The Shape of His Attention
Synopsis: He never chased you. He only watched — long enough to learn how to change you. By the time you realized attention wasn’t affection, you were already shaped by it.
WARNINGS: Emotional manipulation, Slow-burn psychological damage, Unhealthy power dynamics, Emotional dependency, Gaslighting-adjacent behavior, not proof-read
A/N: Here's my first Tom Riddle fic!!!! I've been obsessed with him for a while now (who wouldn't?????) I'm slowly getting out of my writers slump and hopefully soon I'll be able to start writing your requests
Tom Riddle did not enter your life in a way you could later point to and say, that was the beginning.
If someone asked when you first noticed him, you might have said something vague — early on, sometime that year, around when classes got harder. The truth was less tidy. He didn’t arrive. He accumulated.
At first, it was the library.
You’d been sitting at the same table for nearly an hour, surrounded by books you weren’t really reading, when someone pulled out the chair across from you without asking. You looked up, already irritated, ready to say something sharp — and stopped.
Not because he was intimidating. Not because he was handsome, either, though you registered that too, distantly. You stopped because he didn’t look at you at all. He just sat down, opened his book, and immediately became absorbed in it, as though you were part of the furniture.
Then, “You could’ve asked,” you said.
He didn’t look up. “The table was empty.”
“It wasn’t,” you replied. “I’m sitting here.”
That got his attention. His eyes flicked up — quick, assessing, not apologetic. Something unreadable passed through his expression.
“I meant the other seats,” he said calmly, then went back to reading.
You stared at him for a second, incredulous, then huffed and returned to your work. You told yourself that was the end of it. Just a mildly irritating interaction with a mildly arrogant boy.
And when he left, he didn’t acknowledge you at all.
You thought about that longer than you should have.
After that, you began noticing him elsewhere.
Advanced Potions. A few rows over in Transfiguration. Standing near the windows in the corridor outside the Great Hall, always alone, always apparently waiting for no one. His name came up often in class — usually followed by praise, occasionally by thinly veiled concern.
“Riddle has shown exceptional understanding of the material,” a professor would say, glancing around the room. “Something the rest of you would do well to emulate.”
You tried not to look at him when that happened.
That bothered you more than if he had.
The first real conversation happened weeks later, and it was stupid.
You were arguing with a friend about a homework question — quietly, but with increasing frustration — when a voice beside you cut in.
You turned, already bristling. “Excuse me?”
Tom Riddle stood there, hands folded neatly behind his back, expression infuriatingly neutral.
“The incantation isn’t the issue,” he said. “It’s the wand movement. You’re overcompensating.”
Your friend blinked. “We didn’t ask—”
“You were loud enough to invite commentary,” he replied smoothly.
You crossed your arms. “And you just… what? Correct people for fun?”
“No,” he said. “For accuracy.”
You stared at him, searching his face for something — smugness, cruelty, humor. You found none of it. He looked genuinely uninterested in your reaction.
“Well,” you said tightly, “thanks for the unsolicited opinion.”
He tilted his head slightly. “You’ll get better results now.”
You stood there, annoyed, embarrassed, and — worst of all — curious.
Later that night, you tried the movement his way.
From then on, it felt like you were circling each other.
Not intentionally. Not openly. Just… constantly ending up in the same spaces. Sitting close enough to be aware of each other. Speaking in class and feeling, without looking, that he was listening.
Sometimes he interrupted you.
Sometimes he corrected you.
Sometimes — and this was worse — he agreed.
When Slughorn handed back essays and announced the highest scores, you already knew how it would go. You could feel it in your chest, the dull preemptive disappointment.
“Excellent work,” Slughorn said, smiling at you. “Second highest.”
You didn’t look at Tom. You didn’t need to.
Later, you felt him walking beside you in the corridor, matching your pace without comment. The silence stretched, awkward and deliberate.
“You misquoted Galen,” he said eventually.
You stopped walking. “I did not.”
He turned to face you, calm as ever. “Third paragraph. You attributed the counter-argument to him instead of his student.”
You clenched your fingers around your parchment. “I know what I wrote.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why it stood out.”
There was no accusation in his tone. No triumph. Just observation.
That almost made it worse.
“So?” you snapped. “Did it make you feel clever?”
He studied you for a moment. “No,” he said. “It made you predictable.”
The words hit harder than you expected.
He didn’t wait for a response. He just walked on.
You stood there long after he was gone, heart racing, anger and something else twisting together in your chest.
That night, you reread your essay.
You didn’t become close after that.
You started preparing more thoroughly. Speaking more precisely. Editing yourself mid-sentence when you felt his attention shift toward you. You told yourself it was discipline, ambition, improvement.
You did not tell yourself that it was about him.
The conversations continued — brief, sharp, sometimes almost friendly, sometimes openly antagonistic. You argued about theory, about ethics, about ambition. You laughed once, surprised by it, when he made a dry remark under his breath.
He looked at you then — really looked — like he’d just discovered something unexpected.
“You enjoy this,” you accused him one evening, after a particularly heated debate.
He considered. “I enjoy seeing what they do under pressure.”
You didn’t like the way that sounded.
You liked that he included you in it even less.
Slowly, without realizing it, you started waiting.
For his attention to land on you like a weight you pretended not to feel.
Not with kindness. With interest.
That was when things began to tilt.
You didn’t notice at first that your days were beginning to orient themselves around him.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t something you admitted to yourself. It showed up in smaller, almost embarrassing ways — the way you slowed your pace when you saw him ahead in the corridor, pretending it was because you were tired; the way you chose one side of the Great Hall over the other without consciously deciding why; the way you felt faintly disappointed when he didn’t appear where you half-expected him to be.
You told yourself this was normal.
He was simply… there often. And you were observant. That was all.
The conversations continued, irregular and unpredictable. Sometimes days passed without a word between you. Sometimes he appeared beside you as though summoned, picking up a discussion you hadn’t realized you were still having.
One afternoon, you were sitting by the windows, parchment spread out in front of you, jaw aching from the effort of concentrating, when his shadow fell across the page.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
You didn’t look up. “Doing what?”
“Overthinking,” he replied. “You always do, right before you make something needlessly complicated.”
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You know, you could try being wrong occasionally. It might build character.”
Then, “I am wrong,” he said calmly. “Just not about this.”
You glanced up despite yourself. He was watching you closely now, eyes sharp but not unkind, like he was genuinely curious how you’d respond.
“And how would you know?” you asked.
“Because you’re hesitating,” he said. “You don’t hesitate unless you’re afraid of missing something.”
That landed uncomfortably close to the truth.
You gathered your things with more force than necessary. “You don’t know me well enough to psychoanalyze me.”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “I know you well enough to know when you’re lying to yourself.”
You stood, heart beating faster than it should have. “You say things like that as if they don’t matter.”
“They matter to you,” he said simply.
You opened your mouth to argue — then stopped.
And you hated that he knew it.
You started noticing how carefully he chose when to engage with you.
He never interrupted when you were confident, when you were steady and sure of yourself. He stepped in only when you faltered, when your certainty wavered just enough to create an opening. A comment here. A correction there. Always precise. Always timed.
It felt, at first, like help.
“You’re assuming intention where there is none,” he said once, leaning against the wall beside you as you argued your point in class. “Strip it down. What remains?”
You frowned, reconsidering despite yourself. “Structure.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Intent is irrelevant without it.”
Later, alone, you wondered why his approval felt like relief.
The first time you laughed together surprised you both.
It was late. Too late to be in the corridor without a reason. You were tired enough that your guard had loosened, irritation softened into something closer to honesty.
“You really do think you’re the smartest person in every room,” you said, not unkindly.
He tilted his head. “Do you disagree?”
“Yes,” you replied without missing a beat. “I just think you enjoy letting other people realize it slowly.”
A short laugh escaped him before he could stop it — quiet, genuine, almost startled. He looked momentarily caught off guard, as if the sound had surprised even him.
He recovered quickly, expression smoothing back into control, but something had shifted.
“That was unkind,” he said.
You smiled despite yourself. “And accurate.”
He studied you for a moment longer than necessary.
“You’re less dull than I expected,” he said finally.
You should have bristled.
Instead, a strange warmth spread through your chest — the uncomfortable pleasure of being singled out, of being seen as something distinct rather than interchangeable.
That was when you should have pulled back.
People began commenting, casually at first.
“You and Riddle are always together,” someone said one afternoon, nudging you lightly.
You laughed it off. “We’re not.”
But later, as you walked beside him through the quiet stretch near the staircases, the comment echoed.
“They think we’re friends,” you said.
He glanced at you. “Are we?”
You hesitated. “I don’t know. Are we?”
He considered this, gaze forward. “Friendship is inefficient.”
“That’s a terrible answer.”
“It’s an honest one,” he replied.
You shook your head, half amused, half unsettled. “You really don’t know how to be normal, do you?”
You stopped too, heart dropping inexplicably.
“Normal is a performance,” he said quietly. “One I have no interest in perfecting.”
There was something vulnerable in the admission — not soft, but exposed, like a truth he hadn’t intended to share.
You swallowed. “That doesn’t mean you’re alone.”
He looked at you then, really looked, expression unreadable.
And somehow, the way he said it made you feel chosen.
That was when the balance began to tilt.
You found yourself waiting for his reactions, gauging your words by how they might land with him. You noticed when he was absent more sharply than when he was present. His attention, once intermittent, now felt deliberate — something granted, then withheld.
And when he withdrew, even slightly, it unsettled you more than his criticism ever had.
“You’re distracted lately,” you said one evening, trying to sound casual.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then, “You notice everything,” he said. Not an accusation. An observation.
“You’ve been distant,” you pressed.
He met your gaze, calm, composed. “I assumed you were capable of managing without constant reassurance.”
“I’m not asking for reassurance,” you said quickly.
“I know,” he replied. “You’re asking for relevance.”
The silence that followed felt heavy, dense with things neither of you were saying.
You told yourself you were angry.
You did not tell yourself you were afraid.
That night, lying awake, you replayed the conversation over and over, searching for where you’d misstepped. You told yourself you were being dramatic, that you’d read too much into things.
But beneath the rationalizations was a quieter realization, one you weren’t ready to face yet
You cared whether he stayed.
You didn’t wake up one morning and realize things had changed.
Change, when it happens slowly enough, disguises itself as routine.
You still saw Tom often. In the library. In corridors. In classes where his hand rose with unerring confidence and the room seemed to tilt toward him instinctively. But something in the way he interacted with you had altered — subtle enough that you questioned yourself every time you noticed it.
He listened differently now.
Before, his attention had felt sharp but mutual, like a blade held between you both. Now it felt angled. Focused. Like he was listening for leverage rather than understanding.
“You’re hesitating again,” he said one afternoon, standing far too close behind you as you worked through a problem.
You exhaled slowly. “I’m thinking.”
“You think too much when you’re unsure,” he replied. “Confidence suits you better.”
You glanced back at him. “You don’t get to decide what suits me.”
Then, calmly, “I don’t decide,” he said. “I observe.”
The distinction mattered to him.
It should have mattered to you, too.
You started noticing how often you deferred to him without meaning to.
You waited for his reaction before responding in group discussions. You found yourself editing comments before speaking, shaving off anything that felt too soft, too uncertain, too you. When you did speak and his attention sharpened, approval flickering across his expression, it felt grounding — like you’d done something right.
So you pushed back, occasionally. Snapped at him when he corrected you. Rolled your eyes when he spoke with that maddening certainty.
He never reacted the way you expected.
“You’re defensive today,” he said once, mildly.
“You provoke people,” you shot back.
“Yes,” he agreed easily. “And you engage.”
Because he was right. You could have walked away. You could have ignored him. You didn’t.
And now you noticed that he also didn’t sit beside you. That he left the library without a word. That his gaze skimmed past you in the corridor like you were no longer something worth cataloguing.
It unsettled you in a way you resented.
You told yourself it shouldn’t matter. That you hadn’t done anything wrong. That he was allowed to be distant.
Still, when he finally spoke to you again days later, relief bloomed so fast it embarrassed you.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said before you could stop yourself.
He regarded you thoughtfully. “I’ve been occupied.”
“Things that require my attention,” he replied.
You bristled. “You could’ve said something.”
“Why?” he asked, genuinely curious. “Did you need an explanation?”
The question caught you off guard.
“No,” you said quickly. “I just—”
“I noticed,” you finished weakly.
His gaze lingered on you, assessing. Then, quietly, “That’s interesting.”
The conversation ended there.
After that, the pattern established itself.
He would draw close — offer insight, attention, something like warmth — and then pull back just enough to leave you off balance. Never cruel. Never obvious. Just enough to make you question where you stood.
When you did well, he acknowledged it with a nod, a glance, a murmur of approval that felt disproportionately important.
When you faltered, he said nothing.
“You don’t say much anymore,” you remarked one evening, attempting lightness.
“I’ve said what needed to be said,” he replied.
He looked at you then, expression unreadable. “You’ll figure it out.”
You didn’t like the way that sounded.
You liked even less how hard you tried to prove him right.
Your world began shrinking without you noticing.
Friends commented on your absence from things you used to enjoy. You brushed it off — busy, tired, just a lot going on. You believed it, mostly. It was easier than examining why Tom’s presence now felt like gravity and everyone else felt like noise.
“You’ve changed,” someone said gently one evening.
You laughed it off. “Everyone does.”
But later, alone, you wondered who you were becoming.
And whether he liked this version of you better.
The realization that you were in love came quietly.
It didn’t arrive with joy or longing or anything cinematic. It arrived with fear.
You noticed it in the way your chest tightened when he was displeased, in the way you replayed conversations searching for mistakes, in the way his approval felt like relief rather than pleasure.
You didn’t want to love him.
Loving him felt dangerous.
He noticed before you admitted it to yourself.
“You’re careful with me now,” he said one night, voice low, almost thoughtful.
You tried to laugh. “You’re imagining things.”
“No,” he said. “You’re afraid of displeasing me.”
The words landed too close to the truth.
“That’s not—” you started, then stopped.
He watched you quietly, something like satisfaction flickering through his gaze.
“That means you care,” he said.
The way he said it made it sound like a conclusion, not a question.
You should have pulled away then.
Because despite everything — the imbalance, the quiet manipulation, the way you felt yourself bending — there were moments when he softened. When his voice lost its edge. When he spoke to you like you were something rare.
Those moments kept you tethered.
And Tom Marvolo Riddle knew it.
It happens on an evening that looks like every other evening.
The castle is quiet in the way it often is before curfew, corridors thinning out, footsteps echoing just enough to remind you that you’re not alone even when it feels like it. You find him in the place you always do lately — tucked into one of the less-used rooms near the upper floors, books spread out with deliberate neatness, posture relaxed in a way that still manages to feel controlled.
You hesitate in the doorway.
He doesn’t look up right away. You’ve learned, over time, that this pause is intentional — a small assertion of power, a way of reminding you that attention is something he grants, not something you’re owed.
Eventually, he lifts his eyes.
“I didn’t realize I was expected,” you reply, sharper than you mean to be.
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “You came anyway.”
That lands uncomfortably close to the truth.
You move further into the room, setting your things down, trying to settle into the familiar rhythm. This is how it usually goes: a few barbed comments, a stretch of quiet that feels charged rather than empty, then — if you’re lucky — one of those moments where he softens just enough to make everything feel worth it again.
Tonight, it doesn’t come.
You feel it almost immediately — the difference in him. The distance isn’t physical; he’s close enough that you can sense the warmth of him, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his when you sit. But his attention is elsewhere, fractured, deliberately withheld.
You try not to let it show.
“So,” you say, too casually, “what’s occupying you lately?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
When he does, it’s mild. “Progress.”
You frown. “That’s vague.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “On purpose.”
The silence stretches. You shift, uncomfortable.
“Why are you still avoiding me? ,” you say finally, the words slipping out despite your better judgment.
He looks at you then — really looks — with an expression you haven’t seen before. Not irritation. Not curiosity.
“I wondered how long it would take you to say that,” he replies.
Your stomach tightens. “Say what?”
Something cold settles in your chest.
“I don’t like being ignored,” you say, quieter now.
“No,” he says evenly. “You don’t like being uncertain.”
The distinction feels deliberate.
You swallow. “If I’ve done something—”
He interrupts you gently, which somehow makes it worse. “You haven’t.”
Relief flares — brief, fragile.
“But you’ve become… predictable.”
The word hits you harder than it should have.
“You’re careful now,” he goes on, voice calm, almost thoughtful. “You weigh every word. You look to me before you commit to anything. You’re no longer interesting in the way you were.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “You made me this way.”
Just silence long enough to let the implication sit.
“I showed you what attention looks like,” he says at last. “What you did with it was your choice.”
You stare at him, heat rushing to your face. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”
He says it like a fact, not an apology.
Something in you fractures quietly.
“So what?” you ask, voice unsteady despite your effort. “That’s it? You just… decide I’m no longer worth your time?”
He considers you for a moment, head tilted slightly.
“I decided you were worth shaping,” he says. “You’ve reached the point of diminishing returns.”
The words are precise. Clean. Devastating.
“I cared about you,” you say. It feels foolish the moment it leaves your mouth.
You stand abruptly, hands shaking, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise your ribs from the inside.
“You learned,” he says instead. “That was the exchange.”
You laugh once — a brittle sound that surprises you. “You really don’t think you did anything wrong.”
“I think,” he says carefully, “that you expected something I never offered.”
You want to scream. You want to cry. You want him to take it back, to soften, to say this matters.
You walk out of the room without looking back.
It takes you a while to understand what’s happened.
At first, there’s just shock — a hollow quiet that settles over everything, dulling the edges of the world. You go through the motions: classes, meals, conversations you barely remember afterward. People talk to you, and you respond automatically, like a version of yourself running on habit rather than feeling.
You don’t cry that night.
You keep waiting for it — the collapse, the grief, the catharsis everyone talks about — but all you feel is numbness and a slow, spreading shame.
Because part of you understands now.
He didn’t break you in one moment.
He trained you to break yourself.
You see him again, eventually. Across rooms. In corridors. Untouched. Composed. Exactly as he always was. He looks at you once — just once — with something like curiosity, as if noting the outcome of an experiment.
And for the first time, his gaze lingers.
Years from now, when his name becomes something people whisper with fear instead of admiration, you will think back to this version of him. The boy who never raised his voice. Who never needed to threaten. Who taught you the cost of being seen by the wrong person.
You will understand then that the sharpest knife he ever wielded was not the one the world would come to fear.
It was the one he taught you to hold against yourself.
