinched your nipple through the lace,sending shivers down your spine.This was nothing like the tentative touches you might have imagined in the safe confines of Hogwarts. This was raw, primal, an unleashing."It's You", you breathed.
âTom⌠pleaseâŚâ you begged, unsure what you were begging for.
âPlease what?â he growled, his fingers pushing deeper, curling inside you, stretching you.
âPlease,My Lordâ you gasped, the world narrowing to the stroke of his fingers, the bite of his teeth on your shoulder. âNeed you. All of you.â
That seemed to be the answer he was chasing. He turned you then, lifting you up like a feather to sit on the wide bed. He stepped between your thighs, pushing them open. His hands moved to his shirt ,then his belt, the buckle's clink a deliberate echo. He freed himself and your breath caught at the sightâthick, proud, the tip glistening. He was magnificent and terrifyingly real, all at once.
"This is who I am," he whispered. "The one who'll hold you close, and the one who'll lose himself in you. They're all the same."
With a single, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside you.The cry that left your lips was swallowed by the night. The feeling was overwhelming. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him claiming you.You moaned, your hips lifting to meet his making him groan, his forehead dropping down against yours.
"That feel good,sweetheart?"
"Yes," you sighed, hips swiveling to find more friction. "Please,My Lord."
Then he began to move. It was slow at firstâcareful, gentle. The movement pulled a soft sound from your soul, your fingers holding on to him, finding your place in the hazy closeness.
"Taking me so well, feels so good." he moved in and out, getting you both used to the feeling of him.
He held you like you were made of stardust. His touch tracing the curves of your thighs, pulling you in close.The shift made your breath catch, the new closeness sending a warm shiver through you.
"That's it sweetness," he licks and sucks a nipple into his mouth.
Your head fell back against the softest pillow. Your rhythm turned into something deeper, each touch a little more sure, a little more desperate. His name slipped from your lips, a prayer trembling with all the feels.
The world faded, until it was just the two of you. His movements running free. A pressure, sweet and heavy, bloomed inside. Words dissolved, replaced with whispers and desperate little cries.
âMy LordâŚâ you murmured again as the feeling building inside you grew stronger.
âSweetheart⌠Iâve got you.â
His words were enough to unravel everything. And you just fell apart. Body shaking, nails digging into his back, a white-hot pleasure washing over you in waves. Tom groaned, a deep, echoing sound as his hips moved.He pushed one last time and you felt him. That warmth, filling you from the inside.
For a fleeting moment never of you moved,untouched by reality. Then, ever so softly, he leaned into you, his weight a gentle surrender, a solace. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart against your own,you both struggled to find your breath in the aftermath.
well.. free therapy is the best thing in the world right?
This is like trauma dump but how can one deal with beauty pressures? Like society is soo lookaholic(!) and that's okay.. until it crushes your self esteem when there's a pretty girl and you.. (yes, beauty is subjective but it's like you don't fall into your country's beauty standard)
It also brings feelings of shame. What would a man think of you? When he firsts see you...,like, "Oh, she's not beautiful but I love her anyways." Uhm.
Imagine the man is Tom Riddle and ppl like him
Thank you
Hii! First of all thank you for trusting me w this "insecurity" because I would never have the guts to do that lmaođ
Second of all when I put "free therapy" into that little box on my page,I never thought that people would actually think it's a real trauma dump box...which is like so dumb of me lol,of course a person would understand it that wayđ i meant it as in like "write your requests here" lmao ..oh Well ...
In my opinion a person can deal w beauty standarts through their selfesteem. I know, it's a very Basic thing to say and you'll hear this a lot,but it's true:the most important thing in your life is to love yourself.
Also,you said it yourself "beauty is subjective" so I think it's safe to say that your opinion on yourself and your beauty is subjective as well.Not finding yourself pretty is subjective as well.
That doesn't mean youre not pretty,just because you think so. I know,every country has it's own standarts but they're mostly the same "be skinny,have a slim nose,pretty face etc." But that doesn't mean this is the standart for every guy. I know lot of guys prefer girls who that are a little bit "fuller". For example I've always been a bit fuller than I would like to be,but guys like me that way,and to be honest for me it's the opposite,I've always wanted to be extra skinny. So again,beauty is subjective.
Againâvery Basic but beauty is not everything. In my opinion beauty is not just looks it's a mix of your looks and your soul. Like what am i supposed to do w a pretty man who has an ugly Soul? Like,no thank you. I think a decent man would never think "oh wow,she's ugly but IG I love her" that's not a man. That's a boy,a piece of shit.
As a woman myself I would never think another woman is ugly. I have never called a woman ugly. I think all woman are beautiful and unique in their own way. I find myself pretty because I do thinks that make me and my Soul Happy. I do skincare,I work out ,I put on makeup because it makes me happy and also healthy. And most importantly,I never go out feeling like I don't look 100% like a godess. To me dressing up is a form of art.
I don't think Tom Riddle really goes for the looks...(I don't think he'd date anyone in general lol) âbut if he did go for anyone I think he would choose based on their intelligence.
Summary::Caramel coffee, chess games, and late-night talksâŚwith Professor Riddle seem like what you need.
Warnings::18+,smut,piv,unprotected (stay safe ya'll) ,age gap,student x professor,but he's not HER professor,so it's okay đ¤âď¸(no,it's not),manipulative Tom Riddle,at one point he thinks about "silencing her",jealousy
Word count::10k
Authorâs note::Guess who's back babygirls.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom had always been a little colder than the others. and you had been sitting in your place for some time, your elbow resting on the desk as the pale light streaming through the tall windows slowly slid across the floor.
The other students were talking quietly. Laughter, whispers, the tapping of quills on wooden desks.
But the teacherâs chair was still empty. Someone always came in to substituteâan anxious professor who rattled through the lesson quickly.
Usually, Galatea Merrythought taught this class, at least on paper. Her name was attached to the room, the syllabus, the old notes. But in recent weeks, she seemed to have disappeared from the corridors. Someone else always came in her place, and none of them stayed long.
You felt someone glance at you, perhaps one of your classmates. But it didnât last. Just a quick, measuring look, the kind you knew well.
People often looked at each other like that. As if they were only seeing the cover of a book and deciding what was inside just from that. From the colors, the outward appearances, the way someone sat, or even just listened.
As if no one thought to read the story itself.
By now, the light at the window had dimmed, turning from gold to gray on the stone floor. The ticking of the clock echoed softly off the walls. Someone was standing by the window, others leaning partially on the desks, chatting, as if this class had long since lost its importance.
Then the doorknob moved. Just a soft click. Conversations died quickly. The door slowly opened. The pale, cold light of the corridor spilled into the room for a moment, and the silhouette of a tall figure appeared.
Tom Riddle stepped in. He didnât hurry; his movements were too calm to be accidental. The silence of the classroom seemed to belong naturally to him. The door closed behind him.
As he came closer, the pale afternoon light touched his face. He was strangely beautifulânot in a kind, warm sense. More in a way that made one instinctively step back. Sharp features, pale skin, and those dark eyes that had lingered too long on a face, as if trying to strip away its layers.
There was something⌠contradictory about him. As if beneath the surface, a poisonous calm was lurking. Something cold. And yet all of this wrapped in a perfect, almost unsettling elegance, making it impossible to decide whether to step back or keep looking.
Beauty and danger. That was the best way to describe Tom Riddle.
Eventually, Riddle slowly leaned against the edge of the desk, the whole situation providing him with some quiet amusement. His gaze swept across the desks.
âIâve heard,â he said at last, âthat in recent weeks this class⌠has been somewhat irregular.â
Someone at the back chuckled softly.
âI thought,â he continued, âwe can start in a less formal way. Ask anything you like.â
Immediately, the classroom stirred. Quills slid aside, chairs creaked, and some students looked at each other as if trying to decide whether he was serious.
The first hand went up surprisingly fast. A blonde girl in the front row, who had been sitting unusually straight.
âProfessor,â she began, her voice a shade softer than what would be required for a simple question, âdid you really get a teaching position at such a young age?â
âMerlinâŚâ whispered a boy.
But the girl held Riddleâs gaze steadily, as if it were the most natural question in the world. His eyes settled on her. He was not disturbed by the question.
âThe Ministry sometimes⌠makes peculiar decisions,â he replied calmly.
The girl smiled. âIâm sure that wasnât the only reason.â A few girls stifled giggles after the sentence.
A girl in the third rowâdark, wavy hair and the confidence that usually comes only when one knows they are being watchedâslowly raised her hand. She didnât really wait for permission.
âProfessor,â she said, her voice calm but a playful glint in her eyes, âif we may ask anythingâŚâ
Now the entire room was watching. A few boys buried their faces in books to avoid laughing out loud.
âIs it true the rumor that youâve⌠dueled someone outside of school?â
Someone at the back laughed. âOh, this is going to be good.â
But the girl continued as if it were a completely serious question. âBecause if soâŚâ she tilted her head slightly to the side, âI can imagine it must have been quite⌠impressive to witness.â
The professor looked at the questioner for a moment. Not embarrassed. Not offended either.
âDuelingâŚâ he said, âis usually not meant to be a spectacle.â His voice was polite. Yet beneath the sentence, there was something cold. Something that reminded the classroom, even briefly, that this was still a Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
The laughter slowly died away. It seemed most questions had been asked. Some students fiddled with their quills, others leaned back in their chairs as if the lesson was winding down.
Tom Riddleâs gaze swept across the class. âAny more questions?â he finally asked.
For a moment, you looked at your book on the desk, as if weighing whether to speak.
Then you lifted your eyes. âProfessor,â you said at last.
The room went silent immediately. Perhaps because your voice was completely different from the previous questions. There was no playfulness, no stifled laughter.
âI would like to knowâŚâ you began slowly, âin your opinion, what truly defines success in a wizardâs life?â
Some students looked puzzled. You continued.âPeople often talk about it as if success is something external. Power, influence⌠or simply money. As if these are the signs everyone uses to decide who has gone far in life.â
You looked briefly at the light by the window before meeting Riddleâs gaze again. Your voice remained calm.
âBut often I feel people accept this standard too quickly. As if wealth or social rank alone proves someone is⌠successful.â
You paused briefly, then continued. âDo you think money is the anthem of success?â
The question hung in the air. No one laughed. Not even the girls who had flirted quietly earlier.
Tom Riddle didnât answer immediately. His gaze stayed on you. Not like when he was scanning the class before. Now he looked at you as if reading the first page of a particularly interesting book.
Then he slowly tilted his head thoughtfully. âInteresting question,â he said finally.
He genuinely seemed to be considering it. Slowly, he walked alongside the desk. âMoneyâŚâ he continued, âundoubtedly brings power.â
His voice was calm, almost contemplative. âIt opens many doors more easily than any spell.â
His gaze swept the classroom for a moment. âBut in itself, it rarely makes someone successful. It is more a consequence.â
He paused. âThose who achieve truly great things⌠usually arenât seeking money.â
His eyes found yours again. âBut something else. Influence. Knowledge. Or simply⌠superiority.â
Then Riddle smiled faintly. âAnd interestingly,â he added, âsuch people often end up acquiring wealth anyway.â
The lesson slowly ended. The tapping of quills and creaking of chairs gradually faded into the silence of the room.
A few students stepped closer to Tom Riddle. They surrounded him, as if he himself were the light in the dark room, the center in which every shadow made sense.
It was like every glance directed at himâhe was an invisible nebula, and he himself the gravity to which every particle was drawn. As if he were heaven itself on Earth.
You didnât join the circle. You closed your book and put down your quill. You didnât want to participate in the admiration. You were already heading toward the door, your footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor, when his voice spoke behind you.
âWait,â said Tom Riddle, his voice not commanding, yet not dismissive. âI would like to talk more about your question.â
You stopped. Your heart beat a little faster, but not from fear. Just⌠from curiosity and the feeling that overcame you being near him.
Riddle slowly raised his hand, with an elegant, subtle gesture signaling you to follow him. Then he excused himself to the others and said goodbye.
âShall we?â he said softly, still calm but firm. âLetâs move a little aside.âAs you passed the desks, Riddle touched your shoulder, guiding you.
The gesture was small but significant.Something warm, but not intrusive, ran through you; as if the scent of summer had quietly drifted into the air.
And his gaze⌠looking into his eyes was like the world briefly became lighter, tallerâas if heaven itself were hidden in his gaze.
You stopped at a secluded corner of the corridor. Riddle looked at you slowly, weighing his words before speaking.
âSo⌠weâre talking about money,â he began, his voice calm. âIâm interested in your own opinion as well.â
You took a deep breath before beginning. âTrue success,â you continued, âis when one is capable of creating something lasting, regardless of how much gold is in their pocket. The knowledge, the impact we have on others, the consequences of our choices⌠these measures are far more enduring than wealth.â
Riddle slowly lifted his gaze. His dark eyes fixed on you, a tension vibrating in them, stopping the air in the corridor.He looked at you as if trying to control his thoughts. Trying to restrain himself,trying hard not to get into trouble, yet in every movement there was⌠a war in his mind.As if trying to contain an internal bloodbath. A battlefield where thoughts and instincts clashed, yet in every motion he exercised strict control.
Riddle nodded slowly. âInteresting,â he said, his voice quiet and deep, still looking at you. âFew see the world this way. Most follow appearances. Money, title⌠these easily distract from what truly matters.â
A tiny, almost imperceptible smile crossed his face. âAnd the fact that you think this wayâŚâ he added, as if carefully choosing the next word, ââŚis rarely granted, MissâŚâ
His gaze swept over you, waiting for an answer, as if every moment mattered. Silence stretched slowly.
After you said your name, Riddle nodded slightly, but his smile remained mysterious and slightly weighing. There was no playfulness, only attention and⌠some hard-to-define interest.
He repeated your name slowly, savoring it. Riddle paused for a moment, then stepped back slowly and elegantly.
âYou know,â he began, âmy door is always open to any student. If you ever want to talk⌠anytime.â
âThank you, Professor,â your voice was polite but firm. âI really appreciate it.â
A quiet pause followed, in which you both looked at each other. His gaze was still heavy and attentive.
âGoodbye, Professor,â you said quietly.
âGoodbye.â he replied, with a small, almost imperceptible smile.
âŚ
Every step felt slow. The laughter and chatter of your other friends were just distant noise in your ears.
And yet⌠your thoughts were elsewhere. You could think of nothing but Riddle. Every word he had spoken today, every quiet glance, every small gesture, still seemed to vibrate in the air around you.
Somehow, it felt as if the world were different without him. It was as if something had separated you from the others.
The lessons passed slowly. One spell after another, the teacherâs voice, the tapping of quills. And there you sat, between the pages of your book, yet your thoughts were far away.
âŚ
You lay in bed, the blanket slowly slipping off your shoulders. You didnât even remember how you had ended up in your bed. The room was quiet, the candles flickering faintly, but your eyes were wide open, and your thoughts revolved around Riddle.
You tried to push them away, tried to turn your attention elsewhere, but every attempt proved futile.
You knew it was pointlessâhe was a professor. It was like the stars searching for the sun in the morning skyâimpossible.
Finally, you slowly sat up. You couldnât let this decision simply vanish into the night. You had to go, had to speak with him.
In the shadows of books and quills on the floor, you slowly dressed. You draped the wool coat over your shoulders, put on your shoes. In the mirror, your own face looked back at youâtired, but determined. There was resolve in your eyes.
Quietly, you slipped out of your room, careful not to wake your roommates. The corridor was cool, the stone floor cold beneath your feet. Every step echoed against the silent walls.
You drew closer to the door, though you werenât sure if you were making the right choice. Your heart beat slowly, yet with each thrum there was anticipation and curiosity. The light of the torches along the walls trembled, casting golden shadows across the stone.
Finally, you stopped in front of the door. Dark wood, old and heavy. The handle gleamed coldly in the torchlight. For a moment, you just stood there, hand raised in the air, as if the final part of the decision still hung inside you.
Then you knocked. Three soft raps.
For a few seconds, nothing could be heard from inside. Just the distant draft in the corridors, the faint creaking of the old walls.
Then the soft scrape of a chair across the floor, from inside. Footstepsâhis footsteps. The doorknob slowly turned, and the door opened. Professor Tom Riddle stood there in his glory.
He had the face of a fallen angel, beautiful, almost otherworldly, yet carrying a kind of world-weary, sly charm. A face that could not be forgotten, even if one triedâmade for the role of a beautiful sadist.
You knew he was a troublemaker, steeped in sin. A dark soul. Lucifer. But you had your own sweet choice, your own little path.
His dark eyes assessed you in an instant. Not surprised,he had already accounted for you.
Then that faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his face, the one you had seen in class..â I suspected you might return to our question.â
He stepped half a pace back in the doorway. âcome in.â
The door slowly closed behind you, the soft click of the lock echoing dimly in the room. Riddleâs office was quiet and orderly. Dark bookshelves lined the walls, their spinesâ old golden letters faintly gleaming in the candlelight. In front of the window stood a heavy desk, covered with parchment, ink pots, and a few carefully stacked books.
The air carried the scent of ink, old paper, and something delicate and tangy. Riddle moved toward his desk with calm steps.âPlease, have a seat.â he said, gesturing toward a comfortable armchair on the other side of the desk.
You sat in the soft chair; its armrest was cool under your hand. Your back remained straight, almost instinctively. The professor also seated himself behind the desk. For a moment, he clasped his fingers together, then fixed his gaze on you.
His dark eyes now seemed even more attentive. âWellâ â he said quietly at last, âIâm glad you came.â
"I hope itâs not a problem that I came so late. The castle⌠at night is sometimes better for thinking."
A faint, almost playful smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Indeed," he said calmly. "Most are already asleep by now. But I cannot complain," he added. "If I tell my students that my door is open, I ought to keep to that."
His gaze lingered for a moment on the door, then returned to you. "And officially, it is open for another hour still."
His dark eyes studied you carefully. "What is it that still occupies your mind?"
"This time it's more about... something else"
Riddleâs brow moved just slightly. "Money is more of a⌠phenomenon," you continued calmly. "A tool. People often treat it as a symbol of success because itâs easy to measure."
You paused briefly before continuing. "But thatâs not what Iâm really interested in."
Tom now leaned slightly forward over the desk. His gaze sharpened, more attentive. "Then what?" he asked quietly.
The candle flame flickered between you. "Power," you said at last.
For a moment, you met Riddleâs eyes, and you saw satisfaction in them, as if he had been expecting that answer.
"The kind of power I desire is that which can shape things. Influence people, shape the futureâŚ"
The man leaned back slowly. "I see," he said quietly at last.
For a moment, he just looked at you, as if turning a thought over in his mind, like a chess piece between his fingers. Then his fingers slowly interlaced on the desk. "PowerâŚ" he repeated softly.
"You know, many believe such things⌠are grim, fateful. That anyone who speaks of power is already halfway down a dark path."
A small, barely noticeable smile appeared on his face. "Yet sometimes, itâs nothing more than a game."
Riddleâs fingers slowly traced the edge of the parchment on the desk. "Dark" he continued softly. "But just a game."
His gaze returned to you. "People take positions in life. They move forward, back, circle around one another⌠and all the while think they are in control."
His dark eyes now locked onto yours. "Tell me," he asked calmly, "what kind of player would you be in this⌠game?"
For a moment, you just looked at him, then tilted your head slightly to the side. "Perhaps we should see," you said calmly.
Riddleâs brow lifted almost imperceptibly. Your gaze flicked to a corner of the desk, then back to him. "Letâs see it in a chess game."
For a moment, complete silence. Then the professor chuckled softly. "You assume a professor would be willing to play chess with a student at this hour."
There was a light, ironic edge to his voiceâbut not dismissive. He stepped toward one of the bookshelves and pulled open a lower drawer. Some parchment slipped aside, and then his hand found a small, dark wooden box.
He returned to the desk, opened the box, and produced an old chess set. Riddle slowly set up the board between you. The pieces were placed one by one, each settling with a quiet click.
"Well," he said at last, as he placed the final piece, "if you insist on the demonstrationâŚ"
He looked up at you, dark eyes now clearly gleaming with interest. "Letâs see what kind of player you are."
Riddle began. The pawn in front of the king moved forward two squares. A simple opening. Classic.
You studied the board for a few seconds, then responded. The game started slowly, but after a few moves it was clear neither of you was playing merely out of politeness.
Riddle occasionally glanced at you as you considered your moves. He didnât rush you. He simply observed how you looked at the board, how you assessed your options. "Tell me," he spoke a few moves later, moving a bishop, "do you always think so⌠strategically?"
You moved a knight. "Only when necessary."A few minutes later, with a bold move, you captured one of his bishops. The candlelight flickered as the piece fell from the board.
Riddle did not speak immediately. He just studied the board, then slowly leaned back in his chair. "Interesting," he said softly. Now he wasnât observing the pieces. He was observing you.
Riddleâs fingers lightly touched his queen, but he did not move it. His eyes now shone vividly. "You know," he said finally, "I thought you had returned because of an interesting question."
A faint smile appeared on his face. "But now I begin to think⌠itâs not just the question that is interesting."
After the sentence, silence fell for a moment. Only the faint crackle of the candle could be heard on the desk. You were just adjusting a piece back to the center of a square when you realized what he had really meant. The words reached you slowly, as if assembling in your mind a moment later.
Your face warmed. A faint blush ran across your cheeks, which you tried in vain to hide by looking at the board again.
Riddle noticed, of course. His dark eyes lingered on you for a moment, and that faint half-smile reappeared at the corner of his mouth.
"It seems," he remarked quietly, "compliments are sometimes more dangerous than a good chess move."
"You⌠did that on purpose, didnât you?" you asked slowly, a little flustered, yet still looking him straight in the eyes.
Riddle paused for a moment. His eyes were dark, but now a hint of genuine curiosity shone in them.
"Yes," he said quietly, and after a brief pause added, "but that doesnât change the fact that I was telling the truth."
Tom Riddle found you interestinging.
...
Since that conversation, something had changed between you.
It wasnât friendship⌠but it wasnât just a teacher-student relationship either. You already called him âTom,â at his request. He wasnât your professor, he didnât teach you, so the formalities felt unnecessary.
Throughout the week, you seized every small opportunity, every pretext, to meet him again. A question asked in the castle corridors, a book you âaccidentallyâ brought to his officeâeach served to spark a new conversation, another shared moment between you.
Now you were sitting in Tomâs office, leaning slightly on the desk, nervously twirling a quill in your hand.
âSeriously⌠Dumbledore gives so much work that thereâs barely time to rest,â you muttered, your voice a mix of frustration and boredom. âItâs like the whole week revolves around studying for his lessons.â
A small smile crossed Riddleâs face, playful yet satisfied. âAh,â he said slowly, a faint glimmer of pleasure in his voice, âyes⌠Dumbledore and his âcharmingâ methods.â
âI wouldnât say Iâve ever particularly liked his style,â you added softly. âHe overcomplicates everything, too⌠rule-bound.â
As you looked at him, you saw his smile widen for a moment. You knew he was proud of you, and it made you feel very good.
âYou knowâŚâ he began slowly, âsometimes I feel Dumbledoreâs methods are overly rigid. Always the rules, the obligations, the paperwork⌠as if every student were trapped by duty. A little freedom, a little play⌠well, that never hurt anyone. Somehow, I feel we were all created to be free.â
âBut TomâŚâ you began, slightly embarrassed, gripping the armrest of your chair, âI still have an essay due next week, and⌠honestly, I barely understand the material.â
Riddleâs gaze immediately brightened; his eyes sparkled as if he had discovered a new opportunity. A small, almost imperceptible smile crossed his face.
âWell,â he said quietly, âif youâd like, Iâd be happy to help. We can go over the material together, discuss the harder parts.â
For a moment, you fell silent, and a faint blush of embarrassment swept over you. "ThisâŚ," you began cautiously, "technically doesnât count as cheating, does it?"
Tom leaned back slowly in his chair. His dark eyes stayed fixed on yours. "No," he said firmly. "Because Iâm not writing the essay for you. Iâm only helping you understand the material. Sharing knowledge is not cheating." There was a faint, secret pleasure in his voice, as if he enjoyed that someone dared to approach him and gently test moral boundaries.
"TomâŚ" you began, but he interrupted with a small gesture of his hand.
"Iâm helping," he repeated calmly, though his tone carried that stubborn determination that made you feel arguing with him would be completely pointless. "Iâll even get you coffee," he added.
"You mean⌠weâre going for coffee?" you asked slowly. "Just the two of us?"
A faint amusement glimmered in Tomâs eyes. "Studying, mostly," he replied calmly. Then, after a small pause, almost deliberately, he added, "But yes. Coffee too."
"Then we should pick a time," you remarked calmly.
The man thought for a moment. "Friday?"
"That works. Where?" you asked.
"The Hogâs Head?"
You raised an eyebrow."Not the most elegant place, but thatâs exactly why itâs ideal. Few pay attention to who talks to whom there," he said.
His eyes lingered on you for a moment. "Friday evening," he said finally, quietly. "Coffee, studying⌠and maybe a slightly less unbearable explanation of Dumbledoreâs tasks." His voice carried that dry humor he rarely allowed himself.
"Perfect," you replied.
Friday evening fell quietly over the streets of Hogsmeade. Candlelit lamps cast faint golden-yellow shadows on the cobblestones.
You stepped through the door of The Hogâs Head, immediately hit by the tavernâs characteristic, tangy smell: ale, cinnamon, smoke, and a faintly dusty aroma that was at once cozy and mysterious.
Tom was already there, sitting at a corner table, his dark eyes attentively scanning the entrance. As soon as he saw you, he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile and gestured to an empty chair with the tip of his finger.
"Right on time," he said calmly, his features sharp in the soft candlelight. "Sit down."
As you sat across from him, a cup of coffee was already waiting on the table: its steam curling slowly into the air, its bitter scent mingling delicately with the tavernâs tangy aroma.
You picked up the cup and looked at him curiously. "What kind of coffee is this?" you asked.
Tom rested his elbow casually on the table, as if the question amused him. "Caramel. QuiteâŚsweet," he replied simply.
"How did you know I like that?"
He twirled his own cup between his fingers. "Just a guess. Based on your personality."
"My personality?" you asked, slightly incredulous.
Tom nodded. "Yes."
He took a sip of his own coffee, which was much simplerâdark and strong, without any adornment. Then he looked at you again. "Most people choose what suits them," he said calmly.
You swirled your cup in your hands; the caramel scent still rose warmly from it. For a moment, you thought, then looked up at him, a playful glint in your eyes. "So you think⌠Iâm sweet?"
Tom paused for a moment. That half-smile you had begun to recognize slowly appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Not exactly that," he said at last. "But I didnât say you werenât." An interesting contradiction.
He rested his elbow on the table and tilted slightly toward your cup. "Someone who talks about power⌠thinks in chess⌠and drinks caramel coffee." That slow half-smile appeared again at the corner of his mouth. "Not the combination youâd expect at first."
Then he took a sip of his coffee. "And those kinds of combinations⌠are usually much more interesting."
A brief silence settled between you, broken only by the quiet murmur of the tavern. Your heart beat fast, and you felt a slight blush. Then he leaned back lightly in his chair, his gaze drifting toward your bag.
"Alright," he said finally, calmly. "Letâs see how serious you are about this studying. What did you bring?"
With a small sigh, you pulled your bag into your lap. "Quite a lot," you said.
You opened it and began pulling out your notes: parchment, bookmarks, a thick notebook⌠and finally a small ink bottle. You slid the notebook across the table. "Here are my notes."
Tom leaned closer and began flipping through them. He was perfectly calm on the first page. On the second, however, the corner of his mouth slowly moved. By the third page, he was clearly smiling.
You noticed immediately. "What is it?" you asked suspiciously.
Tom didnât answer immediately. He just turned another page, where more colors alternated: blue, purple, green, pink notes. Then he looked up at you.
"If I had to judge you only by our conversations," he said slowly, "I would think Iâm dealing with an intelligent strategist." He paused for a moment. "Someone who thinks in chess⌠talks about power⌠and calculates every move in advance."
Then he gently lifted your notebook. "But your notes tell a completely different story." He turned the notebook toward you so you could see the page. "Colored inks. Carefully organized remarks. Marks on every little detail."
The half-smile returned to his face. "Not the kind of notes youâd expect from someone⌠contemplating power."
"Orderliness is a strategic advantage," you replied, blushing slightly.
Tomâs eyes lit up for a moment. "Of course," he said quietly. He picked up a pen from the table. "Alright," he continued. "Letâs see where Dumbledore really started being cruel with this assignment."
His voice was even, patient. His finger slowly followed the lines, occasionally underlining a word, then adding a brief explanation. He didnât rush; he unpacked each sentence carefully, as if his goal truly was to make everything perfectly understandable.
Tom nudged your notebook closer, gently pointing to the edge of the page. "Look," he said calmly, "Dumbledore isnât testing the theory itself hereâhe wants you to understand the connections."
You watched him. At first, really, the material. Then, after a while⌠more him. The way he spoke. The way his eyebrows slightly furrowed when explaining a more complicated section. He was completely absorbed in the explanation, as if the noise around you had ceased to exist.And somehow⌠that seemed amusing. A small smile appeared on your face, then another.
After a while, Tom noticed and looked up at you. "Whatâs the matter?" he asked suddenly, with that measured, professorial tone.
The situation suddenly became even more absurd. Your smile nearly turned into laughter. "Nothing, Professor," you said quickly, trying to remain serious.
One of Tomâs eyebrows lifted slightly. "Then perhaps youâll share with me whatâs so amusing?"
"Just⌠interesting."
"What?"
After a quiet breath, you answered, "That the person I talk about power with⌠and play chess withâŚ"
You paused for a moment, then pointed to the notebook and continued, "âŚcan get so absorbed in teaching."
Tomâs expression shifted for a moment. You shrugged. "As if that were the purpose of his life."
A faint smile slowly appeared at the corner of his mouth."AlmostâŚ," you added lightly, "sweet."
"Watch what you say to me," he began slowly, "think about who youâre speaking to." The half-smile and his dark eyes carried no real threat, only that playful, power-laden attention he was always known for.
With a short sigh, you turned back to your notebook, picking up your pen. "Then letâs continue," you said decisively.
Tom nodded, leaned forward slowly, and again delved into the details.As you progressed through the assignment, you got stuck at a complicated section. Your brow furrowed, and you felt that you simply didnât understand something at first glance.
Tom noticed the small hesitation. "Come here, letâs look at it together," he said quietly.
You moved closer, pulling the notebook between you, and as he lifted his finger over the line to show the step, your hands accidentally touched. A light, fleeting contact, but as if the world slowed for a moment.
For a moment, you just looked at each other, but neither moved your hand away. Tom finally gave a slight smile, but his hand remained next to yours. "There it is," he said softly, running his fingers slowly along the notes. "See now?"
Your heart beat faster, but you focused on the studying, even as your hands stayed like that.
...
In the following weeks, Dumbledoreâs famous written exam arrived. The quiet of the room was broken only by the soft scratching of quills on parchment.
Yet you werenât nervous for a moment: you knew the answers to every question. Among your notes and the colorful inks, you could retrieve everything precisely.
As you worked through it, a small smile appeared on your face. Every item, every problem, every little twist⌠came so easily that writing felt almost joyful.
At the end, when you looked up from the completed exam, pride, satisfaction, and a kind of happy relief shone in your eyes, and you could hardly wait to tell Tom.
After submitting the paper, you slung your bag over your shoulder, and your heart gave a small, contented beat as you walked through the quiet corridors of Hogwarts toward his office.
You entered Tomâs office. The professor sat behind his desk, and when he looked up at you, that familiar, restrained half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"So, did you know all the answers?" he asked, his voice carrying satisfaction, as if nothing else mattered.
You nodded with a smile, and he leaned forward over the desk, letting his eyes scan you.
"Iâm not surprised," he said, enunciating each word slowly, almost deliberately, so you could feel his pride.
"Thank you, Tom," you said quietly, sincerely. "You really helped me, and⌠I appreciate that you took the time."
Tom raised one eyebrow briefly, and in his dark eyes there was a faint glimmer of satisfactionâthe kind you only saw when someone truly earned his attention. "Iâm glad you found it useful," he said calmly. "You deserve it."
You blushed slightly, a faint warmth spreading across your face, your gaze fixed on Tom. "Tom⌠why did you help me?" you asked slowly, curiously, but with a hint of playfulness. "Is this⌠part of some interesting game for you?"
Tom slowly glanced at his book, then back at you, his eyes carrying that familiar, dark gleam. "Youâre too clever," he said softly, slowly, emphasizing each word, "sometimes even to your own detriment."
You raised your eyebrow faintly. "You donât have⌠some evil plan, do you?" you asked timidly, but with a little mischief in your voice.
Tom raised one eyebrow, a faint half-smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Weâll see," he replied slowly. "Tomorrow we meet again there, and Iâll help you. Donât be late."
"But⌠I never agreed to this," you protested quietly, afraid of giving away too much.
"Go," he said calmly, firmly, "so you donât miss your next class."
...
Next Friday evening quietly settled over the streets of Hogsmeade. The wind whispered softly beneath the stones, and the golden candlelight gently fell across the small, dim interior of The Hogâs Head. The faint memory of caramel coffee from the previous meeting still lingered in the air.
As you entered the room, you immediately saw Tom already sitting in a corner. His dark eyes scanned the entrance attentively, and when he saw you, that faint, restrained half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth that you had come to know so well. "Right on time," he said calmly.
"Come here," he said quietly, his voice calm but firm. "Donât sit across from me, sit like this, close. I can watch you better."
As you moved the chair closer and sat beside him, your shoulders lightly touched. For a moment, you both paused, feeling the closeness, but neither moved.
"This way itâs much easier to follow what youâre doing," Tom added, gesturing toward the parchment. "And this way you can see better what Iâm showing." Now it really felt as if you had entered a little world of your own, where only studying and closeness mattered.
After a while, leaning over the parchment, your head accidentally rested on Tomâs shoulder for a moment. You jumped up immediately, moving away awkwardly. "Oh⌠sorry!" you stammered.
Tom slowly looked at you, his dark eyes carrying a hint of tenderness. "Itâs alright," he said softly, his voice as if nothing had happened. "You smell like vanilla."
For a moment, you were lost for words, then you looked at him and smiled gently. "Hmm⌠you⌠smell of mint and wood," you noted honestly.
Tom nodded with a half-smile. "Youâre right."
As the parchments and notes slowly went back into your bag, Tom leaned back in his chair. "Tell me," he began quietly, "what would you like to be after leaving school?"
You exhaled briefly, collecting your thoughts. The question wasnât just about your futureâit was also about how closely Tom paid attention to your words and how much he cared about your inner world.
"I donât know completely," you answered slowly, honestly, "but I do know that I want to be someone who creates value⌠and where the knowledge I gain here truly matters."
A faint half-smile appeared on Tomâs face. "I see," he said softly.
After you finished packing, a small sigh escaped your lips. "Thank you for your help, Tom," you said quietly.
"Youâre welcome," he replied.
As you left the small, dim interior of The Hogâs Head and walked along the stones of Hogsmeade toward home, you felt each step lighter, every moment bringing a smile to your face.
The air was cold, but somehow it caressed your face sweetly. Every thought revolved around Tom: his eyes, his smile, his playful attention. Warmth filled your heart, happiness slowly, surely washing over you. You smiled all the way home.
When you entered your room, pausing for a moment after the door closed, your bag still on your shoulder, the silence enveloped youâbut something vibrated inside.
You slowly sat on the edge of your bed, leaning forward, your hands resting on your knees. A small smile appeared on your face, but your thoughts were no longer about studying, notes, or success.
You realized that the entire dayâthe meetings, the closeness, the playful glances, the chess, the coffeeâŚâall revolved around Tom in your mind. A warm, strange feeling crept over you, one you had tried to ignore until now.
It was more than respect or mere curiosity, and you felt your heart beat a little faster.
As you leaned back and stared at the ceiling in the faint light, it became perfectly clear: you harbored feelings for Tom. Not just respect, not just playful curiosity⌠but a deeper, personal attachment, both thrilling and frightening.
...
Tom entered his own room, the quiet crackle of the fireplace accompanying every movement. After the door closed, he paused for a moment and leaned back in his chair.
He knew the game he was playing was dangerous. A student and a professor. Yet instead of being deterred, he enjoyed it.
You came to his mind. Your sharp mind, your strategic sense, your hunger for powerâall shining as brightly as his own dark ambitions. He saw your talent,your potential⌠and the faint shadow of darkness in you that could one day lead you down the path of a Death Eater.
And yet⌠perhaps he felt more. Perhaps he truly liked you. Perhaps he enjoyed your company. Perhaps he liked the scent of vanilla and caramel coffee.
A soft sigh escaped his lips, meant only for himself, as his gaze rested on the empty corner of the room. He was a professor, and you were a studentâŚ
The thoughts slowly circled in his mind: the dayâs events, the smiles, the quiet touches⌠and he knew that this game, this close connection, was leading both of you toward something entirely different.
...
You were now sitting in Tomâs office, half leaning on his desk while he reclined in his chair, watching you. The afternoon light filtered through the window, casting golden streaks across the books lined up on the shelves.
"So you think Dumbledore actually enjoys all these endless assignments?" you asked casually.
"Even if he doesnât enjoy them, he certainly likes seeing the students suffer through them," he said with dry humor.
"Cruel," you noted with a smile.
"More like⌠consistent," Tom corrected.
The conversation was light. Every now and then, Tom would look you over, as if simultaneously analyzing and enjoying your company. You no longer even noticed how natural it felt to sit there in his office, as if you had always belonged there.
"By the wayâŚ" you began a bit more cautiously, "is our⌠coffee-and-study program still on today?"
Tom paused for a moment over the parchment on his desk. "Iâm afraid not this week," he said calmly. "Iâll be quite busy."
The response was simple, matter-of-fact⌠but something in you immediately tightened. Your smile dimmed slightly. "Oh⌠of course," you said quickly, as if you needed to explain yourself even to your own thoughts. "Sorry, that was a stupid question. Obviously youâre busy. Youâre a professor, after all, with so much to do"
Tom just watched for a few seconds. He didnât like seeing your disappointment; he hated that he had caused it. A troubling sense of satisfaction mixed with unease stirred within him, seeing you sad.
"I have a meeting⌠with a certain group," he finally said."Exceptional wizards," he continued calmly. "Those who are never satisfied with what the world offers. They want more. Power. Influence."
His eyes now studied you sharply. "ActuallyâŚ" he said slowly, "if you wanted, you could come with me."
There was a darker curiosity in his gaze. "I think they would find you⌠interesting."
You nodded slowly. "Alright," you finally said. "Iâll go."
Riddleâs gaze lingered on you for a moment. He didnât smile broadly, but there was a flash of satisfaction in his eyes. "Good decision," he said quietly.
You stood up from the chair, gathered your bag, and started toward the door. Before stepping out, you glanced back at him one more time. "So⌠weâll meet there," you said.
Tom nodded slightly. "Iâll be right by your side."
His eyes followed you as you left the office. The door closed slowly behind you, and the sounds of the corridor swallowed your footsteps.
Tom remained at his desk, his fingers tapping slowly on the wood.
Interesting. He had been thinking a lot about you.
He wasnât the kind of man who easily let others get close. People were usually tools to him: useful, clever, ambitious, loyal. If not⌠they were insignificant.
Most people were predictable, but you⌠not entirely. Yes, he saw the darkness in you. The desire for power. The strategic thinking during your chess games. The sharpness with which you observed the world. Exactly the qualities that could make someone valuable on his side. Perhaps⌠one day, even among the Death Eaters.
But that wasnât the only reason he was intrigued. Most of his followers respected, admired, or feared him. But you⌠you spoke with him, debated with him. Sometimes even laughed at him, and for some reason⌠he enjoyed it.
The thought was slightly disconcerting, because when you had felt disappointed earlier⌠it wasnât part of the plan that he would invite you. And yet, he acted instinctively.
...
You stood before the mirror, staring at yourself for a moment. The black dress clung to your figure, the corseted waist subtly accentuating your shape. The dark fabric shimmered elegantly with every movement. You put on black heels. You adjusted your hair, then ran your fingers over the dress. The girl reflected in the mirror was no longer just a student. She was someone ready to step into a far more dangerous game.
This wasnât just a meeting for you. It was something entirely different. Tomâs world. The thought brought a small smile to your lips.
Inside Tomâs room, the dim light cast soft shadows. The embers of the fireplace glowed slowly, throwing orange light across the lined books and dark furniture.
He stood by the window for a moment, arms crossed, reflecting once more on the eveningâthe meeting, the group, and you. The thought made the corner of his mouth curl into a faint, barely noticeable smile.
Finally, he slowly put on his coat. He adjusted it with a single motion over his shoulder, then stepped in front of the mirror. A calm, confident man stared back at himâdark eyes, perfectly groomed hair, natural elegance that drew attention instinctively.
He knew this day shimmered with a cruel kind of destiny. You'd finally see him, not just some boy lost in the dark arts, but a god. A dark lord bathed in glory. He wondered, if you'd tremble, maybe worship him like the fallen, or if, tragically, he'd have to silence you forever.
His fingers smoothed over his shirt cuff. "This will be an interesting evening," he murmured to himself. Then he switched off the light and stepped into the corridor.
...
When you arrived, you paused for a moment at the door to adjust your dress. The black fabric draped elegantly, the corset held your waist snugly, and your heels clicked softly against the stone floor.
He was already there, by the candlelit columns when you drifted in. Shadowed by a dark coat. His eyes, dark pools, saw you whole. You wondered, what those eyes would look like, lost in love, faded and golden. He was the demon you dreamed of, the handsomest angel fallen from grace.
A small, satisfied smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Right on time," he said quietly.
You glanced around the room for a moment. Strange people were gathered in small groups, dressed in dark clothing, engaged in quiet, serious conversations. Several looked toward you, including a woman standing next to Tom. She was tall, in a sleek black outfit made of subtly shimmering fabric that followed her every movement. Her long dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders, yet every strand was perfectly in place, complementing her rigid, commanding posture.
Her face was sharply defined, high cheekbones and dark eyes, filled with a playful sense of danger. Her gaze was both attentive and threatening. You watched her every small motion. You didnât yet know who she was, but something about her aura, her eyes, suggested she was no ordinary woman.
Tom stepped closer to you. "Iâm glad you came," he said softly.
He led you to the center of the room. One step ahead, shoulders straight, his eyes darkly gleaming. They were all looking at him with admiration,you didn't know where to place...was he some kind of leader? Did he lead all of these people?
"Listen, all of you," he began, but his gaze lingered on you, as if his words were primarily for you. "The world is not for the weak. Not for those who fear power, decisions, or responsibility. The world belongs to those who can master themselves and the space around them."
His voice gradually strengthened. "And you, who are here tonight⌠remember, power is not a gift. It is not given to anyone automatically. Power must be earned, with thought and a clear mind. And those who understand this⌠survive, and prevail."
As he spoke, the weight of his words and the intensity of his gaze enveloped you. You felt that he was teaching, observing, and playing with you at the same time. This was not just a speech for the others; in every gesture, Tom made it clear that you were his most important audience.
After the speech, quiet murmurs and the clinking of plates indicated that dinner was approaching. In one corner, candles were already placed on the tables, and the scent of wine mingled with roasted meat, fresh bread, and spices.
Tom slowly guided you to the table. You sat to the right of him, and on your left was the woman whose gaze you had noticed earlier. You still didnât know her exactly, but something in her aura and movements suggested she was far more than a simple companion.
As the first dish were set before you, conversation gradually unfolded. You slowly realized that her eyes frequently flicked toward Tom. When she lightly touched his shoulder with a gentle but deliberate motion, a strange, hot sensation ran through your stomach.
You immediately tried to mask your reaction. A quick glance at your plate, your hand slowly reaching for your glass, as if the movement were natural. "Who⌠is the one sitting on your left?" you asked.
"Bellatrix," he replied. "She is⌠important."
That little tremor down in your soul, it bloomed into something darker, like a faded dream turning green with envy.
Tom immediately noticed that something had changed in you."Whatâs wrong?" he asked quietly, leaning a little closer.
You tried to hide your real feelings with a smile."Nothing, just⌠the atmosphere here is a bit tense," you lied.
Under the table, his hand slowly reached for yours. His touch was gentle. You felt the warmth of his skin beneath yours, and your anxiety slowly easedâyet your heart still beat faster.
"You see," he said softly with a faint smile, "thereâs no reason to be tense. Youâre here now, and Iâm paying attention to you."
The gesture was both protective and intimate. It wasnât intrusive, yet it said everything: he was there for you, and the moment belonged only to the two of you.
After a while, Tom slowly released your hand beneath the table. The movement felt natural. Meanwhile, you tried to regain your composure and shifted your attention to the other side of the table.
The man sitting across from you leaned slightly forward."It seems we havenât met yet," he said politely. "Barty Crouch Jr."
His smile was easy, slightly playful, and when he spoke it was clear he enjoyed the exchange."The Dark Lord rarely brings new people among us," he remarked with curiosity. "Which is why Iâm particularly interested in you."
The Dark Lord...Professor Tom Riddle,who was he, really? The dream you've built of him, it's all faded. Do you even know him at all? Or did you fall for a shadow, a phantom? Was he a dangerous man doomed from the start?
"Then I suppose⌠Iâve been given quite a special honor," you said lightly. "Though I suspect it was more his curiosity that brought me here than any merit of mine."
Barty chuckled softly and leaned a little closer across the table."Oh, no," he shook his head playfully. "The Dark Lordâs curiosity⌠doesnât usually bring such elegant company with it."
"Then I can consider myself lucky," you replied with ease. "Itâs a rare occasion when someone finds themselves among such⌠distinguished company."
"Distinguished?" he repeated, tilting his head slightly. "Thatâs a rather diplomatic word for whatâs happening here. But I must admit, itâs far more interesting when someone doesnât immediately get frightened by this⌠company."
"Perhaps," you said calmly, "because Iâm curious."
Barty laughed again, this time more genuinely."Oh, I like that," he said. "Curiosity is a dangerous trait."
"Especially when it leads someone into the company of the wrong people," you replied.
His gaze lingered on you for a brief moment, and a half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth."Now Iâm beginning to understand why he brought you here.Itâs rather difficult not to notice you."
You paused for a moment before answering, then slowly smiled. You realized that this man was flirting with you."Then perhaps Iâm lucky," you said calmly, gently turning your glass between your fingers.
Bartyâs eyes lit up at your reply."Believe me," he answered playfully, "the word interesting is sometimes far too mild for what happens here."
You raised an eyebrow slightly."So now youâre flattering me?"
"Iâm only observing," Barty said with an easy smile. "And what I see is quiteâŚ"
"Crouch."Tomâs voice cut in.
Bartyâs gaze immediately turned toward him. The playful smile faded from his face in an instant.
Tom didnât look at him for long, just cast a brief, dark glance across the table."If you have so much energy," he said quietly, "perhaps you should focus on our next matter."
Barty straightened in his chair immediately."Of course, my Lord," he replied at once.
The earlier light, flirtatious mood vanished in a moment. Barty said nothing more, instead idly turning his glass while keeping his attention respectfully on the table.
Riddleâs eyes glinted darkly, and beneath his usual calm, elegant manner there was something sharper vibrating thereâa possessive intent."Now," he said slowly, "I understand who is trying to gain whose attention."
The way he looked at Barty, all gestures and honeyed tone, it was clear that this situation was unmistakably his territory. His eyes watched every move, but always drifted back to you. And in that hazy, golden light, it hit you. Tom Riddle consideres you his. And god, it felt like a dream, knowing he felt something, anything...but you were still lost in the shadows of his secret.
"Be careful who you play with here," he added quietly. "I decide what is acceptable."
The moment he touched you,your breath hitched. His hands, they found your thighs, and he held on tight, like they were finally home. His eyes, those pools of desire, watched every little reaction you gave.
"Careful," he murmured. "you're not made for their world." He gestured to his subjects. "You belong with me.To me, forevermore."
Your breath caught, and God, you yearned for it. To be his,to belong with him,utterly. Your heartbeat was faster than ever.
A small, almost disbelieving smile appeared on your face."What about Bellatrix?"
Your gaze briefly slid toward the woman sitting to his left. Bellatrix was speaking with someone else at the moment, but even so her posture remained confident and commanding.
Tom gave you that crooked little smirk. "Don't worry," drawled, his hand heavy on your thigh, possessive as a forgotten dream. "I am not interested in her,she is just faithful. Besides,she's already spoken for."
After the conversation, the murmur at the table slowly faded. The plates were empty, and at the bottom of the wine glasses only a thin red line remained.
He stood up.The chair slid back on the stone floor with a soft scrape, and in that moment the room fell almost completely silent. All eyes turned to him."I think we've talked enough for today," he said calmly.
"You all know what to do." Some nodded, while others were already standing up.Bellatrix was one of the first to stand, then with an elegant motion adjusted her dress and walked out.
Barty Crouch Jr. stood up from his chair. Before he walked away, he cast a brief glance at youâa faint, slightly cheeky half-smileâthen followed the others.
Within a few minutes, the room slowly emptied.The murmur of conversations faded down the corridors, the sound of footsteps died away.
You remained.
"Well," he said softly, "it seems you survived your first evening."
"Thanks to you," you replied quietly, with a small smile you didnât try to hide. "If you hadnât been there⌠I might not even know how to act around these people."
"You see it correctly," he answered calmly, his voice slow and measured. "But donât forget⌠itâs always up to you how you play within the rules. I only show the way."
Tom stood up from the table and looked at you for a moment, as if weighing whether to say something more."Come," he finally said quietly.
The candlelight dimly lit the way as you stepped out into the corridor. Your footsteps echoed on the stone floor while Tom led you through the building with a steady, calm pace.
Outside, the streets were quiet. The air was cool, and the yellow light of distant lanterns stretched long shadows across the stones.For a while, neither of you spoke.
Eventually, he stopped in front of a door. It was a simple dark wooden door, with no special markings.Tom opened it, then stepped aside to let you enter.
"I didnât want you to have to go back alone this late," he said calmly. "I thought⌠it might be better if you rested here for a while."
The room was surprisingly orderly. A fireplace crackled softly, books lined the shelves, and on the table lay a few parchments and an open bottle of ink.
Tom closed the door behind him, then leaned casually against the wall.His gaze settled on you again.
"Is this⌠your room?" you asked quietly.
Riddle looked at you for a moment, then slowly nodded."Yes," he answered simply.
After his reply, the situation suddenly became clear to you. You werenât standing in a guest room. You were in Tomâs room. Alone.
You felt warmth slowly rise to your face. Quickly, you looked away, as if the bookshelf had suddenly become far more interesting.But Tom noticed.
That faint, almost amused half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouthâthe one he wore when he knew exactly what was going through someone elseâs mind.
"Is something wrong?" he asked calmly, though there was a trace of playfulness in his voice.
His gaze slid over you for a moment, then returned to your face, where the blush was still visible."I didnât think the idea would make you this flustered," he added quietly.
For a moment, you awkwardly adjusted the sleeve of your dress, as if buying yourself a little time.
"Iâm not flustered," you finally said quietly, though your voice revealed you were still trying to compose yourself. "I just⌠didnât expect it."
Tom slowly pushed himself away from the wall and took a few steps toward the center of the room. His movements were calm, but with every step he came closer to you."You didnât expect to end up here?" he asked softly.
The candlelight cast faint shadows across his face, and his dark eyes were far more attentive now than they had been at dinner.
You slowly let out a breath."Yeah..." you finally admitted quietly.
Your gaze slipped to the floor for a moment, then returned to him. The faint blush he had already noticed was still visible on your face."I never thought⌠that one day Iâd be standing in your room," you added honestly.
His eyes lingered on you, attentive, as if noticing every small change in your expression. Slowly, a faint, almost satisfied half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth."Interesting," he said quietly.
"Interesting," he said quietly.
He stepped half a step closer, though he still left a little space between you."Because I, on the other handâŚ" he began slowly, "have been expecting it for some time."
The blush on your face deepened, and your heart was beating so fast you were sure he could hear it. For a moment you couldnât even hold his gaze.
You turned away abruptly and walked to the window, putting a little distance between the two of you. The cool glass and the dark night outside helped you steady yourself.Tom watched you silently, his eyes following every movement.
You took a quiet breath."I think⌠we should talk about something else," you said, still facing the window. "Something more important."
Tom tilted his head slightly, studying you."More important?" he repeated calmly. "And what would that be?"
You turned back toward him, your expression now more serious."You," you said simply. "Who you really are."
For a moment Tom didnât seem to understand. His expression barely changed, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes."What exactly do you mean?" he asked slowly.
You folded your arms lightly, gathering your thoughts."You left out a rather important detail," you said. "When you brought me into all of this."
Tomâs eyes narrowed slightly."And that is?"
You held his gaze."The fact that youâre a Dark Lord."
Tom stepped closer to the window with a slow, deliberate pace, stopping behind you but still keeping a respectful distance. His gaze was dark and deep, yet not intrusive; it felt as if he were simultaneously observing and weighing.
âDon't tell me, you're scared of me.â he said calmly.
âNo,â you replied softly, your voice trembling slightly. âI just donât know who you really are.â
Tom slowly stepped closer, his gaze fixed steadily on yours.âYou're the only one who knows me,â he said calmly.
He carefully raised his hand and brushed it along your face. The gesture was gentle, yet deliberate. You instinctively leaned into his touch.
âIâm still the same person,â he continued. âthe one you drink caramel coffee with, the one you tell about your days at school, the one you play chess withâŚâ
He paused briefly,his hand leaving your cheeks.âBut today⌠today you saw another side of me. And you need to know,â he added, his eyes piercing deep into yours, âthat this is a part of me.â
You turned to face him fully, the cool stone at your back. âWho are you to me? Right now, in this moment. The man who drinks coffee with me and pretends to let me win at chess? Or⌠My Lord?â
âI am both,â he whispered. âThe one who craves your thoughts, your sweet little laugh, your presence across a checkered board, bathed in the hazy lamplight⌠and the one who aches for you, my equal, your breath mingling with mine, your very soul entwined with my own. They are not separate. You cannot have one without the other now. Do you understand?â
His words should've scared you away, sent you running for the hills. But a dangerous warmth bloomed instead, low in your soul. The danger of it all, that was the drug. And there it was, that dark, twisted beauty, the way the light fades into the dark. The gentle professor and the dark lord... both real. Both here. Both yours.
âI understand,â you breathed, the words barely audible.
He closed the distance between you in one fluid step. His kiss wasn't soft,it was a coquest, a whispered promise of forever. His mouth swallowed yours whole, a taste of champagne and dangerous authority. You whimpered into him,your hands flying to his chest,pulling him closer.
He broke the kiss, his own breathing ragged. âYou are mine,â he stated, the words leaving no room for argument. His hands left your face, sliding down your neck, over your shoulders, tracing the neckline of your dress. âTell me what you want.â
âYou.â
âGood.âOne hand slipped behind you, finding the delicate zipper of your dress. The sound of it sliding down was obscenely loud in the quiet. Cool air kissed your spine, followed by the scorching trail of his fingertips. He pushed the fabric from your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet in a whisper of silk. You stood before him in only your underwear, exposed to the night and his burning gaze.
"Beautiful," he whispered, like a prayer. His eyes, a hungry, worshipful shadow, traced your figure like a forgotten melody. He spun you around, slow and sweet, your bare skin flush against the dark fabric of his suit, his arms a velvet cage. And the cruel, beautiful ache of him pressed against you.
His lips found that sweet spot where your neck fades into your shoulder, a soft bite, then a gentle surrender of his tongue. One hand found your breast, hidden beneath lace, thumb circling, teasing until you ached. The other hand slid down, past the waistband of your panties finding you already already burning for him.
"Taste so good," he purred. "Tried not to want you this way ,but fuck sweetheart."
A low moan hummed against your very skin. "So eager for your Lord." he breathed,his fingers sliding through your wetness, gathering it, then circling your clit with a precision that made your knees buckle. âIs it the danger that excites you? Or is it simply me?â
Words just wouldn't come. Head heavy, falling back against his shoulder, and a sound escaped your lips as his touch teased, slow circles at first, driving you mad. Then faster, harder, a rhythm that left you panting.His other hand pinched your nipple through the lace,sending shivers down your spine.This was nothing like the tentative touches you might have imagined in the safe confines of Hogwarts. This was raw, primal, an unleashing."It's You", you breathed.
âTom⌠pleaseâŚâ you begged, unsure what you were begging for.
âPlease what?â he growled, his fingers pushing deeper, curling inside you, stretching you.
âPlease,My Lordâ you gasped, the world narrowing to the stroke of his fingers, the bite of his teeth on your shoulder. âNeed you. All of you.â
That seemed to be the answer he was chasing. He turned you then, lifting you up like a feather to sit on the wide bed. He stepped between your thighs, pushing them open. His hands moved to his shirt ,then his belt, the buckle's clink a deliberate echo. He freed himself and your breath caught at the sightâthick, proud, the tip glistening. He was magnificent and terrifyingly real, all at once.
"This is who I am," he whispered. "The one who'll hold you close, and the one who'll lose himself in you. They're all the same."
With a single, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside you.The cry that left your lips was swallowed by the night. The feeling was overwhelming. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him claiming you.You moaned, your hips lifting to meet his making him groan, his forehead dropping down against yours.
"That feel good,sweetheart?"
"Yes," you sighed, hips swiveling to find more friction. "Please,My Lord."
Then he began to move. It was slow at firstâcareful, gentle. The movement pulled a soft sound from your soul, your fingers holding on to him, finding your place in the hazy closeness.
"Taking me so well, feels so good." he moved in and out, getting you both used to the feeling of him.
He held you like you were made of stardust. His touch tracing the curves of your thighs, pulling you in close.The shift made your breath catch, the new closeness sending a warm shiver through you.
"That's it sweetness," he licks and sucks a nipple into his mouth.
Your head fell back against the softest pillow. Your rhythm turned into something deeper, each touch a little more sure, a little more desperate. His name slipped from your lips, a prayer trembling with all the feels.
The world faded, until it was just the two of you. His movements running free. A pressure, sweet and heavy, bloomed inside. Words dissolved, replaced with whispers and desperate little cries.
âMy LordâŚâ you murmured again as the feeling building inside you grew stronger.
âSweetheart⌠Iâve got you.â
His words were enough to unravel everything. And you just fell apart. Body shaking, nails digging into his back, a white-hot pleasure washing over you in waves. Tom groaned, a deep, echoing sound as his hips moved.He pushed one last time and you felt him. That warmth, filling you from the inside.
For a fleeting moment never of you moved,untouched by reality. Then, ever so softly, he leaned into you, his weight a gentle surrender, a solace. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart against your own,you both struggled to find your breath in the aftermath.
i was going to leave a comment, but honestly; it would do what my brain is thinking no justice at all. this was absolutely an exquisite read. any tom fan's out there - please buckle yourselves in for what has to be one of the finest pieces of tom literature i've read in a while xoxo
Summary::Caramel coffee, chess games, and late-night talksâŚwith Professor Riddle seem like what you need.
Warnings::18+,smut,piv,unprotected (stay safe ya'll) ,age gap,student x professor,but he's not HER professor,so it's okay đ¤âď¸(no,it's not),manipulative Tom Riddle,at one point he thinks about "silencing her",jealousy
Word count::10k
Authorâs note::Guess who's back babygirls.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom had always been a little colder than the others. and you had been sitting in your place for some time, your elbow resting on the desk as the pale light streaming through the tall windows slowly slid across the floor.
The other students were talking quietly. Laughter, whispers, the tapping of quills on wooden desks.
But the teacherâs chair was still empty. Someone always came in to substituteâan anxious professor who rattled through the lesson quickly.
Usually, Galatea Merrythought taught this class, at least on paper. Her name was attached to the room, the syllabus, the old notes. But in recent weeks, she seemed to have disappeared from the corridors. Someone else always came in her place, and none of them stayed long.
You felt someone glance at you, perhaps one of your classmates. But it didnât last. Just a quick, measuring look, the kind you knew well.
People often looked at each other like that. As if they were only seeing the cover of a book and deciding what was inside just from that. From the colors, the outward appearances, the way someone sat, or even just listened.
As if no one thought to read the story itself.
By now, the light at the window had dimmed, turning from gold to gray on the stone floor. The ticking of the clock echoed softly off the walls. Someone was standing by the window, others leaning partially on the desks, chatting, as if this class had long since lost its importance.
Then the doorknob moved. Just a soft click. Conversations died quickly. The door slowly opened. The pale, cold light of the corridor spilled into the room for a moment, and the silhouette of a tall figure appeared.
Tom Riddle stepped in. He didnât hurry; his movements were too calm to be accidental. The silence of the classroom seemed to belong naturally to him. The door closed behind him.
As he came closer, the pale afternoon light touched his face. He was strangely beautifulânot in a kind, warm sense. More in a way that made one instinctively step back. Sharp features, pale skin, and those dark eyes that had lingered too long on a face, as if trying to strip away its layers.
There was something⌠contradictory about him. As if beneath the surface, a poisonous calm was lurking. Something cold. And yet all of this wrapped in a perfect, almost unsettling elegance, making it impossible to decide whether to step back or keep looking.
Beauty and danger. That was the best way to describe Tom Riddle.
Eventually, Riddle slowly leaned against the edge of the desk, the whole situation providing him with some quiet amusement. His gaze swept across the desks.
âIâve heard,â he said at last, âthat in recent weeks this class⌠has been somewhat irregular.â
Someone at the back chuckled softly.
âI thought,â he continued, âwe can start in a less formal way. Ask anything you like.â
Immediately, the classroom stirred. Quills slid aside, chairs creaked, and some students looked at each other as if trying to decide whether he was serious.
The first hand went up surprisingly fast. A blonde girl in the front row, who had been sitting unusually straight.
âProfessor,â she began, her voice a shade softer than what would be required for a simple question, âdid you really get a teaching position at such a young age?â
âMerlinâŚâ whispered a boy.
But the girl held Riddleâs gaze steadily, as if it were the most natural question in the world. His eyes settled on her. He was not disturbed by the question.
âThe Ministry sometimes⌠makes peculiar decisions,â he replied calmly.
The girl smiled. âIâm sure that wasnât the only reason.â A few girls stifled giggles after the sentence.
A girl in the third rowâdark, wavy hair and the confidence that usually comes only when one knows they are being watchedâslowly raised her hand. She didnât really wait for permission.
âProfessor,â she said, her voice calm but a playful glint in her eyes, âif we may ask anythingâŚâ
Now the entire room was watching. A few boys buried their faces in books to avoid laughing out loud.
âIs it true the rumor that youâve⌠dueled someone outside of school?â
Someone at the back laughed. âOh, this is going to be good.â
But the girl continued as if it were a completely serious question. âBecause if soâŚâ she tilted her head slightly to the side, âI can imagine it must have been quite⌠impressive to witness.â
The professor looked at the questioner for a moment. Not embarrassed. Not offended either.
âDuelingâŚâ he said, âis usually not meant to be a spectacle.â His voice was polite. Yet beneath the sentence, there was something cold. Something that reminded the classroom, even briefly, that this was still a Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
The laughter slowly died away. It seemed most questions had been asked. Some students fiddled with their quills, others leaned back in their chairs as if the lesson was winding down.
Tom Riddleâs gaze swept across the class. âAny more questions?â he finally asked.
For a moment, you looked at your book on the desk, as if weighing whether to speak.
Then you lifted your eyes. âProfessor,â you said at last.
The room went silent immediately. Perhaps because your voice was completely different from the previous questions. There was no playfulness, no stifled laughter.
âI would like to knowâŚâ you began slowly, âin your opinion, what truly defines success in a wizardâs life?â
Some students looked puzzled. You continued.âPeople often talk about it as if success is something external. Power, influence⌠or simply money. As if these are the signs everyone uses to decide who has gone far in life.â
You looked briefly at the light by the window before meeting Riddleâs gaze again. Your voice remained calm.
âBut often I feel people accept this standard too quickly. As if wealth or social rank alone proves someone is⌠successful.â
You paused briefly, then continued. âDo you think money is the anthem of success?â
The question hung in the air. No one laughed. Not even the girls who had flirted quietly earlier.
Tom Riddle didnât answer immediately. His gaze stayed on you. Not like when he was scanning the class before. Now he looked at you as if reading the first page of a particularly interesting book.
Then he slowly tilted his head thoughtfully. âInteresting question,â he said finally.
He genuinely seemed to be considering it. Slowly, he walked alongside the desk. âMoneyâŚâ he continued, âundoubtedly brings power.â
His voice was calm, almost contemplative. âIt opens many doors more easily than any spell.â
His gaze swept the classroom for a moment. âBut in itself, it rarely makes someone successful. It is more a consequence.â
He paused. âThose who achieve truly great things⌠usually arenât seeking money.â
His eyes found yours again. âBut something else. Influence. Knowledge. Or simply⌠superiority.â
Then Riddle smiled faintly. âAnd interestingly,â he added, âsuch people often end up acquiring wealth anyway.â
The lesson slowly ended. The tapping of quills and creaking of chairs gradually faded into the silence of the room.
A few students stepped closer to Tom Riddle. They surrounded him, as if he himself were the light in the dark room, the center in which every shadow made sense.
It was like every glance directed at himâhe was an invisible nebula, and he himself the gravity to which every particle was drawn. As if he were heaven itself on Earth.
You didnât join the circle. You closed your book and put down your quill. You didnât want to participate in the admiration. You were already heading toward the door, your footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor, when his voice spoke behind you.
âWait,â said Tom Riddle, his voice not commanding, yet not dismissive. âI would like to talk more about your question.â
You stopped. Your heart beat a little faster, but not from fear. Just⌠from curiosity and the feeling that overcame you being near him.
Riddle slowly raised his hand, with an elegant, subtle gesture signaling you to follow him. Then he excused himself to the others and said goodbye.
âShall we?â he said softly, still calm but firm. âLetâs move a little aside.âAs you passed the desks, Riddle touched your shoulder, guiding you.
The gesture was small but significant.Something warm, but not intrusive, ran through you; as if the scent of summer had quietly drifted into the air.
And his gaze⌠looking into his eyes was like the world briefly became lighter, tallerâas if heaven itself were hidden in his gaze.
You stopped at a secluded corner of the corridor. Riddle looked at you slowly, weighing his words before speaking.
âSo⌠weâre talking about money,â he began, his voice calm. âIâm interested in your own opinion as well.â
You took a deep breath before beginning. âTrue success,â you continued, âis when one is capable of creating something lasting, regardless of how much gold is in their pocket. The knowledge, the impact we have on others, the consequences of our choices⌠these measures are far more enduring than wealth.â
Riddle slowly lifted his gaze. His dark eyes fixed on you, a tension vibrating in them, stopping the air in the corridor.He looked at you as if trying to control his thoughts. Trying to restrain himself,trying hard not to get into trouble, yet in every movement there was⌠a war in his mind.As if trying to contain an internal bloodbath. A battlefield where thoughts and instincts clashed, yet in every motion he exercised strict control.
Riddle nodded slowly. âInteresting,â he said, his voice quiet and deep, still looking at you. âFew see the world this way. Most follow appearances. Money, title⌠these easily distract from what truly matters.â
A tiny, almost imperceptible smile crossed his face. âAnd the fact that you think this wayâŚâ he added, as if carefully choosing the next word, ââŚis rarely granted, MissâŚâ
His gaze swept over you, waiting for an answer, as if every moment mattered. Silence stretched slowly.
After you said your name, Riddle nodded slightly, but his smile remained mysterious and slightly weighing. There was no playfulness, only attention and⌠some hard-to-define interest.
He repeated your name slowly, savoring it. Riddle paused for a moment, then stepped back slowly and elegantly.
âYou know,â he began, âmy door is always open to any student. If you ever want to talk⌠anytime.â
âThank you, Professor,â your voice was polite but firm. âI really appreciate it.â
A quiet pause followed, in which you both looked at each other. His gaze was still heavy and attentive.
âGoodbye, Professor,â you said quietly.
âGoodbye.â he replied, with a small, almost imperceptible smile.
âŚ
Every step felt slow. The laughter and chatter of your other friends were just distant noise in your ears.
And yet⌠your thoughts were elsewhere. You could think of nothing but Riddle. Every word he had spoken today, every quiet glance, every small gesture, still seemed to vibrate in the air around you.
Somehow, it felt as if the world were different without him. It was as if something had separated you from the others.
The lessons passed slowly. One spell after another, the teacherâs voice, the tapping of quills. And there you sat, between the pages of your book, yet your thoughts were far away.
âŚ
You lay in bed, the blanket slowly slipping off your shoulders. You didnât even remember how you had ended up in your bed. The room was quiet, the candles flickering faintly, but your eyes were wide open, and your thoughts revolved around Riddle.
You tried to push them away, tried to turn your attention elsewhere, but every attempt proved futile.
You knew it was pointlessâhe was a professor. It was like the stars searching for the sun in the morning skyâimpossible.
Finally, you slowly sat up. You couldnât let this decision simply vanish into the night. You had to go, had to speak with him.
In the shadows of books and quills on the floor, you slowly dressed. You draped the wool coat over your shoulders, put on your shoes. In the mirror, your own face looked back at youâtired, but determined. There was resolve in your eyes.
Quietly, you slipped out of your room, careful not to wake your roommates. The corridor was cool, the stone floor cold beneath your feet. Every step echoed against the silent walls.
You drew closer to the door, though you werenât sure if you were making the right choice. Your heart beat slowly, yet with each thrum there was anticipation and curiosity. The light of the torches along the walls trembled, casting golden shadows across the stone.
Finally, you stopped in front of the door. Dark wood, old and heavy. The handle gleamed coldly in the torchlight. For a moment, you just stood there, hand raised in the air, as if the final part of the decision still hung inside you.
Then you knocked. Three soft raps.
For a few seconds, nothing could be heard from inside. Just the distant draft in the corridors, the faint creaking of the old walls.
Then the soft scrape of a chair across the floor, from inside. Footstepsâhis footsteps. The doorknob slowly turned, and the door opened. Professor Tom Riddle stood there in his glory.
He had the face of a fallen angel, beautiful, almost otherworldly, yet carrying a kind of world-weary, sly charm. A face that could not be forgotten, even if one triedâmade for the role of a beautiful sadist.
You knew he was a troublemaker, steeped in sin. A dark soul. Lucifer. But you had your own sweet choice, your own little path.
His dark eyes assessed you in an instant. Not surprised,he had already accounted for you.
Then that faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his face, the one you had seen in class..â I suspected you might return to our question.â
He stepped half a pace back in the doorway. âcome in.â
The door slowly closed behind you, the soft click of the lock echoing dimly in the room. Riddleâs office was quiet and orderly. Dark bookshelves lined the walls, their spinesâ old golden letters faintly gleaming in the candlelight. In front of the window stood a heavy desk, covered with parchment, ink pots, and a few carefully stacked books.
The air carried the scent of ink, old paper, and something delicate and tangy. Riddle moved toward his desk with calm steps.âPlease, have a seat.â he said, gesturing toward a comfortable armchair on the other side of the desk.
You sat in the soft chair; its armrest was cool under your hand. Your back remained straight, almost instinctively. The professor also seated himself behind the desk. For a moment, he clasped his fingers together, then fixed his gaze on you.
His dark eyes now seemed even more attentive. âWellâ â he said quietly at last, âIâm glad you came.â
"I hope itâs not a problem that I came so late. The castle⌠at night is sometimes better for thinking."
A faint, almost playful smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Indeed," he said calmly. "Most are already asleep by now. But I cannot complain," he added. "If I tell my students that my door is open, I ought to keep to that."
His gaze lingered for a moment on the door, then returned to you. "And officially, it is open for another hour still."
His dark eyes studied you carefully. "What is it that still occupies your mind?"
"This time it's more about... something else"
Riddleâs brow moved just slightly. "Money is more of a⌠phenomenon," you continued calmly. "A tool. People often treat it as a symbol of success because itâs easy to measure."
You paused briefly before continuing. "But thatâs not what Iâm really interested in."
Tom now leaned slightly forward over the desk. His gaze sharpened, more attentive. "Then what?" he asked quietly.
The candle flame flickered between you. "Power," you said at last.
For a moment, you met Riddleâs eyes, and you saw satisfaction in them, as if he had been expecting that answer.
"The kind of power I desire is that which can shape things. Influence people, shape the futureâŚ"
The man leaned back slowly. "I see," he said quietly at last.
For a moment, he just looked at you, as if turning a thought over in his mind, like a chess piece between his fingers. Then his fingers slowly interlaced on the desk. "PowerâŚ" he repeated softly.
"You know, many believe such things⌠are grim, fateful. That anyone who speaks of power is already halfway down a dark path."
A small, barely noticeable smile appeared on his face. "Yet sometimes, itâs nothing more than a game."
Riddleâs fingers slowly traced the edge of the parchment on the desk. "Dark" he continued softly. "But just a game."
His gaze returned to you. "People take positions in life. They move forward, back, circle around one another⌠and all the while think they are in control."
His dark eyes now locked onto yours. "Tell me," he asked calmly, "what kind of player would you be in this⌠game?"
For a moment, you just looked at him, then tilted your head slightly to the side. "Perhaps we should see," you said calmly.
Riddleâs brow lifted almost imperceptibly. Your gaze flicked to a corner of the desk, then back to him. "Letâs see it in a chess game."
For a moment, complete silence. Then the professor chuckled softly. "You assume a professor would be willing to play chess with a student at this hour."
There was a light, ironic edge to his voiceâbut not dismissive. He stepped toward one of the bookshelves and pulled open a lower drawer. Some parchment slipped aside, and then his hand found a small, dark wooden box.
He returned to the desk, opened the box, and produced an old chess set. Riddle slowly set up the board between you. The pieces were placed one by one, each settling with a quiet click.
"Well," he said at last, as he placed the final piece, "if you insist on the demonstrationâŚ"
He looked up at you, dark eyes now clearly gleaming with interest. "Letâs see what kind of player you are."
Riddle began. The pawn in front of the king moved forward two squares. A simple opening. Classic.
You studied the board for a few seconds, then responded. The game started slowly, but after a few moves it was clear neither of you was playing merely out of politeness.
Riddle occasionally glanced at you as you considered your moves. He didnât rush you. He simply observed how you looked at the board, how you assessed your options. "Tell me," he spoke a few moves later, moving a bishop, "do you always think so⌠strategically?"
You moved a knight. "Only when necessary."A few minutes later, with a bold move, you captured one of his bishops. The candlelight flickered as the piece fell from the board.
Riddle did not speak immediately. He just studied the board, then slowly leaned back in his chair. "Interesting," he said softly. Now he wasnât observing the pieces. He was observing you.
Riddleâs fingers lightly touched his queen, but he did not move it. His eyes now shone vividly. "You know," he said finally, "I thought you had returned because of an interesting question."
A faint smile appeared on his face. "But now I begin to think⌠itâs not just the question that is interesting."
After the sentence, silence fell for a moment. Only the faint crackle of the candle could be heard on the desk. You were just adjusting a piece back to the center of a square when you realized what he had really meant. The words reached you slowly, as if assembling in your mind a moment later.
Your face warmed. A faint blush ran across your cheeks, which you tried in vain to hide by looking at the board again.
Riddle noticed, of course. His dark eyes lingered on you for a moment, and that faint half-smile reappeared at the corner of his mouth.
"It seems," he remarked quietly, "compliments are sometimes more dangerous than a good chess move."
"You⌠did that on purpose, didnât you?" you asked slowly, a little flustered, yet still looking him straight in the eyes.
Riddle paused for a moment. His eyes were dark, but now a hint of genuine curiosity shone in them.
"Yes," he said quietly, and after a brief pause added, "but that doesnât change the fact that I was telling the truth."
Tom Riddle found you interestinging.
...
Since that conversation, something had changed between you.
It wasnât friendship⌠but it wasnât just a teacher-student relationship either. You already called him âTom,â at his request. He wasnât your professor, he didnât teach you, so the formalities felt unnecessary.
Throughout the week, you seized every small opportunity, every pretext, to meet him again. A question asked in the castle corridors, a book you âaccidentallyâ brought to his officeâeach served to spark a new conversation, another shared moment between you.
Now you were sitting in Tomâs office, leaning slightly on the desk, nervously twirling a quill in your hand.
âSeriously⌠Dumbledore gives so much work that thereâs barely time to rest,â you muttered, your voice a mix of frustration and boredom. âItâs like the whole week revolves around studying for his lessons.â
A small smile crossed Riddleâs face, playful yet satisfied. âAh,â he said slowly, a faint glimmer of pleasure in his voice, âyes⌠Dumbledore and his âcharmingâ methods.â
âI wouldnât say Iâve ever particularly liked his style,â you added softly. âHe overcomplicates everything, too⌠rule-bound.â
As you looked at him, you saw his smile widen for a moment. You knew he was proud of you, and it made you feel very good.
âYou knowâŚâ he began slowly, âsometimes I feel Dumbledoreâs methods are overly rigid. Always the rules, the obligations, the paperwork⌠as if every student were trapped by duty. A little freedom, a little play⌠well, that never hurt anyone. Somehow, I feel we were all created to be free.â
âBut TomâŚâ you began, slightly embarrassed, gripping the armrest of your chair, âI still have an essay due next week, and⌠honestly, I barely understand the material.â
Riddleâs gaze immediately brightened; his eyes sparkled as if he had discovered a new opportunity. A small, almost imperceptible smile crossed his face.
âWell,â he said quietly, âif youâd like, Iâd be happy to help. We can go over the material together, discuss the harder parts.â
For a moment, you fell silent, and a faint blush of embarrassment swept over you. "ThisâŚ," you began cautiously, "technically doesnât count as cheating, does it?"
Tom leaned back slowly in his chair. His dark eyes stayed fixed on yours. "No," he said firmly. "Because Iâm not writing the essay for you. Iâm only helping you understand the material. Sharing knowledge is not cheating." There was a faint, secret pleasure in his voice, as if he enjoyed that someone dared to approach him and gently test moral boundaries.
"TomâŚ" you began, but he interrupted with a small gesture of his hand.
"Iâm helping," he repeated calmly, though his tone carried that stubborn determination that made you feel arguing with him would be completely pointless. "Iâll even get you coffee," he added.
"You mean⌠weâre going for coffee?" you asked slowly. "Just the two of us?"
A faint amusement glimmered in Tomâs eyes. "Studying, mostly," he replied calmly. Then, after a small pause, almost deliberately, he added, "But yes. Coffee too."
"Then we should pick a time," you remarked calmly.
The man thought for a moment. "Friday?"
"That works. Where?" you asked.
"The Hogâs Head?"
You raised an eyebrow."Not the most elegant place, but thatâs exactly why itâs ideal. Few pay attention to who talks to whom there," he said.
His eyes lingered on you for a moment. "Friday evening," he said finally, quietly. "Coffee, studying⌠and maybe a slightly less unbearable explanation of Dumbledoreâs tasks." His voice carried that dry humor he rarely allowed himself.
"Perfect," you replied.
Friday evening fell quietly over the streets of Hogsmeade. Candlelit lamps cast faint golden-yellow shadows on the cobblestones.
You stepped through the door of The Hogâs Head, immediately hit by the tavernâs characteristic, tangy smell: ale, cinnamon, smoke, and a faintly dusty aroma that was at once cozy and mysterious.
Tom was already there, sitting at a corner table, his dark eyes attentively scanning the entrance. As soon as he saw you, he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile and gestured to an empty chair with the tip of his finger.
"Right on time," he said calmly, his features sharp in the soft candlelight. "Sit down."
As you sat across from him, a cup of coffee was already waiting on the table: its steam curling slowly into the air, its bitter scent mingling delicately with the tavernâs tangy aroma.
You picked up the cup and looked at him curiously. "What kind of coffee is this?" you asked.
Tom rested his elbow casually on the table, as if the question amused him. "Caramel. QuiteâŚsweet," he replied simply.
"How did you know I like that?"
He twirled his own cup between his fingers. "Just a guess. Based on your personality."
"My personality?" you asked, slightly incredulous.
Tom nodded. "Yes."
He took a sip of his own coffee, which was much simplerâdark and strong, without any adornment. Then he looked at you again. "Most people choose what suits them," he said calmly.
You swirled your cup in your hands; the caramel scent still rose warmly from it. For a moment, you thought, then looked up at him, a playful glint in your eyes. "So you think⌠Iâm sweet?"
Tom paused for a moment. That half-smile you had begun to recognize slowly appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Not exactly that," he said at last. "But I didnât say you werenât." An interesting contradiction.
He rested his elbow on the table and tilted slightly toward your cup. "Someone who talks about power⌠thinks in chess⌠and drinks caramel coffee." That slow half-smile appeared again at the corner of his mouth. "Not the combination youâd expect at first."
Then he took a sip of his coffee. "And those kinds of combinations⌠are usually much more interesting."
A brief silence settled between you, broken only by the quiet murmur of the tavern. Your heart beat fast, and you felt a slight blush. Then he leaned back lightly in his chair, his gaze drifting toward your bag.
"Alright," he said finally, calmly. "Letâs see how serious you are about this studying. What did you bring?"
With a small sigh, you pulled your bag into your lap. "Quite a lot," you said.
You opened it and began pulling out your notes: parchment, bookmarks, a thick notebook⌠and finally a small ink bottle. You slid the notebook across the table. "Here are my notes."
Tom leaned closer and began flipping through them. He was perfectly calm on the first page. On the second, however, the corner of his mouth slowly moved. By the third page, he was clearly smiling.
You noticed immediately. "What is it?" you asked suspiciously.
Tom didnât answer immediately. He just turned another page, where more colors alternated: blue, purple, green, pink notes. Then he looked up at you.
"If I had to judge you only by our conversations," he said slowly, "I would think Iâm dealing with an intelligent strategist." He paused for a moment. "Someone who thinks in chess⌠talks about power⌠and calculates every move in advance."
Then he gently lifted your notebook. "But your notes tell a completely different story." He turned the notebook toward you so you could see the page. "Colored inks. Carefully organized remarks. Marks on every little detail."
The half-smile returned to his face. "Not the kind of notes youâd expect from someone⌠contemplating power."
"Orderliness is a strategic advantage," you replied, blushing slightly.
Tomâs eyes lit up for a moment. "Of course," he said quietly. He picked up a pen from the table. "Alright," he continued. "Letâs see where Dumbledore really started being cruel with this assignment."
His voice was even, patient. His finger slowly followed the lines, occasionally underlining a word, then adding a brief explanation. He didnât rush; he unpacked each sentence carefully, as if his goal truly was to make everything perfectly understandable.
Tom nudged your notebook closer, gently pointing to the edge of the page. "Look," he said calmly, "Dumbledore isnât testing the theory itself hereâhe wants you to understand the connections."
You watched him. At first, really, the material. Then, after a while⌠more him. The way he spoke. The way his eyebrows slightly furrowed when explaining a more complicated section. He was completely absorbed in the explanation, as if the noise around you had ceased to exist.And somehow⌠that seemed amusing. A small smile appeared on your face, then another.
After a while, Tom noticed and looked up at you. "Whatâs the matter?" he asked suddenly, with that measured, professorial tone.
The situation suddenly became even more absurd. Your smile nearly turned into laughter. "Nothing, Professor," you said quickly, trying to remain serious.
One of Tomâs eyebrows lifted slightly. "Then perhaps youâll share with me whatâs so amusing?"
"Just⌠interesting."
"What?"
After a quiet breath, you answered, "That the person I talk about power with⌠and play chess withâŚ"
You paused for a moment, then pointed to the notebook and continued, "âŚcan get so absorbed in teaching."
Tomâs expression shifted for a moment. You shrugged. "As if that were the purpose of his life."
A faint smile slowly appeared at the corner of his mouth."AlmostâŚ," you added lightly, "sweet."
"Watch what you say to me," he began slowly, "think about who youâre speaking to." The half-smile and his dark eyes carried no real threat, only that playful, power-laden attention he was always known for.
With a short sigh, you turned back to your notebook, picking up your pen. "Then letâs continue," you said decisively.
Tom nodded, leaned forward slowly, and again delved into the details.As you progressed through the assignment, you got stuck at a complicated section. Your brow furrowed, and you felt that you simply didnât understand something at first glance.
Tom noticed the small hesitation. "Come here, letâs look at it together," he said quietly.
You moved closer, pulling the notebook between you, and as he lifted his finger over the line to show the step, your hands accidentally touched. A light, fleeting contact, but as if the world slowed for a moment.
For a moment, you just looked at each other, but neither moved your hand away. Tom finally gave a slight smile, but his hand remained next to yours. "There it is," he said softly, running his fingers slowly along the notes. "See now?"
Your heart beat faster, but you focused on the studying, even as your hands stayed like that.
...
In the following weeks, Dumbledoreâs famous written exam arrived. The quiet of the room was broken only by the soft scratching of quills on parchment.
Yet you werenât nervous for a moment: you knew the answers to every question. Among your notes and the colorful inks, you could retrieve everything precisely.
As you worked through it, a small smile appeared on your face. Every item, every problem, every little twist⌠came so easily that writing felt almost joyful.
At the end, when you looked up from the completed exam, pride, satisfaction, and a kind of happy relief shone in your eyes, and you could hardly wait to tell Tom.
After submitting the paper, you slung your bag over your shoulder, and your heart gave a small, contented beat as you walked through the quiet corridors of Hogwarts toward his office.
You entered Tomâs office. The professor sat behind his desk, and when he looked up at you, that familiar, restrained half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"So, did you know all the answers?" he asked, his voice carrying satisfaction, as if nothing else mattered.
You nodded with a smile, and he leaned forward over the desk, letting his eyes scan you.
"Iâm not surprised," he said, enunciating each word slowly, almost deliberately, so you could feel his pride.
"Thank you, Tom," you said quietly, sincerely. "You really helped me, and⌠I appreciate that you took the time."
Tom raised one eyebrow briefly, and in his dark eyes there was a faint glimmer of satisfactionâthe kind you only saw when someone truly earned his attention. "Iâm glad you found it useful," he said calmly. "You deserve it."
You blushed slightly, a faint warmth spreading across your face, your gaze fixed on Tom. "Tom⌠why did you help me?" you asked slowly, curiously, but with a hint of playfulness. "Is this⌠part of some interesting game for you?"
Tom slowly glanced at his book, then back at you, his eyes carrying that familiar, dark gleam. "Youâre too clever," he said softly, slowly, emphasizing each word, "sometimes even to your own detriment."
You raised your eyebrow faintly. "You donât have⌠some evil plan, do you?" you asked timidly, but with a little mischief in your voice.
Tom raised one eyebrow, a faint half-smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Weâll see," he replied slowly. "Tomorrow we meet again there, and Iâll help you. Donât be late."
"But⌠I never agreed to this," you protested quietly, afraid of giving away too much.
"Go," he said calmly, firmly, "so you donât miss your next class."
...
Next Friday evening quietly settled over the streets of Hogsmeade. The wind whispered softly beneath the stones, and the golden candlelight gently fell across the small, dim interior of The Hogâs Head. The faint memory of caramel coffee from the previous meeting still lingered in the air.
As you entered the room, you immediately saw Tom already sitting in a corner. His dark eyes scanned the entrance attentively, and when he saw you, that faint, restrained half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth that you had come to know so well. "Right on time," he said calmly.
"Come here," he said quietly, his voice calm but firm. "Donât sit across from me, sit like this, close. I can watch you better."
As you moved the chair closer and sat beside him, your shoulders lightly touched. For a moment, you both paused, feeling the closeness, but neither moved.
"This way itâs much easier to follow what youâre doing," Tom added, gesturing toward the parchment. "And this way you can see better what Iâm showing." Now it really felt as if you had entered a little world of your own, where only studying and closeness mattered.
After a while, leaning over the parchment, your head accidentally rested on Tomâs shoulder for a moment. You jumped up immediately, moving away awkwardly. "Oh⌠sorry!" you stammered.
Tom slowly looked at you, his dark eyes carrying a hint of tenderness. "Itâs alright," he said softly, his voice as if nothing had happened. "You smell like vanilla."
For a moment, you were lost for words, then you looked at him and smiled gently. "Hmm⌠you⌠smell of mint and wood," you noted honestly.
Tom nodded with a half-smile. "Youâre right."
As the parchments and notes slowly went back into your bag, Tom leaned back in his chair. "Tell me," he began quietly, "what would you like to be after leaving school?"
You exhaled briefly, collecting your thoughts. The question wasnât just about your futureâit was also about how closely Tom paid attention to your words and how much he cared about your inner world.
"I donât know completely," you answered slowly, honestly, "but I do know that I want to be someone who creates value⌠and where the knowledge I gain here truly matters."
A faint half-smile appeared on Tomâs face. "I see," he said softly.
After you finished packing, a small sigh escaped your lips. "Thank you for your help, Tom," you said quietly.
"Youâre welcome," he replied.
As you left the small, dim interior of The Hogâs Head and walked along the stones of Hogsmeade toward home, you felt each step lighter, every moment bringing a smile to your face.
The air was cold, but somehow it caressed your face sweetly. Every thought revolved around Tom: his eyes, his smile, his playful attention. Warmth filled your heart, happiness slowly, surely washing over you. You smiled all the way home.
When you entered your room, pausing for a moment after the door closed, your bag still on your shoulder, the silence enveloped youâbut something vibrated inside.
You slowly sat on the edge of your bed, leaning forward, your hands resting on your knees. A small smile appeared on your face, but your thoughts were no longer about studying, notes, or success.
You realized that the entire dayâthe meetings, the closeness, the playful glances, the chess, the coffeeâŚâall revolved around Tom in your mind. A warm, strange feeling crept over you, one you had tried to ignore until now.
It was more than respect or mere curiosity, and you felt your heart beat a little faster.
As you leaned back and stared at the ceiling in the faint light, it became perfectly clear: you harbored feelings for Tom. Not just respect, not just playful curiosity⌠but a deeper, personal attachment, both thrilling and frightening.
...
Tom entered his own room, the quiet crackle of the fireplace accompanying every movement. After the door closed, he paused for a moment and leaned back in his chair.
He knew the game he was playing was dangerous. A student and a professor. Yet instead of being deterred, he enjoyed it.
You came to his mind. Your sharp mind, your strategic sense, your hunger for powerâall shining as brightly as his own dark ambitions. He saw your talent,your potential⌠and the faint shadow of darkness in you that could one day lead you down the path of a Death Eater.
And yet⌠perhaps he felt more. Perhaps he truly liked you. Perhaps he enjoyed your company. Perhaps he liked the scent of vanilla and caramel coffee.
A soft sigh escaped his lips, meant only for himself, as his gaze rested on the empty corner of the room. He was a professor, and you were a studentâŚ
The thoughts slowly circled in his mind: the dayâs events, the smiles, the quiet touches⌠and he knew that this game, this close connection, was leading both of you toward something entirely different.
...
You were now sitting in Tomâs office, half leaning on his desk while he reclined in his chair, watching you. The afternoon light filtered through the window, casting golden streaks across the books lined up on the shelves.
"So you think Dumbledore actually enjoys all these endless assignments?" you asked casually.
"Even if he doesnât enjoy them, he certainly likes seeing the students suffer through them," he said with dry humor.
"Cruel," you noted with a smile.
"More like⌠consistent," Tom corrected.
The conversation was light. Every now and then, Tom would look you over, as if simultaneously analyzing and enjoying your company. You no longer even noticed how natural it felt to sit there in his office, as if you had always belonged there.
"By the wayâŚ" you began a bit more cautiously, "is our⌠coffee-and-study program still on today?"
Tom paused for a moment over the parchment on his desk. "Iâm afraid not this week," he said calmly. "Iâll be quite busy."
The response was simple, matter-of-fact⌠but something in you immediately tightened. Your smile dimmed slightly. "Oh⌠of course," you said quickly, as if you needed to explain yourself even to your own thoughts. "Sorry, that was a stupid question. Obviously youâre busy. Youâre a professor, after all, with so much to do"
Tom just watched for a few seconds. He didnât like seeing your disappointment; he hated that he had caused it. A troubling sense of satisfaction mixed with unease stirred within him, seeing you sad.
"I have a meeting⌠with a certain group," he finally said."Exceptional wizards," he continued calmly. "Those who are never satisfied with what the world offers. They want more. Power. Influence."
His eyes now studied you sharply. "ActuallyâŚ" he said slowly, "if you wanted, you could come with me."
There was a darker curiosity in his gaze. "I think they would find you⌠interesting."
You nodded slowly. "Alright," you finally said. "Iâll go."
Riddleâs gaze lingered on you for a moment. He didnât smile broadly, but there was a flash of satisfaction in his eyes. "Good decision," he said quietly.
You stood up from the chair, gathered your bag, and started toward the door. Before stepping out, you glanced back at him one more time. "So⌠weâll meet there," you said.
Tom nodded slightly. "Iâll be right by your side."
His eyes followed you as you left the office. The door closed slowly behind you, and the sounds of the corridor swallowed your footsteps.
Tom remained at his desk, his fingers tapping slowly on the wood.
Interesting. He had been thinking a lot about you.
He wasnât the kind of man who easily let others get close. People were usually tools to him: useful, clever, ambitious, loyal. If not⌠they were insignificant.
Most people were predictable, but you⌠not entirely. Yes, he saw the darkness in you. The desire for power. The strategic thinking during your chess games. The sharpness with which you observed the world. Exactly the qualities that could make someone valuable on his side. Perhaps⌠one day, even among the Death Eaters.
But that wasnât the only reason he was intrigued. Most of his followers respected, admired, or feared him. But you⌠you spoke with him, debated with him. Sometimes even laughed at him, and for some reason⌠he enjoyed it.
The thought was slightly disconcerting, because when you had felt disappointed earlier⌠it wasnât part of the plan that he would invite you. And yet, he acted instinctively.
...
You stood before the mirror, staring at yourself for a moment. The black dress clung to your figure, the corseted waist subtly accentuating your shape. The dark fabric shimmered elegantly with every movement. You put on black heels. You adjusted your hair, then ran your fingers over the dress. The girl reflected in the mirror was no longer just a student. She was someone ready to step into a far more dangerous game.
This wasnât just a meeting for you. It was something entirely different. Tomâs world. The thought brought a small smile to your lips.
Inside Tomâs room, the dim light cast soft shadows. The embers of the fireplace glowed slowly, throwing orange light across the lined books and dark furniture.
He stood by the window for a moment, arms crossed, reflecting once more on the eveningâthe meeting, the group, and you. The thought made the corner of his mouth curl into a faint, barely noticeable smile.
Finally, he slowly put on his coat. He adjusted it with a single motion over his shoulder, then stepped in front of the mirror. A calm, confident man stared back at himâdark eyes, perfectly groomed hair, natural elegance that drew attention instinctively.
He knew this day shimmered with a cruel kind of destiny. You'd finally see him, not just some boy lost in the dark arts, but a god. A dark lord bathed in glory. He wondered, if you'd tremble, maybe worship him like the fallen, or if, tragically, he'd have to silence you forever.
His fingers smoothed over his shirt cuff. "This will be an interesting evening," he murmured to himself. Then he switched off the light and stepped into the corridor.
...
When you arrived, you paused for a moment at the door to adjust your dress. The black fabric draped elegantly, the corset held your waist snugly, and your heels clicked softly against the stone floor.
He was already there, by the candlelit columns when you drifted in. Shadowed by a dark coat. His eyes, dark pools, saw you whole. You wondered, what those eyes would look like, lost in love, faded and golden. He was the demon you dreamed of, the handsomest angel fallen from grace.
A small, satisfied smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Right on time," he said quietly.
You glanced around the room for a moment. Strange people were gathered in small groups, dressed in dark clothing, engaged in quiet, serious conversations. Several looked toward you, including a woman standing next to Tom. She was tall, in a sleek black outfit made of subtly shimmering fabric that followed her every movement. Her long dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders, yet every strand was perfectly in place, complementing her rigid, commanding posture.
Her face was sharply defined, high cheekbones and dark eyes, filled with a playful sense of danger. Her gaze was both attentive and threatening. You watched her every small motion. You didnât yet know who she was, but something about her aura, her eyes, suggested she was no ordinary woman.
Tom stepped closer to you. "Iâm glad you came," he said softly.
He led you to the center of the room. One step ahead, shoulders straight, his eyes darkly gleaming. They were all looking at him with admiration,you didn't know where to place...was he some kind of leader? Did he lead all of these people?
"Listen, all of you," he began, but his gaze lingered on you, as if his words were primarily for you. "The world is not for the weak. Not for those who fear power, decisions, or responsibility. The world belongs to those who can master themselves and the space around them."
His voice gradually strengthened. "And you, who are here tonight⌠remember, power is not a gift. It is not given to anyone automatically. Power must be earned, with thought and a clear mind. And those who understand this⌠survive, and prevail."
As he spoke, the weight of his words and the intensity of his gaze enveloped you. You felt that he was teaching, observing, and playing with you at the same time. This was not just a speech for the others; in every gesture, Tom made it clear that you were his most important audience.
After the speech, quiet murmurs and the clinking of plates indicated that dinner was approaching. In one corner, candles were already placed on the tables, and the scent of wine mingled with roasted meat, fresh bread, and spices.
Tom slowly guided you to the table. You sat to the right of him, and on your left was the woman whose gaze you had noticed earlier. You still didnât know her exactly, but something in her aura and movements suggested she was far more than a simple companion.
As the first dish were set before you, conversation gradually unfolded. You slowly realized that her eyes frequently flicked toward Tom. When she lightly touched his shoulder with a gentle but deliberate motion, a strange, hot sensation ran through your stomach.
You immediately tried to mask your reaction. A quick glance at your plate, your hand slowly reaching for your glass, as if the movement were natural. "Who⌠is the one sitting on your left?" you asked.
"Bellatrix," he replied. "She is⌠important."
That little tremor down in your soul, it bloomed into something darker, like a faded dream turning green with envy.
Tom immediately noticed that something had changed in you."Whatâs wrong?" he asked quietly, leaning a little closer.
You tried to hide your real feelings with a smile."Nothing, just⌠the atmosphere here is a bit tense," you lied.
Under the table, his hand slowly reached for yours. His touch was gentle. You felt the warmth of his skin beneath yours, and your anxiety slowly easedâyet your heart still beat faster.
"You see," he said softly with a faint smile, "thereâs no reason to be tense. Youâre here now, and Iâm paying attention to you."
The gesture was both protective and intimate. It wasnât intrusive, yet it said everything: he was there for you, and the moment belonged only to the two of you.
After a while, Tom slowly released your hand beneath the table. The movement felt natural. Meanwhile, you tried to regain your composure and shifted your attention to the other side of the table.
The man sitting across from you leaned slightly forward."It seems we havenât met yet," he said politely. "Barty Crouch Jr."
His smile was easy, slightly playful, and when he spoke it was clear he enjoyed the exchange."The Dark Lord rarely brings new people among us," he remarked with curiosity. "Which is why Iâm particularly interested in you."
The Dark Lord...Professor Tom Riddle,who was he, really? The dream you've built of him, it's all faded. Do you even know him at all? Or did you fall for a shadow, a phantom? Was he a dangerous man doomed from the start?
"Then I suppose⌠Iâve been given quite a special honor," you said lightly. "Though I suspect it was more his curiosity that brought me here than any merit of mine."
Barty chuckled softly and leaned a little closer across the table."Oh, no," he shook his head playfully. "The Dark Lordâs curiosity⌠doesnât usually bring such elegant company with it."
"Then I can consider myself lucky," you replied with ease. "Itâs a rare occasion when someone finds themselves among such⌠distinguished company."
"Distinguished?" he repeated, tilting his head slightly. "Thatâs a rather diplomatic word for whatâs happening here. But I must admit, itâs far more interesting when someone doesnât immediately get frightened by this⌠company."
"Perhaps," you said calmly, "because Iâm curious."
Barty laughed again, this time more genuinely."Oh, I like that," he said. "Curiosity is a dangerous trait."
"Especially when it leads someone into the company of the wrong people," you replied.
His gaze lingered on you for a brief moment, and a half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth."Now Iâm beginning to understand why he brought you here.Itâs rather difficult not to notice you."
You paused for a moment before answering, then slowly smiled. You realized that this man was flirting with you."Then perhaps Iâm lucky," you said calmly, gently turning your glass between your fingers.
Bartyâs eyes lit up at your reply."Believe me," he answered playfully, "the word interesting is sometimes far too mild for what happens here."
You raised an eyebrow slightly."So now youâre flattering me?"
"Iâm only observing," Barty said with an easy smile. "And what I see is quiteâŚ"
"Crouch."Tomâs voice cut in.
Bartyâs gaze immediately turned toward him. The playful smile faded from his face in an instant.
Tom didnât look at him for long, just cast a brief, dark glance across the table."If you have so much energy," he said quietly, "perhaps you should focus on our next matter."
Barty straightened in his chair immediately."Of course, my Lord," he replied at once.
The earlier light, flirtatious mood vanished in a moment. Barty said nothing more, instead idly turning his glass while keeping his attention respectfully on the table.
Riddleâs eyes glinted darkly, and beneath his usual calm, elegant manner there was something sharper vibrating thereâa possessive intent."Now," he said slowly, "I understand who is trying to gain whose attention."
The way he looked at Barty, all gestures and honeyed tone, it was clear that this situation was unmistakably his territory. His eyes watched every move, but always drifted back to you. And in that hazy, golden light, it hit you. Tom Riddle consideres you his. And god, it felt like a dream, knowing he felt something, anything...but you were still lost in the shadows of his secret.
"Be careful who you play with here," he added quietly. "I decide what is acceptable."
The moment he touched you,your breath hitched. His hands, they found your thighs, and he held on tight, like they were finally home. His eyes, those pools of desire, watched every little reaction you gave.
"Careful," he murmured. "you're not made for their world." He gestured to his subjects. "You belong with me.To me, forevermore."
Your breath caught, and God, you yearned for it. To be his,to belong with him,utterly. Your heartbeat was faster than ever.
A small, almost disbelieving smile appeared on your face."What about Bellatrix?"
Your gaze briefly slid toward the woman sitting to his left. Bellatrix was speaking with someone else at the moment, but even so her posture remained confident and commanding.
Tom gave you that crooked little smirk. "Don't worry," drawled, his hand heavy on your thigh, possessive as a forgotten dream. "I am not interested in her,she is just faithful. Besides,she's already spoken for."
After the conversation, the murmur at the table slowly faded. The plates were empty, and at the bottom of the wine glasses only a thin red line remained.
He stood up.The chair slid back on the stone floor with a soft scrape, and in that moment the room fell almost completely silent. All eyes turned to him."I think we've talked enough for today," he said calmly.
"You all know what to do." Some nodded, while others were already standing up.Bellatrix was one of the first to stand, then with an elegant motion adjusted her dress and walked out.
Barty Crouch Jr. stood up from his chair. Before he walked away, he cast a brief glance at youâa faint, slightly cheeky half-smileâthen followed the others.
Within a few minutes, the room slowly emptied.The murmur of conversations faded down the corridors, the sound of footsteps died away.
You remained.
"Well," he said softly, "it seems you survived your first evening."
"Thanks to you," you replied quietly, with a small smile you didnât try to hide. "If you hadnât been there⌠I might not even know how to act around these people."
"You see it correctly," he answered calmly, his voice slow and measured. "But donât forget⌠itâs always up to you how you play within the rules. I only show the way."
Tom stood up from the table and looked at you for a moment, as if weighing whether to say something more."Come," he finally said quietly.
The candlelight dimly lit the way as you stepped out into the corridor. Your footsteps echoed on the stone floor while Tom led you through the building with a steady, calm pace.
Outside, the streets were quiet. The air was cool, and the yellow light of distant lanterns stretched long shadows across the stones.For a while, neither of you spoke.
Eventually, he stopped in front of a door. It was a simple dark wooden door, with no special markings.Tom opened it, then stepped aside to let you enter.
"I didnât want you to have to go back alone this late," he said calmly. "I thought⌠it might be better if you rested here for a while."
The room was surprisingly orderly. A fireplace crackled softly, books lined the shelves, and on the table lay a few parchments and an open bottle of ink.
Tom closed the door behind him, then leaned casually against the wall.His gaze settled on you again.
"Is this⌠your room?" you asked quietly.
Riddle looked at you for a moment, then slowly nodded."Yes," he answered simply.
After his reply, the situation suddenly became clear to you. You werenât standing in a guest room. You were in Tomâs room. Alone.
You felt warmth slowly rise to your face. Quickly, you looked away, as if the bookshelf had suddenly become far more interesting.But Tom noticed.
That faint, almost amused half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouthâthe one he wore when he knew exactly what was going through someone elseâs mind.
"Is something wrong?" he asked calmly, though there was a trace of playfulness in his voice.
His gaze slid over you for a moment, then returned to your face, where the blush was still visible."I didnât think the idea would make you this flustered," he added quietly.
For a moment, you awkwardly adjusted the sleeve of your dress, as if buying yourself a little time.
"Iâm not flustered," you finally said quietly, though your voice revealed you were still trying to compose yourself. "I just⌠didnât expect it."
Tom slowly pushed himself away from the wall and took a few steps toward the center of the room. His movements were calm, but with every step he came closer to you."You didnât expect to end up here?" he asked softly.
The candlelight cast faint shadows across his face, and his dark eyes were far more attentive now than they had been at dinner.
You slowly let out a breath."Yeah..." you finally admitted quietly.
Your gaze slipped to the floor for a moment, then returned to him. The faint blush he had already noticed was still visible on your face."I never thought⌠that one day Iâd be standing in your room," you added honestly.
His eyes lingered on you, attentive, as if noticing every small change in your expression. Slowly, a faint, almost satisfied half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth."Interesting," he said quietly.
"Interesting," he said quietly.
He stepped half a step closer, though he still left a little space between you."Because I, on the other handâŚ" he began slowly, "have been expecting it for some time."
The blush on your face deepened, and your heart was beating so fast you were sure he could hear it. For a moment you couldnât even hold his gaze.
You turned away abruptly and walked to the window, putting a little distance between the two of you. The cool glass and the dark night outside helped you steady yourself.Tom watched you silently, his eyes following every movement.
You took a quiet breath."I think⌠we should talk about something else," you said, still facing the window. "Something more important."
Tom tilted his head slightly, studying you."More important?" he repeated calmly. "And what would that be?"
You turned back toward him, your expression now more serious."You," you said simply. "Who you really are."
For a moment Tom didnât seem to understand. His expression barely changed, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes."What exactly do you mean?" he asked slowly.
You folded your arms lightly, gathering your thoughts."You left out a rather important detail," you said. "When you brought me into all of this."
Tomâs eyes narrowed slightly."And that is?"
You held his gaze."The fact that youâre a Dark Lord."
Tom stepped closer to the window with a slow, deliberate pace, stopping behind you but still keeping a respectful distance. His gaze was dark and deep, yet not intrusive; it felt as if he were simultaneously observing and weighing.
âDon't tell me, you're scared of me.â he said calmly.
âNo,â you replied softly, your voice trembling slightly. âI just donât know who you really are.â
Tom slowly stepped closer, his gaze fixed steadily on yours.âYou're the only one who knows me,â he said calmly.
He carefully raised his hand and brushed it along your face. The gesture was gentle, yet deliberate. You instinctively leaned into his touch.
âIâm still the same person,â he continued. âthe one you drink caramel coffee with, the one you tell about your days at school, the one you play chess withâŚâ
He paused briefly,his hand leaving your cheeks.âBut today⌠today you saw another side of me. And you need to know,â he added, his eyes piercing deep into yours, âthat this is a part of me.â
You turned to face him fully, the cool stone at your back. âWho are you to me? Right now, in this moment. The man who drinks coffee with me and pretends to let me win at chess? Or⌠My Lord?â
âI am both,â he whispered. âThe one who craves your thoughts, your sweet little laugh, your presence across a checkered board, bathed in the hazy lamplight⌠and the one who aches for you, my equal, your breath mingling with mine, your very soul entwined with my own. They are not separate. You cannot have one without the other now. Do you understand?â
His words should've scared you away, sent you running for the hills. But a dangerous warmth bloomed instead, low in your soul. The danger of it all, that was the drug. And there it was, that dark, twisted beauty, the way the light fades into the dark. The gentle professor and the dark lord... both real. Both here. Both yours.
âI understand,â you breathed, the words barely audible.
He closed the distance between you in one fluid step. His kiss wasn't soft,it was a coquest, a whispered promise of forever. His mouth swallowed yours whole, a taste of champagne and dangerous authority. You whimpered into him,your hands flying to his chest,pulling him closer.
He broke the kiss, his own breathing ragged. âYou are mine,â he stated, the words leaving no room for argument. His hands left your face, sliding down your neck, over your shoulders, tracing the neckline of your dress. âTell me what you want.â
âYou.â
âGood.âOne hand slipped behind you, finding the delicate zipper of your dress. The sound of it sliding down was obscenely loud in the quiet. Cool air kissed your spine, followed by the scorching trail of his fingertips. He pushed the fabric from your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet in a whisper of silk. You stood before him in only your underwear, exposed to the night and his burning gaze.
"Beautiful," he whispered, like a prayer. His eyes, a hungry, worshipful shadow, traced your figure like a forgotten melody. He spun you around, slow and sweet, your bare skin flush against the dark fabric of his suit, his arms a velvet cage. And the cruel, beautiful ache of him pressed against you.
His lips found that sweet spot where your neck fades into your shoulder, a soft bite, then a gentle surrender of his tongue. One hand found your breast, hidden beneath lace, thumb circling, teasing until you ached. The other hand slid down, past the waistband of your panties finding you already already burning for him.
"Taste so good," he purred. "Tried not to want you this way ,but fuck sweetheart."
A low moan hummed against your very skin. "So eager for your Lord." he breathed,his fingers sliding through your wetness, gathering it, then circling your clit with a precision that made your knees buckle. âIs it the danger that excites you? Or is it simply me?â
Words just wouldn't come. Head heavy, falling back against his shoulder, and a sound escaped your lips as his touch teased, slow circles at first, driving you mad. Then faster, harder, a rhythm that left you panting.His other hand pinched your nipple through the lace,sending shivers down your spine.This was nothing like the tentative touches you might have imagined in the safe confines of Hogwarts. This was raw, primal, an unleashing."It's You", you breathed.
âTom⌠pleaseâŚâ you begged, unsure what you were begging for.
âPlease what?â he growled, his fingers pushing deeper, curling inside you, stretching you.
âPlease,My Lordâ you gasped, the world narrowing to the stroke of his fingers, the bite of his teeth on your shoulder. âNeed you. All of you.â
That seemed to be the answer he was chasing. He turned you then, lifting you up like a feather to sit on the wide bed. He stepped between your thighs, pushing them open. His hands moved to his shirt ,then his belt, the buckle's clink a deliberate echo. He freed himself and your breath caught at the sightâthick, proud, the tip glistening. He was magnificent and terrifyingly real, all at once.
"This is who I am," he whispered. "The one who'll hold you close, and the one who'll lose himself in you. They're all the same."
With a single, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside you.The cry that left your lips was swallowed by the night. The feeling was overwhelming. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him claiming you.You moaned, your hips lifting to meet his making him groan, his forehead dropping down against yours.
"That feel good,sweetheart?"
"Yes," you sighed, hips swiveling to find more friction. "Please,My Lord."
Then he began to move. It was slow at firstâcareful, gentle. The movement pulled a soft sound from your soul, your fingers holding on to him, finding your place in the hazy closeness.
"Taking me so well, feels so good." he moved in and out, getting you both used to the feeling of him.
He held you like you were made of stardust. His touch tracing the curves of your thighs, pulling you in close.The shift made your breath catch, the new closeness sending a warm shiver through you.
"That's it sweetness," he licks and sucks a nipple into his mouth.
Your head fell back against the softest pillow. Your rhythm turned into something deeper, each touch a little more sure, a little more desperate. His name slipped from your lips, a prayer trembling with all the feels.
The world faded, until it was just the two of you. His movements running free. A pressure, sweet and heavy, bloomed inside. Words dissolved, replaced with whispers and desperate little cries.
âMy LordâŚâ you murmured again as the feeling building inside you grew stronger.
âSweetheart⌠Iâve got you.â
His words were enough to unravel everything. And you just fell apart. Body shaking, nails digging into his back, a white-hot pleasure washing over you in waves. Tom groaned, a deep, echoing sound as his hips moved.He pushed one last time and you felt him. That warmth, filling you from the inside.
For a fleeting moment never of you moved,untouched by reality. Then, ever so softly, he leaned into you, his weight a gentle surrender, a solace. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart against your own,you both struggled to find your breath in the aftermath.
i was going to leave a comment, but honestly; it would do what my brain is thinking no justice at all. this was absolutely an exquisite read. any tom fan's out there - please buckle yourselves in for what has to be one of the finest pieces of tom literature i've read in a while xoxo
Summary::Caramel coffee, chess games, and late-night talksâŚwith Professor Riddle seem like what you need.
Warnings::18+,smut,piv,unprotected (stay safe ya'll) ,age gap,student x professor,but he's not HER professor,so it's okay đ¤âď¸(no,it's not),manipulative Tom Riddle,at one point he thinks about "silencing her",jealousy
Word count::10k
Authorâs note::Guess who's back babygirls.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom had always been a little colder than the others. and you had been sitting in your place for some time, your elbow resting on the desk as the pale light streaming through the tall windows slowly slid across the floor.
The other students were talking quietly. Laughter, whispers, the tapping of quills on wooden desks.
But the teacherâs chair was still empty. Someone always came in to substituteâan anxious professor who rattled through the lesson quickly.
Usually, Galatea Merrythought taught this class, at least on paper. Her name was attached to the room, the syllabus, the old notes. But in recent weeks, she seemed to have disappeared from the corridors. Someone else always came in her place, and none of them stayed long.
You felt someone glance at you, perhaps one of your classmates. But it didnât last. Just a quick, measuring look, the kind you knew well.
People often looked at each other like that. As if they were only seeing the cover of a book and deciding what was inside just from that. From the colors, the outward appearances, the way someone sat, or even just listened.
As if no one thought to read the story itself.
By now, the light at the window had dimmed, turning from gold to gray on the stone floor. The ticking of the clock echoed softly off the walls. Someone was standing by the window, others leaning partially on the desks, chatting, as if this class had long since lost its importance.
Then the doorknob moved. Just a soft click. Conversations died quickly. The door slowly opened. The pale, cold light of the corridor spilled into the room for a moment, and the silhouette of a tall figure appeared.
Tom Riddle stepped in. He didnât hurry; his movements were too calm to be accidental. The silence of the classroom seemed to belong naturally to him. The door closed behind him.
As he came closer, the pale afternoon light touched his face. He was strangely beautifulânot in a kind, warm sense. More in a way that made one instinctively step back. Sharp features, pale skin, and those dark eyes that had lingered too long on a face, as if trying to strip away its layers.
There was something⌠contradictory about him. As if beneath the surface, a poisonous calm was lurking. Something cold. And yet all of this wrapped in a perfect, almost unsettling elegance, making it impossible to decide whether to step back or keep looking.
Beauty and danger. That was the best way to describe Tom Riddle.
Eventually, Riddle slowly leaned against the edge of the desk, the whole situation providing him with some quiet amusement. His gaze swept across the desks.
âIâve heard,â he said at last, âthat in recent weeks this class⌠has been somewhat irregular.â
Someone at the back chuckled softly.
âI thought,â he continued, âwe can start in a less formal way. Ask anything you like.â
Immediately, the classroom stirred. Quills slid aside, chairs creaked, and some students looked at each other as if trying to decide whether he was serious.
The first hand went up surprisingly fast. A blonde girl in the front row, who had been sitting unusually straight.
âProfessor,â she began, her voice a shade softer than what would be required for a simple question, âdid you really get a teaching position at such a young age?â
âMerlinâŚâ whispered a boy.
But the girl held Riddleâs gaze steadily, as if it were the most natural question in the world. His eyes settled on her. He was not disturbed by the question.
âThe Ministry sometimes⌠makes peculiar decisions,â he replied calmly.
The girl smiled. âIâm sure that wasnât the only reason.â A few girls stifled giggles after the sentence.
A girl in the third rowâdark, wavy hair and the confidence that usually comes only when one knows they are being watchedâslowly raised her hand. She didnât really wait for permission.
âProfessor,â she said, her voice calm but a playful glint in her eyes, âif we may ask anythingâŚâ
Now the entire room was watching. A few boys buried their faces in books to avoid laughing out loud.
âIs it true the rumor that youâve⌠dueled someone outside of school?â
Someone at the back laughed. âOh, this is going to be good.â
But the girl continued as if it were a completely serious question. âBecause if soâŚâ she tilted her head slightly to the side, âI can imagine it must have been quite⌠impressive to witness.â
The professor looked at the questioner for a moment. Not embarrassed. Not offended either.
âDuelingâŚâ he said, âis usually not meant to be a spectacle.â His voice was polite. Yet beneath the sentence, there was something cold. Something that reminded the classroom, even briefly, that this was still a Defense Against the Dark Arts class.
The laughter slowly died away. It seemed most questions had been asked. Some students fiddled with their quills, others leaned back in their chairs as if the lesson was winding down.
Tom Riddleâs gaze swept across the class. âAny more questions?â he finally asked.
For a moment, you looked at your book on the desk, as if weighing whether to speak.
Then you lifted your eyes. âProfessor,â you said at last.
The room went silent immediately. Perhaps because your voice was completely different from the previous questions. There was no playfulness, no stifled laughter.
âI would like to knowâŚâ you began slowly, âin your opinion, what truly defines success in a wizardâs life?â
Some students looked puzzled. You continued.âPeople often talk about it as if success is something external. Power, influence⌠or simply money. As if these are the signs everyone uses to decide who has gone far in life.â
You looked briefly at the light by the window before meeting Riddleâs gaze again. Your voice remained calm.
âBut often I feel people accept this standard too quickly. As if wealth or social rank alone proves someone is⌠successful.â
You paused briefly, then continued. âDo you think money is the anthem of success?â
The question hung in the air. No one laughed. Not even the girls who had flirted quietly earlier.
Tom Riddle didnât answer immediately. His gaze stayed on you. Not like when he was scanning the class before. Now he looked at you as if reading the first page of a particularly interesting book.
Then he slowly tilted his head thoughtfully. âInteresting question,â he said finally.
He genuinely seemed to be considering it. Slowly, he walked alongside the desk. âMoneyâŚâ he continued, âundoubtedly brings power.â
His voice was calm, almost contemplative. âIt opens many doors more easily than any spell.â
His gaze swept the classroom for a moment. âBut in itself, it rarely makes someone successful. It is more a consequence.â
He paused. âThose who achieve truly great things⌠usually arenât seeking money.â
His eyes found yours again. âBut something else. Influence. Knowledge. Or simply⌠superiority.â
Then Riddle smiled faintly. âAnd interestingly,â he added, âsuch people often end up acquiring wealth anyway.â
The lesson slowly ended. The tapping of quills and creaking of chairs gradually faded into the silence of the room.
A few students stepped closer to Tom Riddle. They surrounded him, as if he himself were the light in the dark room, the center in which every shadow made sense.
It was like every glance directed at himâhe was an invisible nebula, and he himself the gravity to which every particle was drawn. As if he were heaven itself on Earth.
You didnât join the circle. You closed your book and put down your quill. You didnât want to participate in the admiration. You were already heading toward the door, your footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor, when his voice spoke behind you.
âWait,â said Tom Riddle, his voice not commanding, yet not dismissive. âI would like to talk more about your question.â
You stopped. Your heart beat a little faster, but not from fear. Just⌠from curiosity and the feeling that overcame you being near him.
Riddle slowly raised his hand, with an elegant, subtle gesture signaling you to follow him. Then he excused himself to the others and said goodbye.
âShall we?â he said softly, still calm but firm. âLetâs move a little aside.âAs you passed the desks, Riddle touched your shoulder, guiding you.
The gesture was small but significant.Something warm, but not intrusive, ran through you; as if the scent of summer had quietly drifted into the air.
And his gaze⌠looking into his eyes was like the world briefly became lighter, tallerâas if heaven itself were hidden in his gaze.
You stopped at a secluded corner of the corridor. Riddle looked at you slowly, weighing his words before speaking.
âSo⌠weâre talking about money,â he began, his voice calm. âIâm interested in your own opinion as well.â
You took a deep breath before beginning. âTrue success,â you continued, âis when one is capable of creating something lasting, regardless of how much gold is in their pocket. The knowledge, the impact we have on others, the consequences of our choices⌠these measures are far more enduring than wealth.â
Riddle slowly lifted his gaze. His dark eyes fixed on you, a tension vibrating in them, stopping the air in the corridor.He looked at you as if trying to control his thoughts. Trying to restrain himself,trying hard not to get into trouble, yet in every movement there was⌠a war in his mind.As if trying to contain an internal bloodbath. A battlefield where thoughts and instincts clashed, yet in every motion he exercised strict control.
Riddle nodded slowly. âInteresting,â he said, his voice quiet and deep, still looking at you. âFew see the world this way. Most follow appearances. Money, title⌠these easily distract from what truly matters.â
A tiny, almost imperceptible smile crossed his face. âAnd the fact that you think this wayâŚâ he added, as if carefully choosing the next word, ââŚis rarely granted, MissâŚâ
His gaze swept over you, waiting for an answer, as if every moment mattered. Silence stretched slowly.
After you said your name, Riddle nodded slightly, but his smile remained mysterious and slightly weighing. There was no playfulness, only attention and⌠some hard-to-define interest.
He repeated your name slowly, savoring it. Riddle paused for a moment, then stepped back slowly and elegantly.
âYou know,â he began, âmy door is always open to any student. If you ever want to talk⌠anytime.â
âThank you, Professor,â your voice was polite but firm. âI really appreciate it.â
A quiet pause followed, in which you both looked at each other. His gaze was still heavy and attentive.
âGoodbye, Professor,â you said quietly.
âGoodbye.â he replied, with a small, almost imperceptible smile.
âŚ
Every step felt slow. The laughter and chatter of your other friends were just distant noise in your ears.
And yet⌠your thoughts were elsewhere. You could think of nothing but Riddle. Every word he had spoken today, every quiet glance, every small gesture, still seemed to vibrate in the air around you.
Somehow, it felt as if the world were different without him. It was as if something had separated you from the others.
The lessons passed slowly. One spell after another, the teacherâs voice, the tapping of quills. And there you sat, between the pages of your book, yet your thoughts were far away.
âŚ
You lay in bed, the blanket slowly slipping off your shoulders. You didnât even remember how you had ended up in your bed. The room was quiet, the candles flickering faintly, but your eyes were wide open, and your thoughts revolved around Riddle.
You tried to push them away, tried to turn your attention elsewhere, but every attempt proved futile.
You knew it was pointlessâhe was a professor. It was like the stars searching for the sun in the morning skyâimpossible.
Finally, you slowly sat up. You couldnât let this decision simply vanish into the night. You had to go, had to speak with him.
In the shadows of books and quills on the floor, you slowly dressed. You draped the wool coat over your shoulders, put on your shoes. In the mirror, your own face looked back at youâtired, but determined. There was resolve in your eyes.
Quietly, you slipped out of your room, careful not to wake your roommates. The corridor was cool, the stone floor cold beneath your feet. Every step echoed against the silent walls.
You drew closer to the door, though you werenât sure if you were making the right choice. Your heart beat slowly, yet with each thrum there was anticipation and curiosity. The light of the torches along the walls trembled, casting golden shadows across the stone.
Finally, you stopped in front of the door. Dark wood, old and heavy. The handle gleamed coldly in the torchlight. For a moment, you just stood there, hand raised in the air, as if the final part of the decision still hung inside you.
Then you knocked. Three soft raps.
For a few seconds, nothing could be heard from inside. Just the distant draft in the corridors, the faint creaking of the old walls.
Then the soft scrape of a chair across the floor, from inside. Footstepsâhis footsteps. The doorknob slowly turned, and the door opened. Professor Tom Riddle stood there in his glory.
He had the face of a fallen angel, beautiful, almost otherworldly, yet carrying a kind of world-weary, sly charm. A face that could not be forgotten, even if one triedâmade for the role of a beautiful sadist.
You knew he was a troublemaker, steeped in sin. A dark soul. Lucifer. But you had your own sweet choice, your own little path.
His dark eyes assessed you in an instant. Not surprised,he had already accounted for you.
Then that faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his face, the one you had seen in class..â I suspected you might return to our question.â
He stepped half a pace back in the doorway. âcome in.â
The door slowly closed behind you, the soft click of the lock echoing dimly in the room. Riddleâs office was quiet and orderly. Dark bookshelves lined the walls, their spinesâ old golden letters faintly gleaming in the candlelight. In front of the window stood a heavy desk, covered with parchment, ink pots, and a few carefully stacked books.
The air carried the scent of ink, old paper, and something delicate and tangy. Riddle moved toward his desk with calm steps.âPlease, have a seat.â he said, gesturing toward a comfortable armchair on the other side of the desk.
You sat in the soft chair; its armrest was cool under your hand. Your back remained straight, almost instinctively. The professor also seated himself behind the desk. For a moment, he clasped his fingers together, then fixed his gaze on you.
His dark eyes now seemed even more attentive. âWellâ â he said quietly at last, âIâm glad you came.â
"I hope itâs not a problem that I came so late. The castle⌠at night is sometimes better for thinking."
A faint, almost playful smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Indeed," he said calmly. "Most are already asleep by now. But I cannot complain," he added. "If I tell my students that my door is open, I ought to keep to that."
His gaze lingered for a moment on the door, then returned to you. "And officially, it is open for another hour still."
His dark eyes studied you carefully. "What is it that still occupies your mind?"
"This time it's more about... something else"
Riddleâs brow moved just slightly. "Money is more of a⌠phenomenon," you continued calmly. "A tool. People often treat it as a symbol of success because itâs easy to measure."
You paused briefly before continuing. "But thatâs not what Iâm really interested in."
Tom now leaned slightly forward over the desk. His gaze sharpened, more attentive. "Then what?" he asked quietly.
The candle flame flickered between you. "Power," you said at last.
For a moment, you met Riddleâs eyes, and you saw satisfaction in them, as if he had been expecting that answer.
"The kind of power I desire is that which can shape things. Influence people, shape the futureâŚ"
The man leaned back slowly. "I see," he said quietly at last.
For a moment, he just looked at you, as if turning a thought over in his mind, like a chess piece between his fingers. Then his fingers slowly interlaced on the desk. "PowerâŚ" he repeated softly.
"You know, many believe such things⌠are grim, fateful. That anyone who speaks of power is already halfway down a dark path."
A small, barely noticeable smile appeared on his face. "Yet sometimes, itâs nothing more than a game."
Riddleâs fingers slowly traced the edge of the parchment on the desk. "Dark" he continued softly. "But just a game."
His gaze returned to you. "People take positions in life. They move forward, back, circle around one another⌠and all the while think they are in control."
His dark eyes now locked onto yours. "Tell me," he asked calmly, "what kind of player would you be in this⌠game?"
For a moment, you just looked at him, then tilted your head slightly to the side. "Perhaps we should see," you said calmly.
Riddleâs brow lifted almost imperceptibly. Your gaze flicked to a corner of the desk, then back to him. "Letâs see it in a chess game."
For a moment, complete silence. Then the professor chuckled softly. "You assume a professor would be willing to play chess with a student at this hour."
There was a light, ironic edge to his voiceâbut not dismissive. He stepped toward one of the bookshelves and pulled open a lower drawer. Some parchment slipped aside, and then his hand found a small, dark wooden box.
He returned to the desk, opened the box, and produced an old chess set. Riddle slowly set up the board between you. The pieces were placed one by one, each settling with a quiet click.
"Well," he said at last, as he placed the final piece, "if you insist on the demonstrationâŚ"
He looked up at you, dark eyes now clearly gleaming with interest. "Letâs see what kind of player you are."
Riddle began. The pawn in front of the king moved forward two squares. A simple opening. Classic.
You studied the board for a few seconds, then responded. The game started slowly, but after a few moves it was clear neither of you was playing merely out of politeness.
Riddle occasionally glanced at you as you considered your moves. He didnât rush you. He simply observed how you looked at the board, how you assessed your options. "Tell me," he spoke a few moves later, moving a bishop, "do you always think so⌠strategically?"
You moved a knight. "Only when necessary."A few minutes later, with a bold move, you captured one of his bishops. The candlelight flickered as the piece fell from the board.
Riddle did not speak immediately. He just studied the board, then slowly leaned back in his chair. "Interesting," he said softly. Now he wasnât observing the pieces. He was observing you.
Riddleâs fingers lightly touched his queen, but he did not move it. His eyes now shone vividly. "You know," he said finally, "I thought you had returned because of an interesting question."
A faint smile appeared on his face. "But now I begin to think⌠itâs not just the question that is interesting."
After the sentence, silence fell for a moment. Only the faint crackle of the candle could be heard on the desk. You were just adjusting a piece back to the center of a square when you realized what he had really meant. The words reached you slowly, as if assembling in your mind a moment later.
Your face warmed. A faint blush ran across your cheeks, which you tried in vain to hide by looking at the board again.
Riddle noticed, of course. His dark eyes lingered on you for a moment, and that faint half-smile reappeared at the corner of his mouth.
"It seems," he remarked quietly, "compliments are sometimes more dangerous than a good chess move."
"You⌠did that on purpose, didnât you?" you asked slowly, a little flustered, yet still looking him straight in the eyes.
Riddle paused for a moment. His eyes were dark, but now a hint of genuine curiosity shone in them.
"Yes," he said quietly, and after a brief pause added, "but that doesnât change the fact that I was telling the truth."
Tom Riddle found you interestinging.
...
Since that conversation, something had changed between you.
It wasnât friendship⌠but it wasnât just a teacher-student relationship either. You already called him âTom,â at his request. He wasnât your professor, he didnât teach you, so the formalities felt unnecessary.
Throughout the week, you seized every small opportunity, every pretext, to meet him again. A question asked in the castle corridors, a book you âaccidentallyâ brought to his officeâeach served to spark a new conversation, another shared moment between you.
Now you were sitting in Tomâs office, leaning slightly on the desk, nervously twirling a quill in your hand.
âSeriously⌠Dumbledore gives so much work that thereâs barely time to rest,â you muttered, your voice a mix of frustration and boredom. âItâs like the whole week revolves around studying for his lessons.â
A small smile crossed Riddleâs face, playful yet satisfied. âAh,â he said slowly, a faint glimmer of pleasure in his voice, âyes⌠Dumbledore and his âcharmingâ methods.â
âI wouldnât say Iâve ever particularly liked his style,â you added softly. âHe overcomplicates everything, too⌠rule-bound.â
As you looked at him, you saw his smile widen for a moment. You knew he was proud of you, and it made you feel very good.
âYou knowâŚâ he began slowly, âsometimes I feel Dumbledoreâs methods are overly rigid. Always the rules, the obligations, the paperwork⌠as if every student were trapped by duty. A little freedom, a little play⌠well, that never hurt anyone. Somehow, I feel we were all created to be free.â
âBut TomâŚâ you began, slightly embarrassed, gripping the armrest of your chair, âI still have an essay due next week, and⌠honestly, I barely understand the material.â
Riddleâs gaze immediately brightened; his eyes sparkled as if he had discovered a new opportunity. A small, almost imperceptible smile crossed his face.
âWell,â he said quietly, âif youâd like, Iâd be happy to help. We can go over the material together, discuss the harder parts.â
For a moment, you fell silent, and a faint blush of embarrassment swept over you. "ThisâŚ," you began cautiously, "technically doesnât count as cheating, does it?"
Tom leaned back slowly in his chair. His dark eyes stayed fixed on yours. "No," he said firmly. "Because Iâm not writing the essay for you. Iâm only helping you understand the material. Sharing knowledge is not cheating." There was a faint, secret pleasure in his voice, as if he enjoyed that someone dared to approach him and gently test moral boundaries.
"TomâŚ" you began, but he interrupted with a small gesture of his hand.
"Iâm helping," he repeated calmly, though his tone carried that stubborn determination that made you feel arguing with him would be completely pointless. "Iâll even get you coffee," he added.
"You mean⌠weâre going for coffee?" you asked slowly. "Just the two of us?"
A faint amusement glimmered in Tomâs eyes. "Studying, mostly," he replied calmly. Then, after a small pause, almost deliberately, he added, "But yes. Coffee too."
"Then we should pick a time," you remarked calmly.
The man thought for a moment. "Friday?"
"That works. Where?" you asked.
"The Hogâs Head?"
You raised an eyebrow."Not the most elegant place, but thatâs exactly why itâs ideal. Few pay attention to who talks to whom there," he said.
His eyes lingered on you for a moment. "Friday evening," he said finally, quietly. "Coffee, studying⌠and maybe a slightly less unbearable explanation of Dumbledoreâs tasks." His voice carried that dry humor he rarely allowed himself.
"Perfect," you replied.
Friday evening fell quietly over the streets of Hogsmeade. Candlelit lamps cast faint golden-yellow shadows on the cobblestones.
You stepped through the door of The Hogâs Head, immediately hit by the tavernâs characteristic, tangy smell: ale, cinnamon, smoke, and a faintly dusty aroma that was at once cozy and mysterious.
Tom was already there, sitting at a corner table, his dark eyes attentively scanning the entrance. As soon as he saw you, he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile and gestured to an empty chair with the tip of his finger.
"Right on time," he said calmly, his features sharp in the soft candlelight. "Sit down."
As you sat across from him, a cup of coffee was already waiting on the table: its steam curling slowly into the air, its bitter scent mingling delicately with the tavernâs tangy aroma.
You picked up the cup and looked at him curiously. "What kind of coffee is this?" you asked.
Tom rested his elbow casually on the table, as if the question amused him. "Caramel. QuiteâŚsweet," he replied simply.
"How did you know I like that?"
He twirled his own cup between his fingers. "Just a guess. Based on your personality."
"My personality?" you asked, slightly incredulous.
Tom nodded. "Yes."
He took a sip of his own coffee, which was much simplerâdark and strong, without any adornment. Then he looked at you again. "Most people choose what suits them," he said calmly.
You swirled your cup in your hands; the caramel scent still rose warmly from it. For a moment, you thought, then looked up at him, a playful glint in your eyes. "So you think⌠Iâm sweet?"
Tom paused for a moment. That half-smile you had begun to recognize slowly appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Not exactly that," he said at last. "But I didnât say you werenât." An interesting contradiction.
He rested his elbow on the table and tilted slightly toward your cup. "Someone who talks about power⌠thinks in chess⌠and drinks caramel coffee." That slow half-smile appeared again at the corner of his mouth. "Not the combination youâd expect at first."
Then he took a sip of his coffee. "And those kinds of combinations⌠are usually much more interesting."
A brief silence settled between you, broken only by the quiet murmur of the tavern. Your heart beat fast, and you felt a slight blush. Then he leaned back lightly in his chair, his gaze drifting toward your bag.
"Alright," he said finally, calmly. "Letâs see how serious you are about this studying. What did you bring?"
With a small sigh, you pulled your bag into your lap. "Quite a lot," you said.
You opened it and began pulling out your notes: parchment, bookmarks, a thick notebook⌠and finally a small ink bottle. You slid the notebook across the table. "Here are my notes."
Tom leaned closer and began flipping through them. He was perfectly calm on the first page. On the second, however, the corner of his mouth slowly moved. By the third page, he was clearly smiling.
You noticed immediately. "What is it?" you asked suspiciously.
Tom didnât answer immediately. He just turned another page, where more colors alternated: blue, purple, green, pink notes. Then he looked up at you.
"If I had to judge you only by our conversations," he said slowly, "I would think Iâm dealing with an intelligent strategist." He paused for a moment. "Someone who thinks in chess⌠talks about power⌠and calculates every move in advance."
Then he gently lifted your notebook. "But your notes tell a completely different story." He turned the notebook toward you so you could see the page. "Colored inks. Carefully organized remarks. Marks on every little detail."
The half-smile returned to his face. "Not the kind of notes youâd expect from someone⌠contemplating power."
"Orderliness is a strategic advantage," you replied, blushing slightly.
Tomâs eyes lit up for a moment. "Of course," he said quietly. He picked up a pen from the table. "Alright," he continued. "Letâs see where Dumbledore really started being cruel with this assignment."
His voice was even, patient. His finger slowly followed the lines, occasionally underlining a word, then adding a brief explanation. He didnât rush; he unpacked each sentence carefully, as if his goal truly was to make everything perfectly understandable.
Tom nudged your notebook closer, gently pointing to the edge of the page. "Look," he said calmly, "Dumbledore isnât testing the theory itself hereâhe wants you to understand the connections."
You watched him. At first, really, the material. Then, after a while⌠more him. The way he spoke. The way his eyebrows slightly furrowed when explaining a more complicated section. He was completely absorbed in the explanation, as if the noise around you had ceased to exist.And somehow⌠that seemed amusing. A small smile appeared on your face, then another.
After a while, Tom noticed and looked up at you. "Whatâs the matter?" he asked suddenly, with that measured, professorial tone.
The situation suddenly became even more absurd. Your smile nearly turned into laughter. "Nothing, Professor," you said quickly, trying to remain serious.
One of Tomâs eyebrows lifted slightly. "Then perhaps youâll share with me whatâs so amusing?"
"Just⌠interesting."
"What?"
After a quiet breath, you answered, "That the person I talk about power with⌠and play chess withâŚ"
You paused for a moment, then pointed to the notebook and continued, "âŚcan get so absorbed in teaching."
Tomâs expression shifted for a moment. You shrugged. "As if that were the purpose of his life."
A faint smile slowly appeared at the corner of his mouth."AlmostâŚ," you added lightly, "sweet."
"Watch what you say to me," he began slowly, "think about who youâre speaking to." The half-smile and his dark eyes carried no real threat, only that playful, power-laden attention he was always known for.
With a short sigh, you turned back to your notebook, picking up your pen. "Then letâs continue," you said decisively.
Tom nodded, leaned forward slowly, and again delved into the details.As you progressed through the assignment, you got stuck at a complicated section. Your brow furrowed, and you felt that you simply didnât understand something at first glance.
Tom noticed the small hesitation. "Come here, letâs look at it together," he said quietly.
You moved closer, pulling the notebook between you, and as he lifted his finger over the line to show the step, your hands accidentally touched. A light, fleeting contact, but as if the world slowed for a moment.
For a moment, you just looked at each other, but neither moved your hand away. Tom finally gave a slight smile, but his hand remained next to yours. "There it is," he said softly, running his fingers slowly along the notes. "See now?"
Your heart beat faster, but you focused on the studying, even as your hands stayed like that.
...
In the following weeks, Dumbledoreâs famous written exam arrived. The quiet of the room was broken only by the soft scratching of quills on parchment.
Yet you werenât nervous for a moment: you knew the answers to every question. Among your notes and the colorful inks, you could retrieve everything precisely.
As you worked through it, a small smile appeared on your face. Every item, every problem, every little twist⌠came so easily that writing felt almost joyful.
At the end, when you looked up from the completed exam, pride, satisfaction, and a kind of happy relief shone in your eyes, and you could hardly wait to tell Tom.
After submitting the paper, you slung your bag over your shoulder, and your heart gave a small, contented beat as you walked through the quiet corridors of Hogwarts toward his office.
You entered Tomâs office. The professor sat behind his desk, and when he looked up at you, that familiar, restrained half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"So, did you know all the answers?" he asked, his voice carrying satisfaction, as if nothing else mattered.
You nodded with a smile, and he leaned forward over the desk, letting his eyes scan you.
"Iâm not surprised," he said, enunciating each word slowly, almost deliberately, so you could feel his pride.
"Thank you, Tom," you said quietly, sincerely. "You really helped me, and⌠I appreciate that you took the time."
Tom raised one eyebrow briefly, and in his dark eyes there was a faint glimmer of satisfactionâthe kind you only saw when someone truly earned his attention. "Iâm glad you found it useful," he said calmly. "You deserve it."
You blushed slightly, a faint warmth spreading across your face, your gaze fixed on Tom. "Tom⌠why did you help me?" you asked slowly, curiously, but with a hint of playfulness. "Is this⌠part of some interesting game for you?"
Tom slowly glanced at his book, then back at you, his eyes carrying that familiar, dark gleam. "Youâre too clever," he said softly, slowly, emphasizing each word, "sometimes even to your own detriment."
You raised your eyebrow faintly. "You donât have⌠some evil plan, do you?" you asked timidly, but with a little mischief in your voice.
Tom raised one eyebrow, a faint half-smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Weâll see," he replied slowly. "Tomorrow we meet again there, and Iâll help you. Donât be late."
"But⌠I never agreed to this," you protested quietly, afraid of giving away too much.
"Go," he said calmly, firmly, "so you donât miss your next class."
...
Next Friday evening quietly settled over the streets of Hogsmeade. The wind whispered softly beneath the stones, and the golden candlelight gently fell across the small, dim interior of The Hogâs Head. The faint memory of caramel coffee from the previous meeting still lingered in the air.
As you entered the room, you immediately saw Tom already sitting in a corner. His dark eyes scanned the entrance attentively, and when he saw you, that faint, restrained half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth that you had come to know so well. "Right on time," he said calmly.
"Come here," he said quietly, his voice calm but firm. "Donât sit across from me, sit like this, close. I can watch you better."
As you moved the chair closer and sat beside him, your shoulders lightly touched. For a moment, you both paused, feeling the closeness, but neither moved.
"This way itâs much easier to follow what youâre doing," Tom added, gesturing toward the parchment. "And this way you can see better what Iâm showing." Now it really felt as if you had entered a little world of your own, where only studying and closeness mattered.
After a while, leaning over the parchment, your head accidentally rested on Tomâs shoulder for a moment. You jumped up immediately, moving away awkwardly. "Oh⌠sorry!" you stammered.
Tom slowly looked at you, his dark eyes carrying a hint of tenderness. "Itâs alright," he said softly, his voice as if nothing had happened. "You smell like vanilla."
For a moment, you were lost for words, then you looked at him and smiled gently. "Hmm⌠you⌠smell of mint and wood," you noted honestly.
Tom nodded with a half-smile. "Youâre right."
As the parchments and notes slowly went back into your bag, Tom leaned back in his chair. "Tell me," he began quietly, "what would you like to be after leaving school?"
You exhaled briefly, collecting your thoughts. The question wasnât just about your futureâit was also about how closely Tom paid attention to your words and how much he cared about your inner world.
"I donât know completely," you answered slowly, honestly, "but I do know that I want to be someone who creates value⌠and where the knowledge I gain here truly matters."
A faint half-smile appeared on Tomâs face. "I see," he said softly.
After you finished packing, a small sigh escaped your lips. "Thank you for your help, Tom," you said quietly.
"Youâre welcome," he replied.
As you left the small, dim interior of The Hogâs Head and walked along the stones of Hogsmeade toward home, you felt each step lighter, every moment bringing a smile to your face.
The air was cold, but somehow it caressed your face sweetly. Every thought revolved around Tom: his eyes, his smile, his playful attention. Warmth filled your heart, happiness slowly, surely washing over you. You smiled all the way home.
When you entered your room, pausing for a moment after the door closed, your bag still on your shoulder, the silence enveloped youâbut something vibrated inside.
You slowly sat on the edge of your bed, leaning forward, your hands resting on your knees. A small smile appeared on your face, but your thoughts were no longer about studying, notes, or success.
You realized that the entire dayâthe meetings, the closeness, the playful glances, the chess, the coffeeâŚâall revolved around Tom in your mind. A warm, strange feeling crept over you, one you had tried to ignore until now.
It was more than respect or mere curiosity, and you felt your heart beat a little faster.
As you leaned back and stared at the ceiling in the faint light, it became perfectly clear: you harbored feelings for Tom. Not just respect, not just playful curiosity⌠but a deeper, personal attachment, both thrilling and frightening.
...
Tom entered his own room, the quiet crackle of the fireplace accompanying every movement. After the door closed, he paused for a moment and leaned back in his chair.
He knew the game he was playing was dangerous. A student and a professor. Yet instead of being deterred, he enjoyed it.
You came to his mind. Your sharp mind, your strategic sense, your hunger for powerâall shining as brightly as his own dark ambitions. He saw your talent,your potential⌠and the faint shadow of darkness in you that could one day lead you down the path of a Death Eater.
And yet⌠perhaps he felt more. Perhaps he truly liked you. Perhaps he enjoyed your company. Perhaps he liked the scent of vanilla and caramel coffee.
A soft sigh escaped his lips, meant only for himself, as his gaze rested on the empty corner of the room. He was a professor, and you were a studentâŚ
The thoughts slowly circled in his mind: the dayâs events, the smiles, the quiet touches⌠and he knew that this game, this close connection, was leading both of you toward something entirely different.
...
You were now sitting in Tomâs office, half leaning on his desk while he reclined in his chair, watching you. The afternoon light filtered through the window, casting golden streaks across the books lined up on the shelves.
"So you think Dumbledore actually enjoys all these endless assignments?" you asked casually.
"Even if he doesnât enjoy them, he certainly likes seeing the students suffer through them," he said with dry humor.
"Cruel," you noted with a smile.
"More like⌠consistent," Tom corrected.
The conversation was light. Every now and then, Tom would look you over, as if simultaneously analyzing and enjoying your company. You no longer even noticed how natural it felt to sit there in his office, as if you had always belonged there.
"By the wayâŚ" you began a bit more cautiously, "is our⌠coffee-and-study program still on today?"
Tom paused for a moment over the parchment on his desk. "Iâm afraid not this week," he said calmly. "Iâll be quite busy."
The response was simple, matter-of-fact⌠but something in you immediately tightened. Your smile dimmed slightly. "Oh⌠of course," you said quickly, as if you needed to explain yourself even to your own thoughts. "Sorry, that was a stupid question. Obviously youâre busy. Youâre a professor, after all, with so much to do"
Tom just watched for a few seconds. He didnât like seeing your disappointment; he hated that he had caused it. A troubling sense of satisfaction mixed with unease stirred within him, seeing you sad.
"I have a meeting⌠with a certain group," he finally said."Exceptional wizards," he continued calmly. "Those who are never satisfied with what the world offers. They want more. Power. Influence."
His eyes now studied you sharply. "ActuallyâŚ" he said slowly, "if you wanted, you could come with me."
There was a darker curiosity in his gaze. "I think they would find you⌠interesting."
You nodded slowly. "Alright," you finally said. "Iâll go."
Riddleâs gaze lingered on you for a moment. He didnât smile broadly, but there was a flash of satisfaction in his eyes. "Good decision," he said quietly.
You stood up from the chair, gathered your bag, and started toward the door. Before stepping out, you glanced back at him one more time. "So⌠weâll meet there," you said.
Tom nodded slightly. "Iâll be right by your side."
His eyes followed you as you left the office. The door closed slowly behind you, and the sounds of the corridor swallowed your footsteps.
Tom remained at his desk, his fingers tapping slowly on the wood.
Interesting. He had been thinking a lot about you.
He wasnât the kind of man who easily let others get close. People were usually tools to him: useful, clever, ambitious, loyal. If not⌠they were insignificant.
Most people were predictable, but you⌠not entirely. Yes, he saw the darkness in you. The desire for power. The strategic thinking during your chess games. The sharpness with which you observed the world. Exactly the qualities that could make someone valuable on his side. Perhaps⌠one day, even among the Death Eaters.
But that wasnât the only reason he was intrigued. Most of his followers respected, admired, or feared him. But you⌠you spoke with him, debated with him. Sometimes even laughed at him, and for some reason⌠he enjoyed it.
The thought was slightly disconcerting, because when you had felt disappointed earlier⌠it wasnât part of the plan that he would invite you. And yet, he acted instinctively.
...
You stood before the mirror, staring at yourself for a moment. The black dress clung to your figure, the corseted waist subtly accentuating your shape. The dark fabric shimmered elegantly with every movement. You put on black heels. You adjusted your hair, then ran your fingers over the dress. The girl reflected in the mirror was no longer just a student. She was someone ready to step into a far more dangerous game.
This wasnât just a meeting for you. It was something entirely different. Tomâs world. The thought brought a small smile to your lips.
Inside Tomâs room, the dim light cast soft shadows. The embers of the fireplace glowed slowly, throwing orange light across the lined books and dark furniture.
He stood by the window for a moment, arms crossed, reflecting once more on the eveningâthe meeting, the group, and you. The thought made the corner of his mouth curl into a faint, barely noticeable smile.
Finally, he slowly put on his coat. He adjusted it with a single motion over his shoulder, then stepped in front of the mirror. A calm, confident man stared back at himâdark eyes, perfectly groomed hair, natural elegance that drew attention instinctively.
He knew this day shimmered with a cruel kind of destiny. You'd finally see him, not just some boy lost in the dark arts, but a god. A dark lord bathed in glory. He wondered, if you'd tremble, maybe worship him like the fallen, or if, tragically, he'd have to silence you forever.
His fingers smoothed over his shirt cuff. "This will be an interesting evening," he murmured to himself. Then he switched off the light and stepped into the corridor.
...
When you arrived, you paused for a moment at the door to adjust your dress. The black fabric draped elegantly, the corset held your waist snugly, and your heels clicked softly against the stone floor.
He was already there, by the candlelit columns when you drifted in. Shadowed by a dark coat. His eyes, dark pools, saw you whole. You wondered, what those eyes would look like, lost in love, faded and golden. He was the demon you dreamed of, the handsomest angel fallen from grace.
A small, satisfied smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Right on time," he said quietly.
You glanced around the room for a moment. Strange people were gathered in small groups, dressed in dark clothing, engaged in quiet, serious conversations. Several looked toward you, including a woman standing next to Tom. She was tall, in a sleek black outfit made of subtly shimmering fabric that followed her every movement. Her long dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders, yet every strand was perfectly in place, complementing her rigid, commanding posture.
Her face was sharply defined, high cheekbones and dark eyes, filled with a playful sense of danger. Her gaze was both attentive and threatening. You watched her every small motion. You didnât yet know who she was, but something about her aura, her eyes, suggested she was no ordinary woman.
Tom stepped closer to you. "Iâm glad you came," he said softly.
He led you to the center of the room. One step ahead, shoulders straight, his eyes darkly gleaming. They were all looking at him with admiration,you didn't know where to place...was he some kind of leader? Did he lead all of these people?
"Listen, all of you," he began, but his gaze lingered on you, as if his words were primarily for you. "The world is not for the weak. Not for those who fear power, decisions, or responsibility. The world belongs to those who can master themselves and the space around them."
His voice gradually strengthened. "And you, who are here tonight⌠remember, power is not a gift. It is not given to anyone automatically. Power must be earned, with thought and a clear mind. And those who understand this⌠survive, and prevail."
As he spoke, the weight of his words and the intensity of his gaze enveloped you. You felt that he was teaching, observing, and playing with you at the same time. This was not just a speech for the others; in every gesture, Tom made it clear that you were his most important audience.
After the speech, quiet murmurs and the clinking of plates indicated that dinner was approaching. In one corner, candles were already placed on the tables, and the scent of wine mingled with roasted meat, fresh bread, and spices.
Tom slowly guided you to the table. You sat to the right of him, and on your left was the woman whose gaze you had noticed earlier. You still didnât know her exactly, but something in her aura and movements suggested she was far more than a simple companion.
As the first dish were set before you, conversation gradually unfolded. You slowly realized that her eyes frequently flicked toward Tom. When she lightly touched his shoulder with a gentle but deliberate motion, a strange, hot sensation ran through your stomach.
You immediately tried to mask your reaction. A quick glance at your plate, your hand slowly reaching for your glass, as if the movement were natural. "Who⌠is the one sitting on your left?" you asked.
"Bellatrix," he replied. "She is⌠important."
That little tremor down in your soul, it bloomed into something darker, like a faded dream turning green with envy.
Tom immediately noticed that something had changed in you."Whatâs wrong?" he asked quietly, leaning a little closer.
You tried to hide your real feelings with a smile."Nothing, just⌠the atmosphere here is a bit tense," you lied.
Under the table, his hand slowly reached for yours. His touch was gentle. You felt the warmth of his skin beneath yours, and your anxiety slowly easedâyet your heart still beat faster.
"You see," he said softly with a faint smile, "thereâs no reason to be tense. Youâre here now, and Iâm paying attention to you."
The gesture was both protective and intimate. It wasnât intrusive, yet it said everything: he was there for you, and the moment belonged only to the two of you.
After a while, Tom slowly released your hand beneath the table. The movement felt natural. Meanwhile, you tried to regain your composure and shifted your attention to the other side of the table.
The man sitting across from you leaned slightly forward."It seems we havenât met yet," he said politely. "Barty Crouch Jr."
His smile was easy, slightly playful, and when he spoke it was clear he enjoyed the exchange."The Dark Lord rarely brings new people among us," he remarked with curiosity. "Which is why Iâm particularly interested in you."
The Dark Lord...Professor Tom Riddle,who was he, really? The dream you've built of him, it's all faded. Do you even know him at all? Or did you fall for a shadow, a phantom? Was he a dangerous man doomed from the start?
"Then I suppose⌠Iâve been given quite a special honor," you said lightly. "Though I suspect it was more his curiosity that brought me here than any merit of mine."
Barty chuckled softly and leaned a little closer across the table."Oh, no," he shook his head playfully. "The Dark Lordâs curiosity⌠doesnât usually bring such elegant company with it."
"Then I can consider myself lucky," you replied with ease. "Itâs a rare occasion when someone finds themselves among such⌠distinguished company."
"Distinguished?" he repeated, tilting his head slightly. "Thatâs a rather diplomatic word for whatâs happening here. But I must admit, itâs far more interesting when someone doesnât immediately get frightened by this⌠company."
"Perhaps," you said calmly, "because Iâm curious."
Barty laughed again, this time more genuinely."Oh, I like that," he said. "Curiosity is a dangerous trait."
"Especially when it leads someone into the company of the wrong people," you replied.
His gaze lingered on you for a brief moment, and a half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth."Now Iâm beginning to understand why he brought you here.Itâs rather difficult not to notice you."
You paused for a moment before answering, then slowly smiled. You realized that this man was flirting with you."Then perhaps Iâm lucky," you said calmly, gently turning your glass between your fingers.
Bartyâs eyes lit up at your reply."Believe me," he answered playfully, "the word interesting is sometimes far too mild for what happens here."
You raised an eyebrow slightly."So now youâre flattering me?"
"Iâm only observing," Barty said with an easy smile. "And what I see is quiteâŚ"
"Crouch."Tomâs voice cut in.
Bartyâs gaze immediately turned toward him. The playful smile faded from his face in an instant.
Tom didnât look at him for long, just cast a brief, dark glance across the table."If you have so much energy," he said quietly, "perhaps you should focus on our next matter."
Barty straightened in his chair immediately."Of course, my Lord," he replied at once.
The earlier light, flirtatious mood vanished in a moment. Barty said nothing more, instead idly turning his glass while keeping his attention respectfully on the table.
Riddleâs eyes glinted darkly, and beneath his usual calm, elegant manner there was something sharper vibrating thereâa possessive intent."Now," he said slowly, "I understand who is trying to gain whose attention."
The way he looked at Barty, all gestures and honeyed tone, it was clear that this situation was unmistakably his territory. His eyes watched every move, but always drifted back to you. And in that hazy, golden light, it hit you. Tom Riddle consideres you his. And god, it felt like a dream, knowing he felt something, anything...but you were still lost in the shadows of his secret.
"Be careful who you play with here," he added quietly. "I decide what is acceptable."
The moment he touched you,your breath hitched. His hands, they found your thighs, and he held on tight, like they were finally home. His eyes, those pools of desire, watched every little reaction you gave.
"Careful," he murmured. "you're not made for their world." He gestured to his subjects. "You belong with me.To me, forevermore."
Your breath caught, and God, you yearned for it. To be his,to belong with him,utterly. Your heartbeat was faster than ever.
A small, almost disbelieving smile appeared on your face."What about Bellatrix?"
Your gaze briefly slid toward the woman sitting to his left. Bellatrix was speaking with someone else at the moment, but even so her posture remained confident and commanding.
Tom gave you that crooked little smirk. "Don't worry," drawled, his hand heavy on your thigh, possessive as a forgotten dream. "I am not interested in her,she is just faithful. Besides,she's already spoken for."
After the conversation, the murmur at the table slowly faded. The plates were empty, and at the bottom of the wine glasses only a thin red line remained.
He stood up.The chair slid back on the stone floor with a soft scrape, and in that moment the room fell almost completely silent. All eyes turned to him."I think we've talked enough for today," he said calmly.
"You all know what to do." Some nodded, while others were already standing up.Bellatrix was one of the first to stand, then with an elegant motion adjusted her dress and walked out.
Barty Crouch Jr. stood up from his chair. Before he walked away, he cast a brief glance at youâa faint, slightly cheeky half-smileâthen followed the others.
Within a few minutes, the room slowly emptied.The murmur of conversations faded down the corridors, the sound of footsteps died away.
You remained.
"Well," he said softly, "it seems you survived your first evening."
"Thanks to you," you replied quietly, with a small smile you didnât try to hide. "If you hadnât been there⌠I might not even know how to act around these people."
"You see it correctly," he answered calmly, his voice slow and measured. "But donât forget⌠itâs always up to you how you play within the rules. I only show the way."
Tom stood up from the table and looked at you for a moment, as if weighing whether to say something more."Come," he finally said quietly.
The candlelight dimly lit the way as you stepped out into the corridor. Your footsteps echoed on the stone floor while Tom led you through the building with a steady, calm pace.
Outside, the streets were quiet. The air was cool, and the yellow light of distant lanterns stretched long shadows across the stones.For a while, neither of you spoke.
Eventually, he stopped in front of a door. It was a simple dark wooden door, with no special markings.Tom opened it, then stepped aside to let you enter.
"I didnât want you to have to go back alone this late," he said calmly. "I thought⌠it might be better if you rested here for a while."
The room was surprisingly orderly. A fireplace crackled softly, books lined the shelves, and on the table lay a few parchments and an open bottle of ink.
Tom closed the door behind him, then leaned casually against the wall.His gaze settled on you again.
"Is this⌠your room?" you asked quietly.
Riddle looked at you for a moment, then slowly nodded."Yes," he answered simply.
After his reply, the situation suddenly became clear to you. You werenât standing in a guest room. You were in Tomâs room. Alone.
You felt warmth slowly rise to your face. Quickly, you looked away, as if the bookshelf had suddenly become far more interesting.But Tom noticed.
That faint, almost amused half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouthâthe one he wore when he knew exactly what was going through someone elseâs mind.
"Is something wrong?" he asked calmly, though there was a trace of playfulness in his voice.
His gaze slid over you for a moment, then returned to your face, where the blush was still visible."I didnât think the idea would make you this flustered," he added quietly.
For a moment, you awkwardly adjusted the sleeve of your dress, as if buying yourself a little time.
"Iâm not flustered," you finally said quietly, though your voice revealed you were still trying to compose yourself. "I just⌠didnât expect it."
Tom slowly pushed himself away from the wall and took a few steps toward the center of the room. His movements were calm, but with every step he came closer to you."You didnât expect to end up here?" he asked softly.
The candlelight cast faint shadows across his face, and his dark eyes were far more attentive now than they had been at dinner.
You slowly let out a breath."Yeah..." you finally admitted quietly.
Your gaze slipped to the floor for a moment, then returned to him. The faint blush he had already noticed was still visible on your face."I never thought⌠that one day Iâd be standing in your room," you added honestly.
His eyes lingered on you, attentive, as if noticing every small change in your expression. Slowly, a faint, almost satisfied half-smile appeared at the corner of his mouth."Interesting," he said quietly.
"Interesting," he said quietly.
He stepped half a step closer, though he still left a little space between you."Because I, on the other handâŚ" he began slowly, "have been expecting it for some time."
The blush on your face deepened, and your heart was beating so fast you were sure he could hear it. For a moment you couldnât even hold his gaze.
You turned away abruptly and walked to the window, putting a little distance between the two of you. The cool glass and the dark night outside helped you steady yourself.Tom watched you silently, his eyes following every movement.
You took a quiet breath."I think⌠we should talk about something else," you said, still facing the window. "Something more important."
Tom tilted his head slightly, studying you."More important?" he repeated calmly. "And what would that be?"
You turned back toward him, your expression now more serious."You," you said simply. "Who you really are."
For a moment Tom didnât seem to understand. His expression barely changed, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes."What exactly do you mean?" he asked slowly.
You folded your arms lightly, gathering your thoughts."You left out a rather important detail," you said. "When you brought me into all of this."
Tomâs eyes narrowed slightly."And that is?"
You held his gaze."The fact that youâre a Dark Lord."
Tom stepped closer to the window with a slow, deliberate pace, stopping behind you but still keeping a respectful distance. His gaze was dark and deep, yet not intrusive; it felt as if he were simultaneously observing and weighing.
âDon't tell me, you're scared of me.â he said calmly.
âNo,â you replied softly, your voice trembling slightly. âI just donât know who you really are.â
Tom slowly stepped closer, his gaze fixed steadily on yours.âYou're the only one who knows me,â he said calmly.
He carefully raised his hand and brushed it along your face. The gesture was gentle, yet deliberate. You instinctively leaned into his touch.
âIâm still the same person,â he continued. âthe one you drink caramel coffee with, the one you tell about your days at school, the one you play chess withâŚâ
He paused briefly,his hand leaving your cheeks.âBut today⌠today you saw another side of me. And you need to know,â he added, his eyes piercing deep into yours, âthat this is a part of me.â
You turned to face him fully, the cool stone at your back. âWho are you to me? Right now, in this moment. The man who drinks coffee with me and pretends to let me win at chess? Or⌠My Lord?â
âI am both,â he whispered. âThe one who craves your thoughts, your sweet little laugh, your presence across a checkered board, bathed in the hazy lamplight⌠and the one who aches for you, my equal, your breath mingling with mine, your very soul entwined with my own. They are not separate. You cannot have one without the other now. Do you understand?â
His words should've scared you away, sent you running for the hills. But a dangerous warmth bloomed instead, low in your soul. The danger of it all, that was the drug. And there it was, that dark, twisted beauty, the way the light fades into the dark. The gentle professor and the dark lord... both real. Both here. Both yours.
âI understand,â you breathed, the words barely audible.
He closed the distance between you in one fluid step. His kiss wasn't soft,it was a coquest, a whispered promise of forever. His mouth swallowed yours whole, a taste of champagne and dangerous authority. You whimpered into him,your hands flying to his chest,pulling him closer.
He broke the kiss, his own breathing ragged. âYou are mine,â he stated, the words leaving no room for argument. His hands left your face, sliding down your neck, over your shoulders, tracing the neckline of your dress. âTell me what you want.â
âYou.â
âGood.âOne hand slipped behind you, finding the delicate zipper of your dress. The sound of it sliding down was obscenely loud in the quiet. Cool air kissed your spine, followed by the scorching trail of his fingertips. He pushed the fabric from your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet in a whisper of silk. You stood before him in only your underwear, exposed to the night and his burning gaze.
"Beautiful," he whispered, like a prayer. His eyes, a hungry, worshipful shadow, traced your figure like a forgotten melody. He spun you around, slow and sweet, your bare skin flush against the dark fabric of his suit, his arms a velvet cage. And the cruel, beautiful ache of him pressed against you.
His lips found that sweet spot where your neck fades into your shoulder, a soft bite, then a gentle surrender of his tongue. One hand found your breast, hidden beneath lace, thumb circling, teasing until you ached. The other hand slid down, past the waistband of your panties finding you already already burning for him.
"Taste so good," he purred. "Tried not to want you this way ,but fuck sweetheart."
A low moan hummed against your very skin. "So eager for your Lord." he breathed,his fingers sliding through your wetness, gathering it, then circling your clit with a precision that made your knees buckle. âIs it the danger that excites you? Or is it simply me?â
Words just wouldn't come. Head heavy, falling back against his shoulder, and a sound escaped your lips as his touch teased, slow circles at first, driving you mad. Then faster, harder, a rhythm that left you panting.His other hand pinched your nipple through the lace,sending shivers down your spine.This was nothing like the tentative touches you might have imagined in the safe confines of Hogwarts. This was raw, primal, an unleashing."It's You", you breathed.
âTom⌠pleaseâŚâ you begged, unsure what you were begging for.
âPlease what?â he growled, his fingers pushing deeper, curling inside you, stretching you.
âPlease,My Lordâ you gasped, the world narrowing to the stroke of his fingers, the bite of his teeth on your shoulder. âNeed you. All of you.â
That seemed to be the answer he was chasing. He turned you then, lifting you up like a feather to sit on the wide bed. He stepped between your thighs, pushing them open. His hands moved to his shirt ,then his belt, the buckle's clink a deliberate echo. He freed himself and your breath caught at the sightâthick, proud, the tip glistening. He was magnificent and terrifyingly real, all at once.
"This is who I am," he whispered. "The one who'll hold you close, and the one who'll lose himself in you. They're all the same."
With a single, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside you.The cry that left your lips was swallowed by the night. The feeling was overwhelming. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him claiming you.You moaned, your hips lifting to meet his making him groan, his forehead dropping down against yours.
"That feel good,sweetheart?"
"Yes," you sighed, hips swiveling to find more friction. "Please,My Lord."
Then he began to move. It was slow at firstâcareful, gentle. The movement pulled a soft sound from your soul, your fingers holding on to him, finding your place in the hazy closeness.
"Taking me so well, feels so good." he moved in and out, getting you both used to the feeling of him.
He held you like you were made of stardust. His touch tracing the curves of your thighs, pulling you in close.The shift made your breath catch, the new closeness sending a warm shiver through you.
"That's it sweetness," he licks and sucks a nipple into his mouth.
Your head fell back against the softest pillow. Your rhythm turned into something deeper, each touch a little more sure, a little more desperate. His name slipped from your lips, a prayer trembling with all the feels.
The world faded, until it was just the two of you. His movements running free. A pressure, sweet and heavy, bloomed inside. Words dissolved, replaced with whispers and desperate little cries.
âMy LordâŚâ you murmured again as the feeling building inside you grew stronger.
âSweetheart⌠Iâve got you.â
His words were enough to unravel everything. And you just fell apart. Body shaking, nails digging into his back, a white-hot pleasure washing over you in waves. Tom groaned, a deep, echoing sound as his hips moved.He pushed one last time and you felt him. That warmth, filling you from the inside.
For a fleeting moment never of you moved,untouched by reality. Then, ever so softly, he leaned into you, his weight a gentle surrender, a solace. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart against your own,you both struggled to find your breath in the aftermath.
Warnings::Protective behavior (overprotective tendencies),Jealousy,Mutual pining,Mild possessiveness (non-toxic, no control),Injury mentions (bruises, blisters from ballet),Emotional yearning
Grumpy!Bucky who pretends heâs not watching you rehearse but somehow always ends up stationed in the darkest corner of the studio, eyes glued to you like a guard dog with separation anxiety.
Grumpy!Bucky who insists ballet âcanât be that hardâ until he sees you come home with blistered toes and bruises blooming along your ribs.And then he goes quiet.
Ballerina!reader who laughs it off and tells him itâs normal, which only makes him scowl harder because nothing ânormalâ about you being hurt to him.
Grumpy!Bucky who absolutely loses his mind when anyone else so much as looks at you for too long during rehearsals or performances.
Ballerina!reader who notices the way his metal fingers flex every time a male dancer lifts you.
Grumpy!Bucky who is an overprotective menace, walking you home even when itâs broad daylight, like youâre the most valuable thing in the city.
Ballerina!reader who catches him holding his breath during difficult sequences and biting the inside of his cheek like heâs the one performing.
Grumpy!Bucky who gently tapes your toes with surprising tenderness, when itâs just the two of you.
Ballerina!reader who rests a hand on his shoulder while he does it, heart racing at how careful someone so dangerous can be.
Ballerina!reader who pretends not to notice how his ears turn pink when you thank him for coming to watch.
Grumpy!Bucky who is painfully, desperately in love with you and doesnât say it because heâs terrified of wanting something soft and beautiful again.
Grumpy!Bucky who claims ballet music âall sounds the same,â but can identify your favorite variations within seconds.
Ballerina!reader who catches him humming Tchaikovsky while doing the dishes and never lets him live it down.
WINTER EVENT â25 | ęąá´Ę!á´á´á´ x Ęá´á´á´ á´Ę
đৠPRETTY BOY.
đ SUMMARY: decorating your Christmas tree turns into decorating Tommy instead. ;)
đ WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. blowjob. tying a ribbon around his cock. lil kisses and overall fluffy sub!Tom doing anything to please us! <33
đ AUTHORâS NOTE: my BABY do you see his lil ribbon omg. (yes, this pic of him is my discord status. no, I will not change itâever.)
wordcount: 1,9k
The decorative part of the holiday season had always been your favourite. Over the years, youâd accumulated ten boxes worth of winter-themed ornamentsâusing up nearly a quarter of your storage room in the attic.Â
It had still started out mostly innocently this very morning. Bringing inside the Christmas tree youâd bought at a local seller not too far from your shared home, and digging through the boxes for pink decorationâthis year's chosen colourâpassed without any complications other than one broken bauble.Â
Even the tree was the most beautiful youâd had in recent years, and it did not take ages to find the perfect angle and make it stand upright. Outside it snowed lazilyâa few single, fluffy snowflakes dancing in the misty December air, adding to the frosty landscape, covering the ground like powdered sugar.
The gentle tunes of Christmas music travelled through the narrow alleyways, coming from a nearby holiday market, and accompanied the both of you as you hung up the last few ornaments.Â
âJust the bows left,â you exhaled a breath of satisfaction, eyes swaying around the room. Stockings hung on the chimney, the pine treeâs branches and needles glowing warmly beneath the fairy lights, and a content-looking Tom, whose eyes met yours lastly.Â
He nodded with a gentle smile and tied the satin fabric around one of the branches where you couldnât reach, while you took care of the lower part of the tree. The sun had long set behind the horizon, and you were more than glad when only three ribbons remained at the bottom of one of the boxes.Â
Tom moved to grab one of them, however, instead of placing it on the pine branches, he took a step closer and tied it around a strand of your hair.Â
âThey are more beautiful when you wear them,â he murmured, his warm, brown eyes peeking down at yours. The corner of his mouth lifted into a soft smile as he took in your pleased expression, and his hand, which had just held the ribbon, wandered down the side of your cheek, gently cupping your face.
He took a second or two to simply admire youâslowly brushing the pad of his thumb over your cheekbone before he leaned in, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and then connected his lips with your own.Â
It was a slow, sensual kiss. Not rushed like the many youâd shared these past few weeks in the rush you found yourself in every single day due to the holiday season. While intended as the most calm and quiet time of the year, many people just like yourself would perhaps call it the opposite.Â
Whether it was gathering your presents, decorating, workâit all drained your energy much faster than you would have wanted it to. This dark and foggy weather did its part too, of course. When you stepped outside your front door in the morning, the sun hadnât risen yet, and by the time you returned in the evening, it was nighttime again.Â
For Tom, it was even worse. Due to his position in the Ministry, he had to wake up earlier than you and often returned after 8pmâtoo, exhausted, although he did not show it.Â
Youâd almost gotten lost in thoughts and the sensation of his lips gently moving against yours when he pulled away just a few inches, waiting for your eyes to blink open and meet his again.Â
âIâve missed you,â he murmured then, thumb still drawing patterns on your skin.Â
âMe too, Tommy.â you replied, rising to your tiptoes to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth. âSo much.âÂ
His fingers reached to open the knot of the ribbon in your hair, but you stopped himâinstead, you too reached for one and secured it to his dark curls.Â
As you did, your breath fanned over the side of his face and neck, and although involuntarily so, he shivered at the feeling of it. Of how close you stood to him, the familiar warmth your body radiated, and, of course, your sweet, concentrated face as you tied the fabric to his hair.Â
The knot that had formed in his throat had wandered to the pits of his stomach by the time you were done, and an entirely different sensation blossomed there when your lips brushed over his jaw, holding onto his arms as you pressed a kiss to his cheek.Â
âYouâre so cute when you blush, Tommy.â you whispered, your expression morphing into something softer, more intimate. âIt matches the colour of the ribbon in your hair.âÂ
He did not reply with anything other than a soft hum under his breath, one arm around your waist pulling you closer, pressing you up against him as his lips met yours once more.Â
Still soft, still Tomânot expressive with his needs, rather putting yours first.Â
But, so close to him, you felt what he needed, what he was craving.Â
âSo needy,â you purred as you parted, perfectly reading the darkened colour of his eyes and his fingers, curled into fists at the side of his bodyâtrying to control himself and be good for you. âSit down on the couch. Iâll be right there.âÂ
Tom did as you said, of course. He did not often argue with youâand most definitely not when he knew what youâd planned.Â
Grabbing the last ribbon from the cardboard box, you too made your way to the cushioned living-room couch. Though, in place of sitting down beside him, or, how heâd imaginedâastride himâyou dropped to your knees onto the carpet.Â
Deep breaths. Tom wanted to look at you, he really didâbut he was afraid that if he did, he might come just from the sight of you on your knees before him. It had been too longâtoo long since heâd last gotten to feel you properly, be able to touch you, or just enjoy a moment of peace. And now, you expected him to do just fine as he was about to experience all the above at once?Â
He couldnât, heâÂ
âEyes on me, Tommy.â you whispered, swiftly undoing his belt and the zipper of his trousers. âBe a good boy and look at what I am going to do to you.âÂ
At some point, youâd be the death of him. Tom had never been more certain of anything in his life.Â
God, he should have run as soon as he saw those damned eyes which had drawn him in from the first moment on.Â
Charms class, somewhere in the second week of September of your first year at Hogwartsâhe remembered it as though it just happened yesterday.Â
His eyes wandered to yours in the meantime, and he regretted it in an instant. The look painted across your features did only do little part of his whole nervous system lighting on fireâyour hand, dipping beneath his trousers and underwear, did the rest.Â
Fucking hell.Â
You did not grant him a second to catch his breath and regain his composure, thoughâno, you loved him like this. Undone, whimpering, and squirming just from the slightest touch. You needed this like he needed you.Â
When your hand circled him, he was rock-hard already. You hummed, and then, swiftly looped the smooth satin around his girth, creating a ribbon just like you had done countless times on the branches of your pine tree.Â
Tomâs last sane thought had long left his mind, and he did not interrupt his concentration to question you.Â
If you wanted him like this, youâd have him.Â
âAll done.â you smiled, eyes lifting to his, a knowing smirk playing on your lips. âMy pretty boy. The prettiest I couldâve ever wished for.âÂ
He nearly sobbed when the pad of your thumb brushed over the swollen head of his cock, collecting the pearly bead of precum that had formed at the top, and smeared it down the length of his tip.Â
His hips bucked at the sensation, but it only made it worseâhe thrust up into the loose grip of your hand and groaned.Â
âPlease,â he croaked, voice low and broken. Â
Poor boy.Â
âPlease what, sweetheart?â you asked, repeating the same movement youâd just completed. âYou know youâll have to be more specific if you want me to do something.âÂ
âFuckâ please, please let meâ let me feel you, darling.âÂ
Tom was so sweet when he begged, utterly unravelled, you almost wanted to prolong his torture for at least a littleâbut today, after all heâd done to help you, youâd be merciful.Â
And you too had missed this too much to wait any longer.Â
Your head dipped, tongue darting out to circle just the top of his lengthânever breaking the eye contact between you two.Â
You were going to ruin him.Â
His hand flew to your hair as soon as your lips wrapped around him, just his tip, and you suckled gently on him.Â
âI canâtâ I canât, pleaseââ he whimpered, second hand searching for yours, intertwining them.Â
âCanât what?â you asked innocently as you kitten-licked the very top of him, still watching every single spasm of his muscle, catching every broken groan spilling over his parted lips.Â
âCanâtâ take it,â he managed finally, and oh, you were sure he couldnât by the way he was twitching even under your soft grip, while you only focused on his tip.Â
âHmmm,â you murmured, swirling your tongue around him, which, again, had a low, throaty groan escape him, head tipping back against the cushioned couch. âBut you will, wonât you? I decorated you so beautifully, Tommy. Be the good boy I know you can be. Can you do that for me?âÂ
A sharp, half-sob, half-inhale split through the short-lived silence between you, and when he nodded, you continued.Â
Continued his torture that had driven him to the very edge of his usually controlled self.Â
Never again would he go this long without thisâhe'd come home during his few breaks if he had to. Every day without you was a waste. Every day without feeling you, touching you, pleasing youâwas the cruellest form of torture he could fathom.Â
Although, you, teasing and suckling at merely the head of his cock, came a close second.Â
Youâd tightened the fabric around him just a little, still working him with your tongue. He wouldnât get more than thisâin fact, you knew he didnât need more than this. The salty taste of his precum had long spread to your taste buds, and by the way he was holding onto your hand for his dear life, you were certain it wouldnât take him much longer.Â
Oh, you loved how pathetic he was for you. Only for you.Â
âDarâ darling, I am going toâ please, fuckâ IââÂ
You did not get to tell him to hold back for a little longerâbecause just a split second later, his hips stuttered, thrusting halfway into your mouth as he spilled himself on your tongue. Warm and sticky before you swallowed it gleefully, licking him clean until he pulled you off, whimpering in overstimulation.Â
Rising from the floor, you settled on his lap like he had imagined you would. Your hand gently brushed one of his dark, messy curls from his forehead before you leaned in to kiss his bite-swollen lips, then cupped his face, having him look directly into your strict, challenging eyes.Â
âRibbon stays on. You did not ask, Tommy.âÂ
Yes, you definitely were going to be the death of himâand that, perhaps, already tonight.Â
thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3
â
masterlist. | winter event.
Š2025 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.
Summary::You find a wounded Bucky in the forestâs shadows and take him in. Healing turns into something tense
Warnings/AN::injury, blood, violence (Hydra), trauma, dissociation, emotional tension, slow burn, mild intimacy, abandonment. Guess who's back lmao. This will have a second part
The cabin rests at the edge of the forest as though it had grown there. Its timbers are darkened by decades of rain and wind.its walls etched with shadow, its windows staring into the mountains. This place means home to you.
You move through your home with deliberate care. The floorboards creak beneath your steps. Shelves sag under the weight of jars filled with roots, dried herbs, and powders whose names might scare a stranger.
You are alone, yet not lonely. The cabin, the forest,they are companions in ways that people rarely are. But tonight the air is strange. There is a subtle tremor in the usual order of things. Something â or someone moves just beyond the boundary where sight falters. You can feel it. Call it,"witchysense".
You sense it before you see it.A presence in the forest.Not a threat,well...not yet. But something new has arrived. And the quiet you have guarded so fiercely, feels suddenly fragile.
The forest beyond your cabin has always seemed larger. You have walked its paths more times than you can count, yet each time it seems to rearrange itself subtly â like a mind that remembers you but does not entirely trust you. Some days, the sun strikes through the branches in patterns. Other days, a fog descends, pressing against your skin and guts.
You have heard the villagers whisper about it in tones of reverence and fear. They call it the âGarden of Eden,â though no one ever bothers to explain why. Perhaps it is because the forest seems untouched by decay, or perhaps it is the way the nature seems to obey to rules. Some say the forest tests those who enter it, measuring courage and patience. But you never believed any of these chitchats.
Still, there is something in the way the locals speak of it that unsettles you. Eden, they say, and yet there is nothing heavenly about the place. The soil is rich, yes, but it is ruinous.
...
He has been running for days.Though running is hardly the right word anymore â more like crawling.His steps drag through the underbrush with the weight of a wounded animal. Branches claw at his clothes.There is a ringing in his skull that refuses to quiet.Like a blade striking the inside of his mind over and over. Sometimes he forgets to breathe altogether, and the sudden burn in his lungs reminds him that he is still alive.
The word feels foreign. "The Garden of Eden", it would have made him laugh if he remembered how.This forest is no paradise. It is a place of judgment. He can feel it measuring his decay with cold precision.
Hydraâs mark is still on him,on his skin, on his bones. He fled the facility violently, with no sense of direction. He does not know his name, not truly. "Bucky" he had heard from that blonde man.
His wounds throb beneath his shirt, damp with blood that has long since dried. Something in metal arm aches with a dull pain. Every scent hits him like a memory he cannot place...sap, moss, the raw tang of earth â and the faint rot of his own suffering.
He does not remember a lot,but he remembers his mother. Small images of her â of her hair,her scent,that she used to read him poems before bed. He doesn't know it's name,but he recalls a small verse.
âThe sun shone down upon that putrescence,
As if to roast it to a turn.â
He collapses to one knee. The forest tilts violently. His vision blurs at the edges. His breath rattles. For a moment he thinks that maybe the forest will swallow him whole. Maybe this is what the villagers meant. Maybe Eden was never meant for the living,but for the rotting.
It begins as a sound so small, that for a moment you think you imagined it. Then it comes again. Something heavy meeting the earth. A collapse.
You step outside before the fear has time to form. The air is cold enough to bite. The world is too silent.
And then you see him.
He lies crumpled at the edge of the clearing, a dark silhouette against the pale spill of moonlight. For a heartbeat you mistake him for some fallen statue. But statues do not breathe in a ragged way.
You run closer to him.
The forest floor rushes beneath you, branches snag at your sleeves, trying to hold you back. But you are already kneeling beside him.He looks unreal.
His skin is pale beneath the grit and blood, touched by a chill that has nothing to do with the night. His lashes lie dark against his cheeks, trembling faintly with each uneven breath.There is a kind of ruin about him â sacred, almost ceremonial.
For one impossible moment, as you kneel beside him,you remember stories of angels cast from heaven. Their wings torn away by violence.Of bright beings extinguished,their fall leaving stars across the sky.
He is ruined, yes.But there is a majesty in that ruin.A grandeur that is almost painful to look at.A celestial catastrophe, delivered to your feet by fate.
His eyelids flutter but do not fully open, and for a moment you are struck by the sense that consciousness clings to him only by a thread.
You touch his shoulder lightly.His skin is cold, almost shockingly so, the chill sinking through your fingertipsm He tenses, a reflex born of too much harm. But he does not pull away,he cannot.
âEasy,â you murmur, though youâre not sure he can hear you.
You slip an arm beneath his back, the other around his torso. He is heavier than he looks. And you thank the gods for your muscles. His head falls against your shoulder with the awkward helplessness of a wounded thing, and you feel the shudder of his breath against your collarbone.
He tries to speak.A broken sound escapes him.
âItâs all right,â you whisper, though youâre not sure it is.
He sags fully into your hold, surrendering to the pull of your strength.Step by step, you guide him toward the cabin. His boots drag through the moss. You open the door, and maneuver him inside. The familiar scent of herbs and smoke rises to greet you.
You lower him carefully into a chair. He folds into it with a heavy collapse, one hand sliding uselessly against his knee. His head lolls to the side.
Up close, he looks even more fragile in his broken grandeur. The flickering firelight carves shadows along his face,revealing bruises in deep violets and sickly blues. His chest rises and falls with a rhythm on the edge of giving up.
You begin with water.Warm, infused with the faint shimmer of the herbs you gathered earlier that week. You press the damp cloth to the blood dried beneath his cheekbone.
His breath hitches sometimes. His brow twitches when you touch the deeper wounds, the ones carved by knife or metal. But he never pushes you away. His body, in its exhaustion, trusts you more than he consciously can.
Over the next hours,then days â his healing becomes a ritual.
You clean the wounds.Grind herbs into powder, mix them into salves that pulse faintly with old magic.Fold bandages with precision.
You do not rush.The days blur. You work through dawn, noon, dusk, and darkness. The exhaustion never reaches you the way it should.Sometimes, when you press your palm to one of his injuries, you feel a faint vibration. He shifts under your touch, his breath deepening, as though he is drifting between pain and dreaming.
You murmur to him anyway.
Soft, practical things.âStay still.â âThis will burn.â âYouâre safe.â
Words he might never remember, but that somehow feel essential.His body changes under your care. Color returns to his skin. His pulse steadies. The fever that haunted him the first night cools gradually, beaten back by your magic and the stubborn resilience embedded in his bones.
He sleeps most of the time.Surfacing only in fragmented moments when he seems to catch the sound of your footsteps or the whisper of your sleeves brushing against his chair.
Once, while you replace the bandage across his ribs, he stirs enough to look at you. Really look.
He doesnât ask where he is or who you are.He simply watches you with bewilderment, as though your face is the first he has seen in a very long time.
âDonât move,â you murmur, adjusting him gently.
You touch his metal arm carefully. It hums faintly beneath your fingers, a cold thing with a strangely living awareness. You sense the violence embedded in it. You wonder how he even got it.It softens under your spell.
...
He wakes.There is no gentle transition,only a sudden awareness, leaving him staring at the low ceiling of an unfamiliar room. The fire crackles softly somewhere behind him. It feels too calm.
He inhales.The air tastes of herbs and smoke and something faintly sweet.His body answers him with pain,but not as sharp as he is used to.Bandages hold his ribs in place. His shoulder no longer burns. His metal arm, usually a constant ache, lies still beside him.
He sits up too quickly.The room tilts and the pain returns.
And then he sees you.Youâre seated at a small table, your hands busy grinding herbs into a bowl. The kind of calm that doesnât belong to a world he understands. You look up only when you feel his gaze and his throat tightens.
âWhyâŚ?â It comes out raw.
You rise slowly, giving him the kind of space people usually donât bother to give him.That alone confuses him.
âWhy did youââ His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth. He hasnât spoken in days. âWhy would you help me?â
He watches you as if awaiting a blow, a command, a price or anything that resembles the world he crawled out of. Hydra didnât teach him to accept kindness. Hydra taught him to fear it.
âYou were dying,â you say simply.
âThat doesnât mean you had to help,â he mutters, looking away. His eyes land on the bandages wrapping his forearms, his chest, even the careful stitching at his side. Itâs too much attention, too much care.
âI help people,â you say quietly. âWhen I can.âYou take one step closer, then another.
He forces himself to meet your eyes.âYou shouldnât have,â his eyes darken.
âMaybe,â you reply. âBut I did.â
Days pass in that peculiar rhythm you have cultivated,but something subtle shifts. In him,in the space between you.
You notice it first in the small ways.The way his gaze lingers a moment too long on your hands as you adjust a bandage, the almost imperceptible quickening of his breath when you lean closer to inspect a cut. He doesnât speak. But you can feel the pull.
You lean over him, examining the stubborn bruise along his ribs, your fingers tracing the dark, purplish contour with careful precision. The angle is awkward in a way that tugs at your muscles,but you cannot step back.
An impulsive decision solves the problem. You slide yourself down, letting your weight settle into his lap. The movement is subtle, almost imperceptible, but it changes everything.
He freezes.His gaze narrowing slightly as he tries to process the sudden closeness. His jaw tightens, the metal of his arm brushing lightly against your side, sending a shiver up both of you.
âStay⌠stay still,â you murmur, resting your hands against the tense plane of his ribs.
His chest rises unevenly beneath you. He exhales, and you glance up.Those storm-dark eyes flick between panic, and something else you dare not name.Jesus,you are the first attractive woman he has seen in centuries. And you are in his lap. God fobid,he gets a hard-on.
Your lips twitch into a faint smile. You do not speak. You simply press a little closer.
....
It happens the next morning.Everything is in its place â everything except him.
You step toward the corner where he slept. The blanket lies folded with surprising precision. The chair is pushed back in a careful angle. The room feels undisturbed,like he was never here.
He is gone.
Days pass â weeks. You continue your work, tending to your magic, to your rituals, to your solitude,but sometimes you miss your fallen angel from Eden.
Months slip by. You catch yourself glancing at the chair where he sat, touching the bandages you left folded neatly on the table. But you know he will never return.
vaporwave
pixelskylines
blakekathryn
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
