I mainly write for tom riddle and this master list contains most of my work. beware of content warnings before reading.
LAST UPDATED: 19/01/2025
fluff- ♡
angst- ✰
smut- **
implied smut- *
Tom Riddle
One Shots
Sugar * (muggle!reader)
Perhaps it was an accident. Or perhaps the fates were mocking him. He had not meant to venture into the little coffee shop and he had most definitely not meant to return. But he kept coming back and the waitress kept putting sugar packets near his coffee every damn time.
Teach me part 1 * part 2 **
After a conversation takes an interesting turn, you feel awfully inexperienced. So you ask Tom to teach you how to kiss.
Bound by The Ball *
Tom is determined to make you his date to the ball. The only problem? You have a boyfriend—and you absolutely cannot stand Tom Riddle.
Faded ink ♡ part 2 ✰♡ (soulmate au)
“Would you…” He cut himself off, and you wondered if you were imagining the sea of emotions that were swimming in his eyes. “Would you believe me if I said you are destined for me?”
Snap out of it ✰♡
You hated how he could always see right through you as if you were an open book for him to devour. You hated that he was right and most of all, you hated how even after all this time you yearned for him.
Tom must have noticed your conflicted expression because he leaned in closer. "Do not marry him." He pleaded, his tone so...so vulnerable and raw that you almost melted right then and there.
Watching you **
"Do not deny it, little witch." He tsked, his hand travelling from your chin to your face in order to push a strand of your hair behind your ear. "After all, I have noticed you watching me." He said before leaning in as if he was indulging you in a secret. "Because I have been watching you too."
“You know how to ball, I know Aristotle” ♡
Tom finds himself harbouring a small crush on the Slytherin Chaser.
Dance of Shadow and Desire ✰♡
Once, they were friends—until his ambition turned him into the Dark Lord. Years later, he appears on her doorstep, bleeding and unrepentant, his obsession with her as fierce as his thirst for power. Caught between her lingering feelings and the monster he has become, she must decide between her feelings and letting him go.
Temptation * (vampire!reader)
He lifted his head and allowed an arrogant smirk to grace his lips. “We both know you want my blood. More than anything. And I want to be immortal. More than anything. It is a win-win situation for both of us.”
Ghost of him (shifter!reader) ♡✰
Looking at him, knowing it would not last, the tears finally flowed. They came without warning, staining my cheeks with their trails and I did not attempt to wipe them away. Tom had to look away from the sight, and I knew—I knew it was killing him inside. Knowing I would leave and never come back.
"Time for you to wake up."
“A tragic love story” ♡
For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to revel in the feel of him, so close to you yet so out of reach at the same time. You knew what you wished for was a mere fantasy. You have heard tragic stories and tales of two people on the opposite sides of war falling in love. And they were called tragic for a reason.
You knew this would never end well.
Obsession part 1 part 2
His whole mind was plagued by her and he felt stupefied and disoriented. He had found himself silently trailing behind her in the dark corners of the hallways, following her wherever she went. He took note of the people she surrounded herself with, the boys she talked to and every time he would remind himself to stop.
Remind that she was not in his possession for him to act in such a way.
Yet.
The darkness within ♡✰
It hurt, knowing you were forced to watch as the person you loved the most descended into madness.
But perhaps the love you felt for your Tom was big enough to love the monstrous side of him too.
Discipline ** (Professor!Riddle)
“Who are you to teach me discipline? My father?” You spat, glaring at him heatedly.
“Keep that attitude and I will spank you like I am.”
Destined
Something churned in Tom’s heart, something dangerous as he stared at you. You were...similar to him. He had never been able to say that about someone. There had been no one that could understand his feelings— or well, the lack of— and now there you were, the one person in the universe who happened to have the same unfortunate fate as him.
Your girl part 1 part 2
Your gaze would always find him no matter where you were. No matter what you were doing. You felt like a magnet being pulled towards a being that would swallow you like a black hole and leave you in a pit of nothingness.
Oh, how you desired him. It was agonising. Loving him from afar and knowing you would never be his girl.
In his clutches (Yandere!Tom Riddle)
“Never forget who you belong to, darling, or I would be forced to remind you. And you do not want to face my wrath, you poor little thing.”
Or in other words, once Tom Riddle took notice of you, he had to have you.
Little dress **
After a scorching hot day spent trying to find an artefact in France, frustrated reader wants to head down to the beach to cool off. Tom takes her to the beach, yet instead of cooling off things get even more heated.
Touch pt1 ♡ pt2 ♡ pt3 ♡
A palm-reading task in Divination class reveals a very touch starved Tom Riddle, much to your amusement.
You’re so dark (modern au)
“And that is what you like? Dark and poetic?” The stranger asked again, and you felt his stare burn through your whole being as the implication of his question ran deeper than simple literature. He was watching you, in that intense manner of his, and it was enough to ignite fire in your entire being.
“I think everything dark is naturally poetic.”
Change of heart ✰
"You are committed to me." He whispered while raising the sleeve of your robe and your eyes dropped to the exposed skin of your forearm.
The black ink looked like it didn't belong on your soft, smooth skin. "You were the first person to join me, to receive my mark. You can't just leave." His voice strained and if you didn't know better, you might've thought he was pleading.
Cold heart ** ✰
“Don’t do this.” Your voice came out weakly, shattering the peaceful moment with three words. You watched him inhale deeply, trying to control himself so he would not lash out because it was you and you were the only person in this goddamned world that he gave a fuck about.
“You know I will.” He said after a moment.
.
━━━━━━༻♛༺━━━━━━
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MINI SHOTS ( 1K Celebration prompt list )
His Comfort ♡
When you are overexerting yourself, Tom is there to comfort you— and talk some sense into your overachiever self.
The Dare ♡
When you refuse to back down from a dare, you somehow end up almost drowning in the Black Lake. It is a good thing that Tom is there to save you.
The Encounter ♡
Abraxas is annoyingly persistent at trying to get you but Tom is there to rescue you from an uncomfortable situation. And he is a little jealous.
Old Flame
"You still want me," He said lowly, voice only just above a whisper. There was a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes, one you remembered all too well.
"Do not act as if you do not."
Just Once part 2**
You encounter Tom Riddle in the Prefects Bathroom while taking a bath...more than once.
The increasing amount of "writers" on this app who succumb to the use of AI is immensely disappointing. It is disheartening, seeing a work so clearly done by AI get so much attention, and the writer taking the praise as if the work was done by them and belongs to them. This is so beyond discouraging, and makes me not want to share my work on this app. What has happened to creativity? To actually putting in work and pouring your heart out into words? That is what writing is. It is sharing the artistic chaos of your brain with the world unashamedly. No one wants to read empty words written by a robot. Writing needs a human touch. Without it, it lacks feeling. So just a gentle reminder: AI fanfiction is NOT fanfiction.
your morpheus oneshot is one of the best I've ever read - the writing is so poetic and so in character!! Please consider writing more for him, you're fabulous (no pressure obvs!) Xo
Thank you thank youu!!! I definitely will write more for him, he's become my fav fictional character
Summary: You meet him in your dreams. You do not know him or his name, you only know that he returns to you every night, taking you in ways you crave but do not understand.
warnings: dream sex but it's not very explicit. not proofread.
A/N: I (nervously) present the long anticipated morpheus one shot. This is for all of you little rascals in my inbox asking me to get done with it and post it. Hope you enjoy and lmk what you think!!
༻♛༺
You do not quite recall when exactly you started seeing him. Maybe it was on one of those nights you were so exhausted your limbs melted into your bed like they belonged there more than they belonged on your body. Perhaps he came to you then, slipped through the cracks of your half-forgotten dreams, weaving himself in your fantasies that never quite made architectural sense.
All you know is that he was there.
And he was there every night.
You always felt him before you saw him. The shadowed edges of your dreams would forge into the shape of him—him who was tall, lean, little more than the glimmer of pale skin visible beneath the dark coat that brushed the floor of your subconscious and somehow stirred even though there was no wind.
His wild hair fell in black, inky strands that framed the sharp edges of his face but never seemed to settle. It was as if the air refused to touch him, or maybe it was him who refused to belong to the air, or perhaps he owned the very air around him. His skin was pale—not the delicate pallor of the sleepless, but the absence of sunlight itself, as if he had stood untouched for centuries beneath a sky that forgot how to burn.
And then there were his eyes.
Oh, his eyes.
His eyes were so incredibly black, like bottomless pits that offered you a glimpse of the vast darkness of the cosmos. And there were stars in his eyes. You did not see them at first. You had to step closer. You did not remember deciding to move, but you did. Your feet dragged forward, slow and helpless, and when you lifted your gaze you saw it— the faintest glimmer of stars trapped inside his eyes.
The sight of them was enough to pin you in place the first time. Because that was when you realised.
He was old.
Not old in the sense of years or decades. No.
He was old in the way stories are old. Old in the way stars are old. Old in the way you were never supposed to see, or know, or touch. But you did.
The first time, you remember you were hesitant. You remember how slowly you had rose your arm, your fingertips sparking with something desperate, aching to close the impossible space between you and touch his skin. You remember how his dark eyes had followed every movement of your hand, brows twitching—the faintest ripple across his otherwise unmoved face— as if amused, and also surprised, perhaps even outraged at your presumption that you could dare touch him.
He stopped you.
He caught your hand before you could complete the touch, his fingers cool as they closed firmly around yours, pressing your hand down as if to remind you. Of what, you did not quite know back then.
It was only later, after countless times of seeing him in your dreams that you realised. When you first touched, it had to have been on his terms.
His gaze slid over you—not with tenderness, but with a kind of distant permission, the way one might allow a flame to flicker a little closer to the drapes just to see what happens.
His other hand rose with deliberate slowness, trailing up to graze the edge of your jaw. His touch was impossibly cool, his skin like marble—unforgiving at first, but yielding in the places where he chose to let you feel him. His thumb dragged slowly along your lower lip, and he looked at you as if you were not entirely real. Funny, considering how he was a man made of shadows with the entire cosmos held in his eyes. You remember the weight of his fingers against you. You remember leaning into it.
You did not know his name. You did not ask.
After that first encounter, the dreams pressed closer, hotter, rougher—your body pinned beneath his as he claimed you against the wall of some crumbling hall, the slick grass of a forest that flickered in and out of coherence, the ground, the marble floor of a castle, still and perhaps never making architectural sense.
You never begged him to stop. But you did beg him not to leave.
And he did not. Night after night, he returned. He touched you like he knew the notes to the strings of your body, and your soul and body sang for him in response. He filled you with his essence, and hoped his seed would take. You knew because he whispered it in your ear like a dirty, secret confession. Every night.
Overtime, you learned to claim him too. You shed your shyness, climbed him boldly like his lap was your throne to sit on, and touched him like it was your birthright.
It went on for months.
And every time you woke from these dreams, you could always feel the lingering echo of his touch, as if it had been seared into your skin. You spent your waking hours in turmoil, thinking about your dreams, about him. You were getting addicted, you could barely function during the day without wishing you could fall asleep, fall into the arms of your dream man. You started going to bed earlier. You started skipping plans. You started craving sleep like it's a drug and he is the nameless dealer.
The days shrink. The nights length.
But it does not matter, not anymore, for every time you fall asleep, he is waiting. Like tonight.
The moment your conscious enters the Dreaming, his weight settles over you like velvet and iron, but you do not mind, it is an ache you ache to bear. Like every night, he claims you. He takes you against the trembling edge of reason, until the line between you and him feels like it was never there.
You still have not asked for his name. You fear what would happen if you spoke it aloud. You don’t know if you are dreaming, or if the dreaming has devoured you whole.
But you want to know, you need to know it for your own sanity.
So once he had his way with ruining you, you decide, for the first time in months, you decide to voice the question. Your lips part, your breath shallow against his palm, still cool against your jaw.
"...Who are you?"
His head tilts, just slightly, the faintest quirk of his mouth appearing as though the question itself amused him more than any answer he might give.
His thumb ghosts over your lower lip, slow and thoughtful.
“That is not a question you should ask.” His voice curls into you, soft and dark and ancient.
But you do not back down. "You have absolutely ruined me for anyone else. I believe I deserve at least the curtesy of knowing your name." The words rush out before you can stop them. and even you are surprised at your own bravery to be so direct with him.
His brows lift, a flicker of something behind his eyes—interest, perhaps. Or patience thinning.
So you decide to soften your request. "Please," you swallow, pulse thudding in your throat.
“You may call me…” A pause, deliberate one. “…Morpheus.”
You whisper it back to him, testing the shape of it in your mouth. "Morpheus."
His gaze darkens at the way his name falls from your lips. You fear for a moment he might pin you beneath him and have his way for the second time in one night. But he does not. He quenches the fire rising beneath his skin instead.
“Careful,” he says, his thumb pressing just slightly harder against your lip. “Names are powerful things.”
It sounds like a warning, one you think you need to heed, but before you can say anything in response, you jolt awake suddenly.
Once again, alone, in your bed.
You release a heavy sigh and look at the ceiling helplessly. You ask the heavens how long you can bear to live like this— living in your dreams, dreading your waking hours. How long you can continue being in love with a man who does not exist.
You close your eyes and imagine him. "Morpheus," you whisper to yourself wistfully. You half expect him to be there when you open your eyes, and you laugh at yourself with pity when he is not.
You push the covers away, and decide you need to start getting on with your day.
You’re still heavy with the weight of last night’s dream when you step outside. The city hums around you, a thin, irritating buzz—car horns, rubber on asphalt, hurried footfalls. You barely notice them. It is him you are thinking about. His hands, his mouth, his breath against your throat. His name.
You approach the crosswalk, waiting for the sign to change. And then, the air shifts. The sound of the city drops out like someone’s cut the wires.
With furrowed brows, you slowly lift your head. And then—
You see him.
Your body freezes. Because it is him. Across the street. Standing perfectly still, untouched by the blur of people rushing past him. He’s wearing that long, black coat—the same one you’ve clutched in your fists, the same one you’ve felt brushing your bare skin in sleep. His hair falls in black waves around his face, just as it does when he leans over you, when his hands pin you to the floor of the dreams.
His skin is impossibly pale. His eyes are—
Your breath catches.
They’re the same. The same impossible, depthless black, the same faint shimmer of stars caught in the dark.
He’s real.
He’s real. Here. Now.
And he’s looking at you.
Not past you. Not through you.
At you.
The corner of his mouth twitches, just enough to be deliberate. Enough to tease you, or perhaps taunt you, you do not know. You do not care to know. You need to cross the road to him. Now.
The crosswalk signal changes.
Heart hammering, throat burning, you take a step towards him.
OH MY GOD the scene with dream and the red flashing lights in delirium's realm got me WEAK. I might have drooled. I might have rewatched that part 10000 times
I beg you dream writers GET TO WORK!!!! I need to read something (especially something incorporating that scene)
can we please talk about just HOW deliciously beautiful dream looks in s2??? what did they feed tom sturridge because i swear that man just got ten times more attractive. I cannoooooot wait for the new fics.
which of your fics do think are overhyped and works that you thought would do better but didnt?
Bro FADED INK!!!!! That shit is cringe as fuck and so poorly written idk what you guys saw in that. It's one of my most liked works too...
I think Teach Me is my most liked work? Not quite sure, but it's alright i guess. I can understand why people liked it. The writing is so meh though.
As for what I think would do better? THE DIARY. I was actually quite proud of my writing in that one. Thought it would be an intriguing concept, less repetitive than my other stuff. Did not do thaat well, but it's ok. I've grown out of the phase where my motivation would be determined by how well my works would do. I'm still proud of it.
ANYWAY i rambled there a bit, but thank you for this question. Keep em coming, I love interacting with you guys (and I know i don't do it enough)
i remember u once said u would start writing for dream of the endless and i was wondering if that's still in the plan? can we expect anything soon? 🤲🏻 i love your writing sm and i would just love to see you write for morpheus
I am, in fact, still planning on it. It's just my first time in yeaaars writing for someone other than tom riddle, which is why I've been putting this off for so long. My audience in this blog is built on tom, sooo I'm a little hesitant/nervous.
I will do it though, maybe this week, perhaps tomorrow. Who knows.
uhg i hope i dont sound weird or complaining saying this because the one=shot was amazing but in Sugar - (tom riddle x fem!muggle!reader), she says his name just before he cuts her off and demands to talk to. and then he kisses her and says she doesnt know his name. sorry if this comes off as odd i just thought you'd like to know!
i'm lazy and i never proofread my works so thanks for telling me 😭 i edited it now <3
When you stumbled upon a mysterious diary in the second-floor lavatory, you never imagined you would be caught in the web of Tom Riddle. What begins as innocent curiosity becomes something darker, as he slips into your dreams, your thoughts, your very skin. And before you realize it, he isn’t just haunting your nights—he’s consuming you, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left that hasn’t been touched by him.
Warnings: dark themes, smut, dub-con? kind of. not proofread. dumbledore cameo
A/N: Hopefully this is a worthy comeback!! It's been such a long time since I last posted here so I hope this isn't too rusty. I surprisingly enjoyed writing a darker narrative so lmk what you guys think!
༻♛༺
You were not exactly at fault for how it started.
You had only wandered into the second-floor girls' lavatory following a trail of water—moonlight slicing through the cracked windows, painting the tiles in silver streaks. The bathroom had been flooding. You’d slipped your wand from your robe pocket, lips parting to cast a simple Reparo to fix the broken pipes—and then you saw it.
A diary.
Its black leather cover shimmered with a slick sheen, as though it had not been drenched at all. There was a mysterious pull to it, and you approached it, not thinking, only feeling—as if the world narrowed to that single object.
The moment your fingers brushed the surface, cool and impossibly dry, a strange silence fell over the lavatory, and something in you shifted. When you grasped it in your hands, you had been overcome with an urge to never part with it again, and just like that...it began.
You had first turned the diary over to determine who it belonged to and had only seen the gold-embroidered name. Tom Marvolo Riddle. The name was unfamiliar to you.
You flipped through its blank pages, frowning. Nothing. No memories. No clues. And yet... it called to be written in, like it craved ink the way lungs craved air. So one day, when you were in the library, you decided to scribble in it, only for the ink to sink into pages of the diary and disappear with no trace left behind.
Then, seconds later, letters bled onto the parchment, neat and elegant.
Hello.
To say you were bewildered, would be an understatement. You thought perhaps it was a trick of light, or maybe it was your lack of sleep finally catching up to you and causing you to imagine things, when once again, words appeared on the page.
What is your name?
You sat for a minute, contemplating if you should really converse with this charmed item. You had never heard of such magic before, and before you knew it, your curiosity had won over any rational thoughts. You hesitated, but only briefly. Then, quill trembling, you wrote your name.
Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm Tom Riddle.
Browsing through your head, you came to the conclusion that you had never heard of the name before. Dipping your quill in the ink, you asked him the question that was ringing through your mind.
How are you writing to me through this diary?
I am a memory preserved in this diary.
Your hand faltered. So you were not just conversing with a charmed notebook, you were actually talking to a real person. Well...a memory of a person. A boy sealed in pages like a soul trapped between ink and silence.
Are you a student at Hogwarts?
I was. A long time ago.
Why have you preserved yourself in this diary?
There was no answer. You waited for what felt like hours but could have been only a few minutes, yet he did not respond. There was a strange energy surrounding the item, and had you not been so transfixed, perhaps you would have listened to your intuition and given the diary away to a professor. But your desire to find out more about it clouded over any reason, so you shut the diary and stored it safely in your trunk.
༻♛༺
The next time you opened the cursed object was hours after curfew. You sat cross-legged on your bed, curiosity flooding your brain with endless questions as you picked up your quill and wrote.
Hello, Tom.
It took a few moments for his reply to appear.
Good evening.
You chatted with him for what felt like hours, asking countless questions (and making sure not to touch upon the subject of his preservation in the diary lest he leave you without an answer again), and he in turn inquired you about your life.
You felt silly— finding so much pleasure in talking to a diary, but there was something enigmatic about this Tom Riddle persona that had you hooked.
He asked you things—where you grew up, what subjects you enjoyed, which House you were in. You told him everything. Not because he demanded it, but because with every answer you gave, he gave you more. Ideas, stories, the weight of his voice echoing in the shape of words.
You spoke to him every day. A strange intimacy began to form between you. One that defied explanation.
You shared complaints about professors. Tales of your friends. Moments of quiet vulnerability. You asked him about the school during his time—what had changed, who he had known. He answered thoughtfully, sometimes fondly. But never about himself.
There was always a shadow behind his sentences, like something coiled, waiting.
But as a week passed ever since you first opened that diary, you noticed the unusual amount of exhaustion that would take over your body. You were in a constant state of sleep deprivation, and no amount of potions could keep you energetic enough to go about your day without collapsing.
And then, the dreams began.
They started subtly.
You were wandering Hogwarts, yet it felt different—older, taller. The stone was darker, the air thicker. You turned a corner, and there he was. Standing beneath the arches near the Great Hall, his figure blurred like memory, his eyes like ink poured into glass. A boy—no, a young man. Tall and poised, as if carved from obsidian and smoke. His school robes were immaculate, draped across his frame like they were stitched directly to his spine, and the torchlight behind him caught the sharp angles of his face with clarity.
He was impossibly handsome.
The kind of beauty that felt wrong. Otherworldly. His cheekbones were high and cruel, his mouth curved in a knowing, unreadable line. Dark hair framed his face in elegant waves, shadowing his brow just enough to deepen the darkness in his eyes.
And his eyes were bottomless. Liquid night. No warmth. Only gravity, as though they could pull entire thoughts from your skull if you stared too long.
You knew, without him saying a word: this was Tom Riddle.
You froze, pulse thundering. It was the first time you'd seen him—beyond ink and parchment.
His gaze swept over you, slow and precise, like a knife deciding where to cut.
“Is this a dream?” You whispered.
He stepped forward. Just one pace. Enough to close space, enough to make your breath catch.
“Is it you I’ve been speaking to?” Your voice was smaller now. “The one in the diary?”
He smiled then.
It wasn’t reassuring.
“Yes,” he said.
And just like that—he vanished.
You woke up with a start.
The dormitory was quiet, but everything felt wrong. The edges of your vision blurred as you sat up slowly, blinking into the dim, gray light of early morning.
You were still in your bed. Still in the castle. Still yourself.
Your chest felt tight, as though the air was thicker somehow—harder to breathe. And even though you had just woken, your body pulsed with exhaustion.
The memory of it clung to you like fog—the image of him standing beneath the arches. That strange blend of reverence and possession in his gaze. It felt more real than the four-poster bed around you. More vivid than the chill creeping up your spine.
You pushed the sheets away, shakily reached for your wand, and lit the tip with a whispered Lumos.
The diary was exactly where you had hidden it: under your pillow.
Your fingers brushed over its cool leather cover. You pulled it into your lap, opened it to the first blank page, and hesitated before dipping your quill into ink.
Your hand trembled as you wrote:
Did you come into my dream?
A pause.
Nothing.
No reply.
You swallowed. The silence on the page seemed louder than anything else in the room.
You tried again, slower this time.
Was that really you? I saw you. I spoke to you. Is that possible? Can you do that?
Still, as the ink sank into the page and disappeared, the pages remained stubbornly blank.
The silence felt… deliberate.
You pressed your lips together and stared at the space where his words should have appeared for what felt like eternity.
༻♛༺
The next dream came the following night, as though the moment your head touched your pillow, you slipped into his world.
This time, he was waiting for you in the Astronomy Tower, seated on the ledge with the stars behind him. The wind curled around his form, but he didn’t shiver. His posture was perfect. As though he didn’t feel the cold. Perhaps he didn't.
“You are back again” he stated simply.
“I didn’t have a choice,” you replied, more breath than voice.
“You always have a choice,” Tom murmured. “But curiosity… it tends to be stronger than fear.”
You stood a few feet away, uncertain.
“I don’t understand why I’m seeing you.”
“Because I wanted you to,” he said, tilting his head, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You met his gaze, perplexed. “Why?”
He ignored your question, abandoning his post at the ledge in favour of stepping closer to you. "You have been asking about me." His tone was disapproving as he regarded you. "You will stop."
"I just wanted to know, to understand—"
“Curiosity,” he interrupted sharply, “is a disease. And you are already sick with it.”
His eyes roamed your face, not unkindly, but with a dangerous precision. As though he were committing each of your expressions to memory. Or dissecting them.
“Not all answers are meant for you. Not all doors are meant to be opened.”
That was the last thing he said before you woke up. You ran your hands over your face, wet with sweat. For the first time since finding the diary, you felt something curl beneath your skin.
Not curiosity. Not excitement.
Something closer to dread.
You couldn't shake the feeling anymore.
The dreams, the exhaustion, the way the world seemed increasingly distant during the day—all of it pointed back to him. Tom.
You had to find answers to the mystery that was this man. You decided to not heed his warnings, and made a mental note to inquire some of your Professors about a student named Tom Riddle.
So throughout the day, as you ignored your friends' concerned questions about your worn-down state, you began your inquiries. Though they seemed fruitless, that is until you crossed paths with Professor Dumbledore that evening outside the Great Hall.
He had always watched you closely—too closely, some students said—but now, when he met your eyes, it was as though he already knew something was amiss.
He greeted you upon your approached, eyes glinting like distant stars, and as perceptive as he was, he made a deduction “you seem… troubled.”
"I wished to ask you about something." You hesitated, then drew a shallow breath.
He waited patiently, nodding his head as he gestured for you to continue. “Professor… have you ever heard of a student named Tom Riddle?”
The silence that followed made the air go cold.
Dumbledore didn’t answer right away. He studied you in that piercing, quiet way of his. As if trying to read not just what you said, but what you meant.
“What brings this particular name to mind?” he asked carefully.
Your fingers curled at your sides. Part of you screamed not to tell him, but the other—rational, terrified part—knew you couldn’t keep pretending you understood what was happening.
“I… found a diary,” you said. “In the castle. It had his name on it.”
Dumbledore’s eyes darkened, barely perceptibly. “A diary?” he repeated. “Where exactly did you find this diary?”
You hesitated. “In the second-floor lavatory."
His face shifted subtly. Something like gravity passed behind his expression.
“Dear girl,” he began, and his voice took on a different weight—no longer gentle, but grave. “You must bring this diary to me. First thing tomorrow morning. Do you understand?”
You nodded, slow, reluctant.
“Do not write in it,” he continued. “Do not open it. Do not let it remain near your bed. This is important. There are things in this castle—remnants of old power—that do not sleep quietly.”
You were confused, but his words lodged somewhere in your chest, and for a moment you truly meant to obey. Truly.
You went straight to your dormitory after dinner, mind spinning. You placed the diary on your desk and pushed it away like it might bite you. You told yourself you would give it to Dumbledore in the morning.
But your body was already betraying you. Before you could even undress or extinguish the lamp, the fatigue crushed over you like a tide. Your vision blurred. Your head hit the pillow without you realizing it.
And in the dark—
He was waiting. And he was not happy.
“I warned you, even if you don’t remember,” he was livid, eyes flashing red as he stared you down. “Not all doors are meant to be opened.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“But you did,” he cut in. “You opened the door. You wrote in my diary. You let me in.”
You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know what you were.”
“Don’t pretend you regret it now.”
His fingers brushed your temple, featherlight. Your breath hitched at the contact—cold and electric. The sensation spilled through you like ice and fire, your skin hyperaware, tingling in the wake of his touch.
“You’ve been dreaming of me ever since,” he said, voice almost tender. “And each time… I take a little more.”
That silenced you.
His hand fell away.
And in that stillness, something inside you twisted—the slow dawning of comprehension. You felt your body differently now. Worn, sluggish. A tightness in your chest, as though some invisible thread had been pulling at your core night after night.
“What do you mean?” you asked, more quietly. “What are you taking?”
He looked at you, and for the first time, the answer wasn’t a riddle or a misdirection.
“You.”
You stared at him, the cold settling deeper into your bones now.
“My energy,” you whispered.
“My sustenance,” he corrected, with something like reverence. “You nourish me. Every moment you spend with me in this place brings me closer to what I once was.”
Your lips parted to speak, but you couldn’t find your voice. He was still watching you—his gaze almost gentle, but entirely unrepentant.
“This is how you’re here,” you breathed. “In my dreams. The diary...”
He nodded. “Dreams are the easiest doors to slip through. And you… you left yours wide open.”
You took a step back. He didn’t follow.
“So you’re not just a memory,” you said slowly. “You’re becoming real again.”
He gave a slow, almost regal inclination of his head. “The diary preserved more than memory. It preserved me. My soul, fractured, yes… but not broken. Not dead. And now—” he inhaled softly, as if tasting something on the air “—I am closer than ever.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs. “And when you’ve taken enough…?”
“Then I’ll be whole again.” His voice darkened with quiet ecstasy. “I will return.”
You felt your stomach sink. Your heart thundered against your ribcage as you dared to ask the next question. “Will I survive it?” Though you already knew.
He tilted his head once more, thoughtful. Almost amused. “No.”
The silence between you stretched, and for a moment, it felt like the dream would shatter under the weight of it.
But then, he stepped forward once again.
“I could drain you,” he said, and this time, his hand rested against your cheek—tender, reverent. “But I find I don’t want to.”
You looked up at him, dazed. “Why?”
Tom smiled. His thumb brushed your lower lip, and your breath trembled. "I find that you amuse me. It almost makes me want to keep you."
You trembled beneath his touch. It felt more real than ever.
“I can almost feel the heat of your blood,” he said, so softly it was almost a kiss, leaning in so close his lips nearly touched your ear. “Taste your thoughts before you think them.”
You felt your knees weaken.
His eyes grew darker, his smile more sinister as he continued. “There are… other ways,” he whispered. “Slower ways. You give willingly. A little more each night. And I become more… solid. Less shadow, more flesh.”
“No,” you whispered, stepping back. “I don’t want this. I—I didn’t ask for any of this.”
Tom tilted his head, that calm, terrible amusement flickering across his features.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said softly. “You wrote to me. You dreamed of me. You gave me everything, piece by piece. And now you want to pretend you didn’t?”
You shook your head. “I didn’t mean to. You infiltrated my dreams. You took from me. I would have never touched that diary if I knew it would lead to this.” You spat.
He brushed your neck with the back of his fingers. The touch was maddening, featherlight and possessive. Your mind screamed to claw your way back to the waking world and burn the damn diary. But your body—traitorous, aching, hungry—moved toward him without permission. His hand slid to your hip, slow, deliberate, and you grabbed his wrist—not to pull him closer. To stop him.
"I will keep you, how does that sound, pet?" Though he was not really asking you. Only toying with you.
“I’m not yours,”
“You were the moment you opened the diary,” he murmured. “You just haven’t accepted it yet.”
His hand cupped your jaw—cool, precise—but his lips were already descending, and when they touched yours, it was like stepping into fire.
The kiss started slow, a careful claiming. His mouth moved against yours with an eerie tenderness. But the softness burned away fast as you tried to resist, replaced by something deeper—hungrier. His other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt it: the sharp line of his body, the impossible heat of him despite the dream. Solid. Real.
Too real.
You gasped into his mouth, and he took the sound like an offering, slipping his tongue past your lips to taste you, coax you deeper. His fingers threaded through your hair, and he pulled until a groan escaped your throat.
Your mind screamed at you to push him away, but you were powerless and for a traitorous moment, you found you didn’t want to leave.
Not now.
Not when your blood hummed and your skin tingled and your body arched toward his like it knew him.
His lips trailed to your jaw, down your throat, leaving a blazing path in their wake. Every kiss was slow, deliberate, reverent—as though he were marking you.
“You see?” he whispered against your skin. “You’re giving.
You didn’t know how the room had changed, only that now you were lying on soft silk sheets, his body above yours, his weight pressing into you. His robes vanished, unspoken, revealing skin pale as marble, carved and perfect. Not boyish. Not innocent. This was a man shaped by ambition, by power, and now—by you.
His eyes—black and gleaming—darkened further, as though those words fed something inside him deeper than magic.
“I will have you,” he said. “And I will keep you.”
He kissed you again—harder this time—and his hands roamed, exploring every inch of you like he was memorizing, claiming, devouring. His name left your lips in a shuddering breath as your clothes faded from your body with the surreal, effortless logic of dreams. Nothing between you now—just skin and heat and the thrum of something sinister binding the two of you together.
He moved over you like a storm—controlled, but intense. His touch was all-consuming. Every motion was deliberate, coaxing the ache between your thighs into a feverish need. He knew exactly what he was doing, guiding your body to open beneath him, to receive him, to belong to him.
When he finally pressed inside you, slow and deep, you cried out—not in pain, but in overwhelming pleasure. He groaned against your neck, a sound of satisfaction, of ownership.
“You feel that?” he whispered into your ear, voice shaking with restraint. “This is real. You’re making me real.”
You clung to him, to the impossible way he filled you, the pressure and stretch and warmth of it, as he began to move. Each thrust was smooth, calculated—building steadily, matching your breath, your moans, until your body rose to meet his instinctively.
His mouth never left your skin. Bites, words—some in Parseltongue—spilled into the hollow of your throat, down your chest, laced with magic you could feel.
You couldn’t speak. You didn’t want to.
You only felt.
The pleasure within you approached fast, and when you came, your body arched into his, trembling and gasping. He followed you seconds later, with a sound so deep, so raw, lodged from his throat. He buried his face in your neck as he spilled inside you, hips stuttering, every inch of him tense, vibrating with power.
After, he didn’t pull away. Staking his claim while inside you.
“I told you there were other ways,” he whispered. “You’ll sleep deeply now. But in the morning… you’ll feel me. In every part of you.”
You drifted into unconsciousness in his arms, too spent to resist, too dazed to care. You had given in.
despite the fact that it did so poorly compared to my other works...and I was so proud of it😭. buuuut I've been trying to not let lack of notes/comments affect how I feel about my works so I'm gonna write the second part for the few people who liked it
living in a fantasy @cardansriddle - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
