So after watching the movie Ernest and Ethel which was based off of the real life story of someone’s parents who grew up pre-WWII and during the war and after… I’ve come to the realization that Tom Riddle lived in even worse conditions than I thought.
So apparently in 1928 London if you were poverty or lower classes you lived amongst carts and horses. Think about that for a second, there was constant shit on the streets in this area. The police didn’t like to go down there because it was so badly crime infested so crime got scraped under the rug and people died all the time. Can you imagine how horribly the smells must have been? The level of diseases? Crime? And for a kid without a family living through these times that was despised by the orphanage people it must have been hell. And hogwarts truly was a haven.
You ever had a dream that felt too real? Yeah that was my dream of ending up in the chamber of secrets and the dark lord giving me a slytherin robe to blend in but I exchanged it for a hufflepuff one because I’m a hufflepuff to my core…
Chapter schedule: Draco — 14th April, Theodore — 17th April, Mattheo — 21st April, Ominis — 24th April, Sebastian — 28th April, Tom — 1st May, Regulus — 5th May.
devider by…. I don’t know who created this… I forgot to credit the author! If you’re reading this, I’m sorry! Drop me a line and I’ll add it
The day when the exceptionally handsome and confident Sirius Black gets to know the incredibly charming girl from the library.
AN: i'm sick, so i want some sweet comfort and fluff
Sirius Black was known throughout the school. Handsome, from a good family, popular, one of the few members of the Marauders. He was almost an idol to the other students.
But you, you were the background. Unknown by name or even face, just one of the many students at school that Sirius wouldn't normally pay attention to. You weren't even in Gryffindor, so Sirius didn't care about your existence. But that changed in a split second.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
You were sitting in a quiet place, deep in the school library, surrounded by books and the only light came from your wand. A delicate blue glow illuminated the otherwise dark room, and the silence was broken only by the quiet rustle of papers or the crunch of cookies you stole from the Hogwarts kitchen.
You liked moments like this, on Fridays hardly anyone came to the library. There were usually parties where students could illegally drink or just relax and go to bed right after classes ended.
It was quiet, peaceful. Since your second year of study, it has become like a tradition. The school elves working in the kitchen already knew you, so every Friday you'd find a plate of cookies, and every week something new. A little surprise after a hard week of homework and the stress of studying.
Your peaceful bubble quickly burst when you suddenly heard the soft sound of a door slamming shut. You lifted your eyes from the letters, looking over the book at the dark figure who was quickly and desperately searching for something. You blinked a few times, slightly surprised to see anyone in the room, but you didn't say anything. After all, it was a place where every student could come.
You tilted your head to the side, raising an eyebrow as the figure suddenly tripped over something, falling to the ground with a thud. You couldn't stop the quiet laughter that escaped your lips.
"Fuck" You put the book aside, walking over to the figure who was getting up from the ground. A soft blue light illuminated the handsome face of Sirius as he tripped over an extended chair.
"are you alive?" You asked with amusement and extended your hand towards him, helping him up. The young man nodded gratefully and straightened, adjusting his robe.
"yeah...thanks" He muttered quietly, looking up at you. His eyes moved up and down your body until he finally looked at your face again. The glow of the Lumos spell gently framed your face, giving you a heavenly, slightly mysterious aura. "Are you a veela?" A quiet question escaped his lips before he could stop himself.
You blinked a few times at the question and after a moment you burst out laughing, shaking your head. Sirius shook his head as if he didn't realize it was he who asked such a question. A slight blush burned on his pale face, but he did not look away. Sirius Black was not a coward.
"No" You replied after a moment when you calmed down your laughter. The young man looked at you, thinking for a moment, until a charming smile appeared on his lips. "Are you sure? You definitely look like a little fairy" He threw it flirtatiously. You raised your eyebrow again, still amused.
"I'm sure. I would know if my mother was a Veela" You replied, to which Sirius just smiled. "if you say so, Fairy" He shrugged and folded his arms across his chest, looking around.
You smiled slightly again and nodded, feeling your face warm up at his nickname for you. Not letting the awkward silence fall, you turned to go back to your books, but Sirius followed you.
"what are you doing?" He asked as you sat down on the ground and he crouched in front of you, taking out his wand from the gray and illuminating the darkness with a quiet Lumos on his lips. You lifted the prince higher "I'm reading" You replied and the black-haired wizard nodded.
You opened your mouth to ask what he was doing here when the door banged open again and Professor McGonagall entered. "Black!" She said loudly, which made the young man grimace, wanting to quickly hide next to her, but the teacher noticed him.
"follow me!" She said, grabbing the collar of his white shirt and straightening him out. You looked between them, slightly confused, but a slight smile of amusement appeared on your lips.
"see you tomorrow?" Sirius said, winking at you before the Professor pulled him towards the exit, launching into a tirade about his latest prank on the Slytherin group.
With a slight blush and a smile on your lips, you nodded, hoping that your next meeting wouldn't be so accidental and short.
Guys guys I know that Christian Coulson is very handsome and I love him as Tom Riddle but can we also talk about Frank Dillane as Tom Riddle pleaseeeee, I'll sell my soul to see a fanfic with his Tom.
ᯓ feat. itachi uchiha
contains. fem!reader, fluff, quiet affection, forehead touches, light teasing, established relationship,
word count. 1.1k
naruto shippuden m.list - main m.list
Itachi was not loud in his love.
He didn’t announce it.
He didn’t show it in grand gestures or dramatic confessions.
It was in the quiet.
And tonight, the quiet was heavy with rain.
The soft tapping against the wooden roof of your small house in Konoha blended with the faint crackle of the lantern beside you. You sat cross-legged on the tatami mat, pretending to read while very much aware of the presence behind you.
Itachi was seated at the low table, long fingers carefully folding away mission reports. His movements were precise. Controlled. Elegant.
You huffed.
“I can feel you staring.”
A pause.
Then, in that calm, even tone of his—
“I am not staring.”
You turned slightly, narrowing your eyes at him. “You are. I can feel it on my back.”
His lips curved—just barely. That almost-smile he reserved only for you.
“If I were staring,” he said softly, “you would not notice.”
Your cheeks warmed. Annoying. He was annoying.
You closed your book with a quiet snap. “Then why are you looking at me?”
He didn’t answer right away. He finished stacking the papers neatly, aligning the edges perfectly, before finally lifting his gaze to you fully.
And when Itachi Uchiha looked at you like that—
The world went silent.
“Because,” he said, voice gentler now, “you look peaceful.”
Your heart did something embarrassing in your chest.
Peaceful.
Itachi knew what peace looked like because he had lived without it for so long. Which meant if he saw it in you… it meant something.
You tried to recover. “I always look peaceful.”
“Not when you are angry.”
You gasped. “I do not—”
“You furrow your brows,” he interrupted mildly. “And you mutter under your breath.”
“You’re making that up.”
“I am not.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Unblinking. Calm. Absolutely certain.
You scrambled toward him suddenly, reaching to poke his forehead in accusation. “You’re observing me too much.”
But your finger never made contact.
His hand caught your wrist gently.
Not tight. Not restraining.
Just enough.
And your breath stilled.
He lowered your hand slowly, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your pulse point. His eyes softened in a way no one else was ever allowed to see.
“Observing you,” he murmured, “is my favorite thing to do.”
Oh.
Oh.
You hated how easily he could undo you.
Rain filled the silence again.
You shifted closer, the teasing energy dissolving into something warmer. Something softer. Your knees brushed his thigh.
“You’re home earlier than usual,” you said quietly.
“A short mission.”
“Dangerous?”
His gaze flickered—just briefly.
“It is over.”
That wasn’t an answer.
But it was the only one he’d give.
You studied him more closely now—the faint tension in his shoulders, the barely-there crease between his brows. You reached forward without thinking this time, fingers brushing his cheek.
He went still.
Your touch always did that to him.
“You’re tired,” you whispered.
He didn’t deny it.
Instead, he leaned into your palm. Just slightly.
But enough.
Your breath caught.
Itachi did not lean on people.
He did not allow himself to.
Yet here he was.
Leaning into you like you were something steady. Something safe.
You shifted forward fully now, kneeling in front of him. Your hands moved to smooth his hair back from his face, fingers careful around his forehead protector.
“You don’t have to carry everything alone,” you said softly.
His lashes lowered.
“I know.”
But knowing and believing were different things.
You moved closer still until your foreheads almost touched.
Almost.
He closed the distance first.
A gentle press of his forehead to yours.
No genjutsu.
No tricks.
Just him.
Your eyes fluttered shut.
The contact was light, but grounding. Intimate in a way that words could never replicate. You could feel his steady breathing, the warmth of his skin, the faint scent of rain clinging to him.
“Stay like this,” you murmured.
“I will.”
And he meant it.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. Time never felt urgent when he was like this.
Eventually, you felt his hand move—sliding carefully around your waist. Drawing you closer until you were practically sitting in his lap.
Your eyes opened slightly. “Itachi…”
“Yes?”
“You’re being clingy.”
A faint smirk.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
He adjusted his hold, pulling you impossibly closer, as if testing the definition.
“You are not objecting.”
You huffed, resting your head against his shoulder. “That’s because you’re comfortable.”
“That was not your original complaint.”
You smiled against his collar. “You talk too much.”
“I have been silent for several minutes.”
“Exactly.”
A soft exhale left him—almost a laugh.
Itachi didn’t laugh often.
But when he did, it felt like you’d won something sacred.
You tilted your head to look at him again. The lantern light caught in his dark eyes, softening the usual sharpness.
“Do you ever regret it?” you asked quietly.
His expression shifted.
“Regret what?”
“Choosing this. Choosing… us.”
The question hung heavy between you.
You knew his past. The weight he carried. The sacrifices he’d made. Loving him meant understanding that there were ghosts in every corner of his mind.
He studied you carefully, as if the answer required precision.
Then his hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
“No,” he said.
Simple. Firm.
“You are the only decision I have made that was purely selfish.”
Your throat tightened.
“And,” he continued softly, “the only one I would choose again without hesitation.”
You blinked rapidly.
“That’s unfair,” you muttered. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll cry.”
His thumb brushed beneath your eye gently. “You are not crying.”
“Yet.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying you the way he always did when he was memorizing something.
“I want you to continue looking peaceful,” he said quietly. “For as long as possible.”
Your heart ached in the sweetest way.
“Then stay,” you whispered. “Stay long enough to see it.”
His gaze didn’t waver.
“I intend to.”
The rain began to soften outside, the storm easing into a gentle drizzle.
You shifted again, this time curling fully into him, legs tucked beside his. His cloak wrapped around you both naturally, like it had always been meant to.
For a long while, neither of you spoke.
Your breathing synced.
His chin rested lightly atop your head.
Safe.
That was the word you never said out loud.
You felt safe with him.
And maybe, just maybe—
He felt safe with you too.
After a while, you tilted your head upward mischievously.
“Hey.”
“Yes?”
“You were definitely staring at me earlier.”
A beat.
“Yes.”
You grinned triumphantly. “I knew it.”
He leaned down, brushing the faintest kiss against your forehead.
“I will continue to do so.”
Your face burned.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he murmured against your skin, “you chose me.”
You smiled softly, eyes drifting shut again.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I did.”
And in the quiet aftermath of rain and unspoken promises, Itachi Uchiha held you like something fragile—
Not because you were breakable.
But because you were precious.
osamuslvt ─ 2026 ꕥ
comment here is you want to be added to my taglist!
🏷️ @crowconfetti ,
chapter synopsis: between sightseeing, chaotic bets, and too many of satoru’s ridiculous ideas, your honeymoon turns into a whirlwind of laughter, mischief, and unexpected intimacy, proving that even arranged marriages can have their own kind of magic.
cw: their usual banter, some emotional vulnerability, cheesy satoru, eventual smut, skinny dipping, tit play, a bit of grinding (?)
wc: 4.6k+
a/n: y'all. i did it. we went from <2k words to approaching 5k for a single chapter. i struggled w the smut but honestly whats new. i love these two they're my new obsession.
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“look what the cat dragged in.” satoru gave you a lazy smile. it took everything in you not to roll your eyes.
“my god, you get so corny when you’re drunk.”
and handsy. he had buried his head in your neck multiple times, played with your hair, and traced his initials in your palm. it looked like he was gonna lose the bet...and you couldn’t wait to rub it in his face.
he laid his head back and sighed happily.
“i love thailand. we should come here every year.”
“hmmm. you’ve had worse ideas. especially in the last hour or two.”
“so you don’t want to try living on mars.”
“uhh… no?” please not this again.
“our planet is dying. we are killing it. soon it will be uninhabitable. i mean look at the polar bears and penguins, their ice is melting.” he took another sip of his drink. “poor arctic animals.” his frown deepened, and he looked like a kicked puppy.
“ooookayyy,” you gently lifted the beer bottle from his hands, “you’ve definitely had too much to drink. you’re starting to get performative.”
“the polar bears and penguins are suffering. how could you say such harsh things at a time like this?! we’re in a crisis,” he slurred.
he started to tear up and he put his face in his hands.
“okay okay i’m sorry. poor polar bears and whatever. do you wanna lay down?” you patted his back awkwardly. you absolutely could not do tears.
he nodded and you helped him into bed. he muttered thank you softly and you smiled. the mess he left was manageable. you started to clean up the empty bottles scattered around the room. he was quiet now. no more rants about the horrors of climate change or trying to start a new civilization on mars. you kinda wanted to see what else he had up his sleeve. you turned back to him and he was knocked out.
too bad, you thought to yourself. his silence made you miss his ranting. he was sort of funny in his own odd way. you were glad you had a funny husband instead of a boring one.
you sat on the edge of the bed. “even though you wouldn't shut up,” you whispered, “you made the conversation interesting. i’m…grateful for that. i would much rather have that than a boring partner that talks about absolutely nothing, like the weather or taxes or something.” you sighed and stared at the wall.
this reminded you that it genuinely could have been worse. it could have been a guy forty years older than you that only wanted to touch you in places he shouldn’t. but no, you hadn’t drawn the worst fate. not even close. you scored the arranged marriage lottery. a handsome, caring guy close to your age that was actually fun to talk to. you turned back to look at satoru and felt yet another wave of gratitude.
as strange as it sounded, you wouldn’t want it any other way.
“since it’s our last full day in thailand, we have to live it to the fullest.” satoru declared during breakfast the next morning.
this piqued your curiosity.
“what are you suggesting?”
he slid a piece of paper across the table. you flipped it over and saw a long list of activities with corresponding times.
“this looks fun and all, but there’s no way we can do all of this in a single day.” there was the flower market, lumpini park, the grand palace, siam center, and so much more. you had looked up some of these places before your honeymoon but there wasn’t anyway to fit them in your schedule.
“never say never.”
“you know, i’m not completely against it. it would be nice to see you get humbled for once.”
he watched you silently.
“why not come along because you actually want to build a connection with me? this is a partnership after all.”
you pretended to think about it. “nah. i think this honeymoon did its job. and who wouldn’t wanna miss out on a spoiled rich kid learning he doesn’t get everything he wants in life?”
something shifted after you said that. his eyes looked sadder and his shoulders sagged.
“alright then.”
“satoru i was just kidding. of course i want to spend time with you, you’re not as annoying as i thought.” you winced. you were not making it any better. “er… i enjoy your company?”
“is that a question or a statement?” he asked flatly.
“a statement. i’m not very good with words.” you frowned.
“i can tell.” he took a sip of his juice and you collapsed back in your chair in defeat.
the table went quiet after that.
he didn’t look smug. he didn’t look amused. just… tired.
“i wasn’t trying to plan all that because i’m bored,” he said after a moment, tapping the folded itinerary against the table. “or because i need to be entertained.”
you didn’t respond.
“i just didn’t want this to feel like a contract.”
that made you look up.
he shrugged, eyes fixed on his glass. “two families, signatures, expectations. i know that’s what it is on paper. i just thought… maybe if we filled it with enough normal stuff, it wouldn’t feel like that.”
your chest tightened.
“it doesn’t,” you said before you could stop yourself.
his eyes flicked to yours. “it doesn't?”
you hesitated. then softer, “not anymore.”
a long, slow exhale escaped him, as if he were letting go of a breath he’d held for days.
“i’m glad to hear that.”
his eyes looked bluer in that moment as he smiled at you.
the two of you ate your breakfast in a comfortable silence.
the market was louder than you expected.
vendors called out to passing tourists, scooters squeezed through impossibly narrow gaps, and flowers spilled out of plastic buckets in every color imaginable.
“see?” satoru gestured dramatically. “this is what i meant. culture.”
“you just wanted an excuse to buy something unnecessary.”
he gasped. “these are not unnecessary. these are emotionally significant purchases.”
you snorted.
he crouched in front of a bucket of white jasmine strands, fingers brushing over them carefully.
“you know these are used in weddings here,” he said, quieter now. “blessings. good fortune.”
you blinked. “look at you. researching.”
“i’m not completely useless.”
you watched as he picked up a small garland and turned back to you.
for a second, you thought he was going to make a joke. wave it around dramatically. say something ridiculous.
he didn’t.
he stepped closer instead.
“may i?” he asked.
the question caught you off guard.
you nodded.
his fingers brushed your collarbone as he placed it over your head. the flowers poked your skin. his hands lingered for half a second too long.
“there,” he said softly. “now it feels official.”
your heart skipped. “we already signed the papers.”
“yeah.” his smile was smaller than usual. “but this feels different.”
you swallowed.
around you, the market continued — loud, alive, indifferent to whatever was shifting between you two.
“you don’t have to keep trying so hard,” you said before you could stop yourself.
he tilted his head. “trying?”
“to make this… better.”
he looked at you like he was thinking carefully before speaking. that was new.
“i’m not trying to make it better. i’m not even sure if that’s possible,” he said finally. “i just don’t want it to feel like it’s impending doom. i want there to be some good, some joy, that comes from this.”
that did something to you.
because you hadn’t realized you’d been treating it that way. or that you shouldn’t be.
you reached up and touched the flowers at your neck. “it did at first, but after this past week, it feels a lot better,” you admitted.
and this time, you didn’t look away when you said it.
he searched your face, like he was waiting for the punchline.
“there’s no hidden insult after that?” he asked carefully.
you almost smiled. “no.”
he let out a breath you hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
the noise of the market pressed in around you again: vendors shouting prices, someone laughing loudly, the rustle of petals being bundled together, but it felt distant. like you were standing in the quiet center of it all.
“i don’t want to go home and feel like we’re strangers again,” he said, softer now. “i don’t want that to be the only version of us that works.”
that lands heavier than anything he’s said so far.
you hesitated.
“then don’t let it be,” you replied.
he held your gaze.“then don’t push me away when i try.”
you nodded.
for a second, neither of you moved.
then he stepped forward and pulled you into a hug.
he smelled like sunscreen and jasmine now, the flowers brushing against his shirt when you leaned in. warm. clean. somewhat familiar.
you let yourself melt into it. let your cheek rest against his chest. let your hands curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt.
you could hear the market still buzzing around you, but it still felt far away.
he tightened his hold just slightly, like he was making sure you were real.
after a moment, before it could turn into something too vulnerable, you patted his shoulder awkwardly.
“we don’t have much time to waste,” you said, stepping back. “if we’re actually going through that whole list.”
his mouth curved slowly. “oh? so we are?”
you adjusted the flowers around your neck. “don’t get too cocky.”
“too late.” he beamed.
by the time you reached Asiatique, the sun was beginning to dip.
the river caught the light in long streaks of gold, boats drifting lazily through the glow. string lights blinked overhead one by one, warm and twinkling against the deepening sky, and the entire place felt like it was trying just a little too hard to be romantic. there was soft music in the distance, couples lingering along the railings, the air thick with that picture-perfect kind of charm.
“you planned this,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him.
he looked offended. “what? i can’t appreciate ambience?”
“you absolutely googled ‘most romantic spots in Bangkok.’”
he grinned. he didn’t deny it.
vendors lined the walkways, even more than at the flower market. clothes, souvenirs, snacks that smelled sweet and fried. music drifted from somewhere behind you. the giant ferris wheel loomed ahead, slow and glowing.
you followed his gaze upward.
“oh no,” you said immediately.
“oh yes.”
“you’re actually insane if you think i’m getting on that.”
he turned to you slowly. “are you scared?”
you scoffed and shook your head. “of course not.”
“good.” he held up two tickets.
you stared at him. “you are unbelievable.”
“relax,” he said, bumping your shoulder lightly. “it’s just a wheel.”
“just a wheel my ass,” you muttered, but you followed him anyway.
“i swear to god satoru, if i die…”
“you’re not going to die.” he dropped into an open seat and patted the space beside him. “it’s going to be lots of fun. i promise.”
you hesitated for half a second before giving in, slumping down next to him.
the wheel groaned to life.
your stomach dropped straight to your stomach as the pod you were in lurched and began to rise. you gripped the sides, squeezing your eyes shut tight enough to see stars. from beside you, you swore you heard the asshole snort.
“if you keep your eyes closed the whole time you won’t see the view.”
you ignored him, but you cracked one eye open, stubbornly staring at your shoes instead.
“suit yourself,” he hummed.
it can’t be that bad, you thought to yourself, plus the view must be gorgeous if everyone and their mother comes to Asiatique.
you slowly opened your eyes and took in the view.
as much as you didn’t want to, you had to give satoru credit. the view was breathtaking. warm lights from the riverside stalls and ferris wheel reflected across the chao phraya, stretching in long ribbons over the water. the river lay dark and glassy, glistening as the moon shone overhead.
“i told you,” he whispered, but even he didn’t seem too focused on gloating. it seemed as though the view had taken his breath away too.
“it’s beautiful,” you said softly. “i did not expect to enjoy a ride on a ferris wheel.”
“you’re welcome,” he smirked.
you rolled your eyes but you couldn’t help but smile. you’d let him have this one thing.
after the ferris wheel ride, he insisted on hurrying back to the hotel.
“seriously? no more extravagant sights and activities? did satoru gojo wear himself out?” you raised an eyebrow at him as you slammed the car door behind you.
“i have a surprise waiting,” he shrugged.
“why do you try to be so mysterious and nonchalant? you have to be the most chalant person i’ve ever encountered.” you titled your head in curiosity. his cosplaying was starting to concern you.
“why do you act like you’re nonchalant? today proved that you’re nothing but a big softie!” he shot back.
“god forbid i try to empathize with you. considering how i’m spending the rest of my life with you.”
“whatever you say,” he turned to look out the window.
his indifference annoyed you. you half expected him to argue back but he let it go so quickly. you wondered if that was the goal.
damnit he’s good
he never outwitted you. that was your thing. you’re rubbing off of him too much. and too quickly. you haven’t even known him for two weeks.
you pressed your lips in a firm line and sulked. his surprise better be good. you were exhausted from running around all day, trying to fit so many activities in the span of a couple of hours, and there was no way he wasn’t either.
the car stopped in front of the hotel and you got out of the car.
you silently followed him through the lobby and to the elevator.
you watched as he pressed the button for the floor that your rooms were on.
“so your big surprise was just going to sleep?” you asked all smug.
he shook his head. “no, it’s sex.”
you froze.
“sorry, do you prefer ‘consummating the marriage’ more?”
“uh—” for once, you were at a loss of words. he couldn’t be for real.
“relax. i’m kidding. i’m not losing this bet even if my life depends on it. we’re going back to get our swim suits. the surprise is diving.”
“oh. okay.” you felt your head bobbing up and down. “nice…”
“oh my god. i think i broke you.”
you punched his shoulder and he yelped.
“ow!”
“shut up.”
the elevator dinged! and the doors opened.
“yes ma’am,” he rubbed his arm and scurried to his room.
you snorted and headed towards yours.
it was nice he saved some space in the day for you to go diving. his snarky comment from earlier threw you so off guard you forgot to even consider how he knew you wanted to go diving in the first place. it’s not like you had told him. after seeing the bullshit he packed his days with, you gave up asking him to be your diving partner.
“extreme sundae tower challenge? international dessert roulette? what the hell satoru…” you muttered to yourself on day three. it was your fault for being nosy and sneaking a peak at his plans for the day. never again.
you quickly changed into your bikini and knocked on your shared door.
“i’m ready!” you called out.
the door swung open and he grinned at you.
“let’s go.” he had on nothing but swim trunks on and flip flops. his towel was swung over his shoulder, but he was missing his signature sunglasses. the sun had set long ago but it still felt wrong to see him without them.
he broke the silence. “i bet you’re wondering how i knew you wanted to go diving. go ahead, ask me.” he straightened his shoulders and looked at you expectantly. you did not like where this was going.
“you’re right, i was wondering how you knew. but with this newfound information, i’ve decided not to inquire further about your knowledge of my hobby." you pressed the down button to call the elevator.
“ohhh, so it’s a hobby now? do tell.” he leaned against the wall and you silently cursed yourself for revealing that.
“don’t worry about it,” you mumbled. you tried to look at anything but his eyes. before you could stop yourself, your eyes trailed down to his six pack and his happy trail. you immediately looked away, but it was too late. the image was now permanently engraved in your brain.
although you’d never tell him it to his face, his physique was out of this world. you had to hand it to him, the man looked like he had been sculpted by greek gods. it definitely fed his ego and that annoyed you. you hated when guys knew they were fine.
the elevator doors opened and you slipped inside.
satoru pressed the button for the lobby and tapped his foot impatiently.
you side eyed him and he immediately stopped. you smirked to yourself. he was still terrified of you.
the elevator chimed and the doors opened to the lobby.
without warning, satoru took your hand and dragged you through the lobby. he waved down a cab and opened the door for you.
“after you,” he said sweetly.
“thanks.” you slipped inside and he followed suit.
you looked at him bewilderedly as he told the taxi driver directions in thai. the driver nodded and put the car in motion. he turned on the radio and some thai folk blasted through the car.
“since when did you speak thai?” you asked incredulously.
“i don’t speak it, i just learned the basics and then some.” he drummed his fingers on his thighs and bobbed his head to the music.
he drummed his fingers on his thighs, tapping along to the music, his head bobbing slightly .you watched him closely, curious at first, thinking he was just enjoying the song. but the longer you looked, the more the small tells gave him away. his eyes darted away every time you glanced at him, his leg jittered too fast to match the beat, and there was a tense stiffness in his shoulders that made the casual rhythm of his hands feel almost forced. he was trying to seem relaxed, but every subtle twitch betrayed the nervous energy bubbling just beneath the surface.
“what’s wrong?” you asked.
“nothing,” he said simply, but he still refused to meet your eyes.
“you sure? you seem a bit restless” you pushed a little.
“i’m fine. don’t worry.”
you sighed and decided to let it go. turning away, you looked out the window for the rest of the car trip.
the car finally came to a stop at a beach.
“thank you sir.” satoru handed him the fare and got out of the car.
he motioned for you to follow him to one of the small buildings on the water.
even though the sun was down, it was pretty nice out. the ocean looked even more beautiful at night as the moon shone over the water.
satoru came to a sudden stop and you plowed right into his back.” he didn’t even stumble, he just stood there like a statue.
“shit sorry.” you mumbled.
he didn't reply. instead, he groaned and dragged his hands down his face.
“what’s wrong?” you asked carefully.
“the people that run the diving went home early due to a family emergency.” he pointed to a yellow note pinned at the door.
your heart sunk. you were really looking forward to going. you turned to satoru and he looked even more disappointed than you.
“i’m sorry,” he mumbled, “i should have called to double check. i know how badly you wanted to go.”
you waved it off. “it’s fine, we did a whole lot of fun things today. plus, how could you have known?”
“i wish we didn’t come all this way for nothing.”
“not for nothing. we can walk along the beach, it’s nice out.”
he didn’t say anything, but followed you as you walked along the beach.
you sort of felt bad for him. he tried to plan the perfect day, but got crushed by reality. you had accidentally jinxed him this morning and you felt even worse. there had to be a way to end this adventure on a good note. to make the last night of your honeymoon memorable.
you spotted a cove further along the way.
“satoru! look!” you pointed to it and his eyes lit up.
“what are we waiting for,” he sprinted towards it and you called after him.
“wait up!”
you barely caught up to him.
he turned to grin at you.
“it’s perfect.” he started to walk towards the small body of water.
“how did you even spot this?” he asked.
“my mom taught me how to keep an eye out for them. she said they were the real treasures of the beach.”
he held your gaze before turning back towards the water.
“it’s not super shallow. we could swim here.”
you walked up beside him. you had the best idea ever.
“uh oh, i don’t like that look on your face. what is it?” his eyebrows knitted in genuine fear and you couldn’t help but cackle.
“i have a proposition!” you declared.
“oh lord. let’s hear it. no beating around the bush,” he looked at you expectantly.
“technically, if we’re naked but not getting at it, the bet is still on right?
he narrowed his eyes at you. “what are you saying?”
you pointed at the water in front of you. “skinny dipping.” you watched him carefully. you could see the gears turning in his head.
“you’re so on.” he started untying his swim trunks.
“wait.. actually?” you hadn’t actually expected that. he gave the vibe of all bark and no bite type of vibe. you watched in horror as he approached the water.
“you coming?” he called out to you with the biggest smirk on his face.
“of course,” you mumbled and faced away from him to untie your bikini top.
you heard a splash! and your heart dropped to your ass. fuuckk my lifeeee
you hurried up and took of your bikini bottom and jumped in after him.
when you came up for air, you found him staring at you.
“well hello there.”
“gross! satoru,” you splashed him and he laughed.
“what? all i said was hello!”
“you’re being gross,” you groaned.
“no i’m not. i bet it’s taking everything in you not to glance down.”
“and there it is.”
“am i wrong?”
“no,” you sighed, “i have no idea why i suggested this in this first place. this might have been my worst idea yet.”
“it’s a test of self control for the both of us,” he shrugged. “it’s not the worst thing in the world.”
“i suppose, but it still feels weird to be naked in front of someone i hardly know,” you shivered, “no offense.”
“none taken. are you cold?” he asked, voice laced with concern.
“no.”
“you’re lying.”
“i’m fine.”
he stretched out his arms to pull you into a hug.
“satoru!” you tried to squirm away, but his big arms engulfed you.
despite everything, he was still very warm. he was your very own personal heater.
with a hard dick. poking at your ass.
“ignore it.” he muttered and he buried his face in your neck.
“well no…it doesn’t seem like you want me to ignore it.”
“i am not losing the bet.”
“who said anything about having sex? sex is cool and all, but have you ever made out naked in the water?”
“no…have you?” he asked curiously.
“nope,” you turned to face him, “but there’s a first for everything,” you whispered.
he held your gaze before leaning in.
this kiss was nothing like the one at the wedding. that one was for shock value, for everyone watching to gasp or whistle. to piss off your mothers’ and cause their blood pressures to rise.
this kiss was different.
slower. warmer. deliberate.
his hand lifted like it moved on instinct alone, fingers settling at your jaw, thumb brushing lightly along your skin as he tilted your face toward his. there was no teasing grin this time, no hint that he was playing it up for anyone else. just the steady warmth of him, close enough that you could feel the quiet breath he let out before his lips met yours.
he didn’t rush it.
the kiss lingered: soft at first, almost careful, before deepening just enough to make your stomach dip. his thumb traced a slow, absentminded path along your cheek, like he was savoring the moment, like he wasn’t in any hurry to pull away.
and the worst part?
he kissed you like he knew exactly what he was doing.
like he meant every second of it.
and the very dangerous feeling that neither of you was in a hurry to stop.
the water stirred gently around you as he pulled you closer, one hand settling firm at your waist to keep you steady in his lap. the movement sent a small ripple between you, cool water brushing your skin in sharp contrast to the warmth of him. you could feel his cock twitch against your thigh. it seemed like he really liked kissing.
your fingers, having nowhere else to go, slid instinctively against his bare shoulders, gripping lightly. the reaction only seemed to encourage him, his hand drifting slowly from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb brushing slow against your skin like he’d gotten a little too used to touching you.
the kiss deepened, still unhurried, but far less careful now.
you felt the quiet breath he let out against your lips, like you were getting to him more than he expected.
what made it worse was that he got to you too. he never was supposed to, but somehow he did.
the way he kissed you was like he’d forgotten how to breathe without you. your breasts brushed against his chest as he pulled you closer, before pulling away. he immediately put a tit in his mouth, swirling his tongue around your nipple. you moaned and rocked your hips gently, chasing any form of friction. he switched to the other side, making sure to massage the one from before.
just as he pulled away, a phone rang from behind you.
“you have got to be kidding me,” he groaned. he mumbled a quick “excuse me” before lifting you out of his lap gently and getting out of the water.
as he answered the phone, you stared at the stone wall in shock. what the hell just happened?
if someone had told you that this was the way your honeymoon would end you would have laughed in their face. nothing would have prepared you for something like this.
you quickly got out of the water and wrapped your towel around your body.
you glanced over at your husband. he had pants on, thankfully, and a towel as well. a stricken expression was on his face and your heart sank. whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.
you mentally prepared yourself for the news as he hung up the phone.
you squeezed his arm as he struggled to get the words out.
“my mom was in a car accident,” he choked. “she’s in the hospital. they—” his voice broke, breath hitching hard, “they don’t know if she'll make it.”
OMG TELL ME EVERYTHING I'M GOING TO DO THE BEST I CAN WITH THE BOYS 😱💕💕💕💕💕🥰😭😭😭😭😭💞💞💞💞💞💞🥺👉🏽👈🏽👉🏽👈🏽👉🏽👈🏽🥺🥺🥺
OMG thank you so much!! I’m so hyped for this 💕
Here the descriptions ✨:
Mulciber is striking in an effortless way, dark curls that refuse to stay neat, warm brown eyes with a glint of mischief, and a smile that feels both charming and dangerous. His tie is always a little loose, his robes slightly rumpled, as though he’s never quite taking the rules seriously. There’s confidence in his stance and a touch of swagger in his walk.
Lestrange’s posture alone gives away his pureblood heritage, straight-backed, chin lifted, every movement deliberate. His skin is pale, his hair dark and perfectly trimmed, his expression composed to the point of severity. His eyes, dark brown, nearly black, rarely show warmth. When he smiles, it’s more out of courtesy than mirth.
Avery has neatly combed dark blond hair, usually slicked back to perfection. His features are fine but forgettable, an easy face to overlook until he smiles. His grey-green eyes are sharp and observant, missing little. His Hogwarts robes are always immaculate, every button fastened, every fold straight, as though presentation itself were a kind of armor.
Abraxas Malfoy cuts a striking figure, his pale blond hair sleek and precisely combed, as though disorder has never dared approach him. Cold gray eyes rest in a pale, flawless complexion, sharpening his handsomeness into something almost untouchable. Whether in impeccably worn Slytherin robes or refined wizarding attire beyond the castle walls, every detail of his appearance quietly proclaims wealth, control, and an inherited sense of superiority.
Tom is a sociopath. The love potion metaphor is that he was born from rape.
While I appreciate that her writing was trying to depict him as such, I find it entirely poor writing. As I’ve mentioned before the love potion metaphor makes not a lot of sense because of a lot of factors that we have to think about when it comes to Merope. It does make more sense that his father SA and manipulated her, I’m not gonna say that he didn’t. But as far as the love potion, I think it’s a piss poor metaphor. It implies that all children born from SA have something intrinsically broken within them and I think that’s a horrible message to send.
Plus I’m a huge fan of monsters aren’t born, they’re made. And in Tom’s case there was a LOT going on in his environment that could have easily made him a monster. Which is why I think that the sociopath default for people who become evil is such piss poor writing and lazy writing as well.
I do love history and if you look at the history around that time period, around orphanages during that time period, the Great Depression, WWII, etc you can make a much much more in depth analysis to why tom became evil rather than the default “well he was born that way.”
Tom DOES have people he cares about prior to going to hogwarts. They’re all muggles and are all intricately tied to his fear of death.
The first is the lady who was like almost his exclusive caretaker because she bonded so deeply with Tom. A young woman who was exiled from her aristocrat family because she didn’t want to follow their rules. She cared for Tom and practically raised him and really wanted to adopt him. But Miss Cole and the other head of the orphanage chastised her and were completely against it because she was a single woman with no husband and a young child would be a “stain on her reputation.”
When the Great Depression was beginning and getting really really bad, she couldn’t stand to see Tom go hungry so she did what she never thought she would do. She sold her body. Rather than beg her family for money, this way she could support the young boy who she loved as a son. And baby Tom (think toddler age) adored her just all the same. It bought money for food and clothes… but it also made her sickly. Severely sick with syphillis.
She hid her sickness from Tom as long as she could and in her dying days she created a small trustfund for him to access when he turned 15. She passed away and Tom was left in the orphanage once again alone and abandoned. With the one person he felt was his mother ripped away from him… just like his birth mother.
The headmistress did allow Tom to visit her grave but she squarely placed Tom’s nanny’s death on his shoulders. Saying she would have found a good husband and lived a good life it wasn’t for him. Her family did the same thing, yelling and cursing at the frightened and confused toddler who subconsciously lashed out at them with magic as he sobbed not understanding why he was being attacked or that the fact that the woman he called mama was gone.
As time goes on, Tom chooses to forget her. Finding solace and peace in denying her existence. It’s more painful to remember anyways.
He’s only reminded of her on his 15th birthday when the documents of the trustfund are handed over to him. What remains of that fund is 10 pounds. 10 pounds out of the 10,000 she put into the trust fund for him. Turns out that Miss Cole and other orphanage employees had been stealing the money from his trust fund und claiming it was for his behalf but enriching themselves.
This enrages him and further pushes him to the belief that muggles are all corrupt at their core and that death claims the good ones. So if death was gonna claim the good ones, he would make the bad ones suffer as it should be.
So I have this like story idea where Tom Riddle didn’t turn evil because he was “born from a love potion” hate that and it’s such lazy writing.
But rather from loss of people he loved around him, and he didn’t know how to identify these feelings and loosing control over the things he couldn’t control. My head canon also dives deeper into his fear of death.
I think the first I want to focus on is his connection with his caretaker who took care of him from infancy.
The day you woke up in Hogwarts with your friend and Tom Riddle suspected something was wrong with you two.
AN: I've read a lot of isakaid and I want to make a comedy. Probably another shot split into parts
You never thought that obsessively reading fanfiction or watching Harry Potter as a teenager would finally come in handy. But when you woke up in the familiar Slytherin room from the fanart, you knew something was wrong. Especially when you heard a sudden scream nearby and Anneliese was lying on the bed next to yours. Your best friend.
"God...Jesus...fuck" Anneliese looked around the room in shock, and when her eyes met yours, she quickly jumped off the bed and ran to you, almost tripping over the duvet that had wrapped itself around her legs. "are you here too!?" Anne shouted, grabbing your hands to check if you were not her hallucination. "I think we're having collective hallucinations... I knew the governments were plotting something" Anne whispered, her voice full of confidence in her theory.
You shook your head, rubbing your forehead with your hand, and closed your eyes, thinking for a moment. "no...okay, wait-" You started slowly when the door suddenly burst open and a blonde girl ran in, quickly starting to gather her things. "Why aren't you getting ready? There's only a little over half an hour left of breakfast." You blinked a few times, grabbing Anne's arm as she narrowed her eyes in disbelief.
"yes, yes...we're going" You replied with a smile, to which the blonde smiled back and nodded, grabbing her bag. "see you at Herbiology?" You nodded again and waved at her, after a moment looking at Anneliese who had buried her face in the pillow and screamed.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
Fortunately, you found yourself in the Great Hall quickly. Anne looked at the people around her, asking questions every now and then. "You seriously never watched Harry Potter? It was on Netflix!" You whisper-shouted at the brunette, who bit the inside of her cheek and folded her arms across her chest. "I was interested in boys who exist, not characters from books" She replied, and you rolled your eyes.
"well, now the same people from the books are real" You looked around, noticing how most of the students were dressed somewhat conservatively. Shirts buttoned to the last button, black tights covering their entire legs, robes buttoned. And then you looked at Anne. Her robe was unbuttoned, her tie was loosely thrown around her neck, and the last buttons of her shirt were undone, revealing a slight cleavage. You weren't sure what year you were in...you didn't see Harry, Ron, Hermione, or the rest of student you know about, so you were either ahead of their time or already after their time at school. But judging by the students' clothing style, this was before the Chosen One was born.
You rested your head on your hands, closing your eyes as you heard quiet whispers and felt someone sit down next to you. Bored, you glanced at the tall, dark-haired boy who opened the book with obvious boredom. You sighed quietly and closed your eyes again, trying to calm down and figure out how you and Anneliese ended up here.
"Jesus, don't sigh like that." Anne muttered quietly, looking at you as she stabbed her fork into the scrambled eggs on her plate. "as I said, it's a hallucination caused by the drugs our government puts in our food every day to control us" She said it confidently and with determination, which made several people around you look at Anne as if she was crazy. Even you raised an eyebrow.
"you watch too many conspiracy theories" You muttered quietly, and the brunette looked at you with hurt. "MK-Ultra turned out to be true!" She responded by slamming her hand on the table, which made other students look at you, including the boy sitting next to you. The table around you fell silent, focusing on Anneliese who was passionately talking about a project carried out by the CIA in the 1950s and 1960s. "but we're not in the USA, are we?" You muttered softly.
"Who knows what the British government or any other government is planning? They won't say 'hey, we're your government and we're poisoning you to control you'. Do you really think they'd admit it? No! That's why we have to watch them" You frowned with a quiet 'what' as you listened to the brunette's words. You blinked a few times and shook your head, not wanting to think about Anneliese and her obsession right now.
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
The whole day was difficult. You didn't know any spells, you could barely brew a potion, and one of the plants almost bit off your arm, but you survived. You had the advantage of knowing the universe-world- of Harry Potter. Unlike Anneliese, who looked like a soldier going through a severe PTSD episode. Her face was pale, her lips were blue, and her hands were trembling. The young woman fell to the ground with a thud, resting her crampons on the cold stone and closing her eyes. "these are really strong drugs" She muttered barely audibly.
"you survived...somehow" You muttered quietly, sitting on the bench next to her figure and resting your head on your hand. You looked up, seeing the same black-haired boy again among the group of Slytherins who were talking quietly. You tilted your head to the side, trying to focus on his figure and remember who he was.
Jet black hair, brown eyes, Slytherin, Head Boy, a group of Slytherins who despise others around him...
"oh shit" You muttered quietly under your breath. Tom Marvolo Riddle. He looked a lot different than his movie version. He had sharper facial features, darker hair, and much emptier and colder eyes.
On the one hand, you wanted to sink into the ground and run away from his gaze, but on the other... you had the advantage. You knew his past...and future. You could have buried him among the teachers, defeated him now before he went completely insane.
"it's a pity that such a handsome boy turned into a lizard" You hummed quietly, and Anneliese looked at you as she rose from the ground. The brunette attracted the attention of students all day long. She was beautiful, and the style in which she wore her uniform only added to her charm. Long, curly dark brown hair, brown eyes, clean and fair skin with a delicate blush, full lips and a shapely figure. Additionally, the fact that her uniform had a more... open style than the other girls' attracted the attention of the male side of the school.
"Who?" She asked, folding her arms across her chest and looking in the same direction as you. After a moment, a slight, mischievous smile spread across her lips as she looked at you again. "the one with dark hair?" She asked in a meaningful voice and before you could say anything Anneliese was already walking towards the group of young men.
Do you ever feel like there’s barely any real support for writers anymore? Like you’re creating alone and wishing for actual feedback and encouragement?
We want to change that.
We’re building a group for writers who want help with their writing / writers who want to help others grow. Beta readers, co-writers, idea bouncing, feedback, and encouragement.
Our goal is to help writers improve their skills, feel confident in their work, grow their platforms, and make the writing/fanfic community feel like a community again.
If you enjoy helping others, we really need you. Readers, advice-givers, editors, idea people — anything you’re comfortable offering matters and is appreciated.
If you want support with your writing, or to join in helping,
This includes respecting boundaries and civil language. Putting yourself and your work out there is hard enough and we will not tolerate any bullying on this platform. If anyone feels they are being treated poorly or spoken to in a poor way, PM either Deirdre or Gwynn.
2. Clarify any serious tags and check an editor’s preferences before asking them to read your work.
Some editors/commenters may not feel comfortable reading dead dove, non-con or smut. Please be as clear as possible with your writing tags before asking an editor to read your work.
We are also aware that long form content tags can change. So long as the editor/commenter is informed of the new tags prior to the next chapter, and is comfortable, then everyone can have a good time.
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If you want to know what people like and that it is, tell us! If you want a harder critique also make that clear. These boundaries are to keep both parties comfortable and clear with intention. Writing is precious and sensitive and we aim to treat everyone with the care it deserves.
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Ok, now that the serous stuff is out of the way, let’s have some fun.
No one writes anything but smut, and when they do write something else, it's missing soul, or it's short, or it's OOC.
And SO many Fandoms are dead. Idk what's going on,
Are people reading somewhere else, because Wattpad, Tumblr, and AO3 are dead too?
And AI is EVERYWHERE
I don't know what to do, I can not live without my stories! I'm being so serious, life really sucks rn and I need to live another life in the fiction world and I can't.
Summary: When YN discovers that Tom Riddle has never celebrated a birthday, she decides to give him one he will never forget. Using careful planning, invisibility magic, and a touch of holiday secrecy, she prepares a hidden celebration at the Black Lake. When Tom finally arrives, expecting nothing, he finds… nothing at all. Until YN reveals herself, and for the first time, he experiences surprise, warmth, and love. Based on this request.
Word Count: 5080
Tom Riddle's Masterlist
You did not mean to find it.
That was the excuse you would cling to later, turning it over in your mind like a smooth stone, even though you knew intent stopped mattering the moment the knowledge settled into you and refused to leave. Accidents could still hurt. Accidents could still change things.
The orphanage records were stacked in uneven, precarious piles across Slughorn’s desk, folders sagging with age, their corners softened from decades of handling. The office smelled faintly of dust, old parchment, and something sharp and medicinal that clung to the curtains. Slughorn had waved you in earlier that afternoon with a jovial smile and a request that sounded harmless enough.
“Just a bit of sorting,” he had said. “Historical Hogwarts students, you see. Old records. Dreadfully boring, I’m afraid, but you’re so reliable.”
You had agreed, of course. You always did. It felt easier than saying no, especially when Tom had been the one to suggest you help in the first place.
So you worked quietly, fingers skimming names that meant nothing to you. Dates blurred together. Notes written by strangers about other strangers. Detached. Impersonal. Safe.
Until your eyes snagged on a name you knew too well.
Riddle, Tom Marvolo.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Your fingers hovered over the folder, hesitating. You told yourself you were only surprised. That it was natural to pause when you saw someone you cared about reduced to ink and margins. You did not tell yourself the truth, which was that curiosity had already begun to pull.
You should not have opened it. You knew that immediately. The knowledge settled in even as your hand moved. But the folder was already slipping, its contents threatening to spill onto the desk, and fixing it felt safer than leaving it half open.
Practical. Sensible.
Very Hufflepuff of you.
You eased the folder open just enough to straighten the papers.
And then you saw it.
There was nothing remarkable at first glance. Sparse notes. Dates written in tidy, unforgiving handwriting. Observations recorded by people who had never known him, only catalogued him. A childhood summarized in cold fragments.
Then your eyes dropped lower.
Date of Birth: December 31, 1926.
You stopped breathing.
December thirty first.
You read it again, slowly, as if the words might rearrange themselves if you stared long enough. They did not.
The last day of the year.
Nothing dramatic happened. The room did not spin. Your knees did not buckle. But something heavy and cold settled into your chest, sinking deep and staying there.
You closed the folder carefully, far more gently than necessary, as though the paper inside might bruise if you were careless.
Your mind raced.
Winter holidays at Hogwarts. The way the castle always buzzed before Christmas, students laughing as they packed trunks, complaining about the cold, counting down the days until they could leave. Snow piling against the windows. The excitement in the air.
And Tom.
Always staying.
Always remaining behind when everyone else left. Always dismissing the holidays with a curl of his lip or a bored remark. He never exchanged gifts. Never spoke about family traditions. Never mentioned celebrating anything at all beyond academic achievements and future plans.
And suddenly, horribly, it all fit together.
His birthday did not just fall on a forgotten day.
It fell on a day where the entire world was too busy celebrating something else to notice him.
That evening, you sat beside him in the common room, the fire crackling low and warm as snow pressed thickly against the tall windows. The room was quieter than usual, many students already gone. Shadows stretched long across the floor.
Tom was reading, as always. His posture was precise, controlled, every inch of him composed. He looked like he belonged in this silence.
You shifted slightly closer, heart beating just a little too fast.
You needed to be careful.
“Can I ask you something?” you said.
He did not look up. “You already are.”
You almost smiled despite yourself.
“Do you like birthdays?” you asked, forcing your voice to sound light, curious rather than intentional.
“No.”
The answer was instant. Sharp. Final.
You turned toward him fully now. “That was fast.”
“They are a waste of time,” he said, eyes still on the page. “Sentimental nonsense. People invent reasons to celebrate themselves.”
“That is not fair,” you said quietly. “Some people just like having something to look forward to.”
He gave a small, humorless huff. “People like being reminded that they exist. I do not require that.”
You studied his face, the tightness around his mouth, the way his jaw set as though the subject itself irritated him.
“So you have never enjoyed one?” you asked. “Not even as a child?”
His fingers stilled.
Just barely.
When he finally looked at you, his gaze was sharp, searching, as if he were trying to determine why you were asking at all.
“No,” he said. “I have never celebrated my birthday.”
Something in his tone warned you not to push. Still, you could not help yourself.
“Never?” you asked softly.
“There was no reason to,” he replied. “And there still is not.”
He turned the page with deliberate precision, effectively ending the conversation. The message was clear. This subject was closed.
You nodded and leaned back, letting the firelight warm your hands, but your thoughts would not settle.
Later that night, lying awake in your dormitory bed, staring at the dark ceiling as snow whispered against the windows, the date replayed over and over in your mind.
December thirty first.
The last day of the year. The day people counted down together, cheering as something new began. The day filled with noise, warmth, and belonging.
And Tom had spent every single one of them unnoticed.
No cake.
No candles.
No one choosing him, even for a moment.
Your chest ached with it.
You decided then that it was not right.
You were not going to make it loud or public or foolish. You knew Tom too well for that. He hated attention. Hated being cornered by emotion. Anything excessive would feel like an attack rather than a kindness.
This would not be childish.
It would be deliberate.
It would be controlled.
It would be his.
And it would have to be a surprise.
Because if Tom suspected even the smallest hint of it, he would dismantle the idea without mercy. He would ask too many questions. He would decide it was unnecessary. He would make sure it never happened.
So you lied.
When the holidays approached and conversations shifted naturally to plans and departures, you waited. You did not rush it. You let it come up as if by chance.
“I am going home for the break,” you said one evening, stirring your tea. “My parents want me there.”
Tom’s eyes lifted immediately.
“For how long?” he asked.
“Just until term resumes.”
He studied you for a long moment, gaze dark and unreadable. “You do not usually leave early.”
“They asked,” you said simply. “I thought I should.”
Another pause.
“Write to me,” he said.
“I will,” you promised.
You packed your things carefully, deliberately. Enough to make it convincing. Enough to make it real. You said goodbye at the gates, breath fogging in the winter air as snow crunched beneath your boots.
You kissed him once, softly, lingering just long enough to memorize the warmth of him.
“I will be back before you know it,” you said.
He watched you leave without turning around.
Only when he disappeared into the castle did you finally exhale.
You did not go home.
Instead, you stayed.
Hiding in the quiet corridors of Hogwarts, counting the days, planning every detail with careful hands and a determined heart.
December thirty first was coming.
And for the first time in Tom Riddle’s life, someone intended to notice.
Tom Riddle did not keep track of dates.
He never had a reason to.
Time mattered only insofar as it could be shaped into something useful. Hours were for study. Days were for progress. Weeks were only relevant when they marked advancement toward a goal. Anything else was indulgence, and Tom had long since trained himself not to indulge.
The castle emptied gradually, as it always did near the holidays. First the noise softened. Then it vanished altogether. The corridors lost their constant motion, footsteps fading until every sound echoed too sharply against stone.
Tom observed it with distant detachment.
Students packed trunks and said their goodbyes, voices warm with anticipation. He watched from the edge of the room as they laughed, as they made promises to write, as they spoke about home.
You had left with the others.
The absence registered before he allowed himself to name it. A space beside him in the common room that went unoccupied. A familiar presence missing from his line of sight. He noticed himself glancing up more often than usual, expecting to see you crossing the room with that quiet, careful way of yours.
He told himself it was habit.
Nothing more.
On the morning of December thirty first, he woke before the bell.
The dormitory was colder than usual, the air sharp against his skin as he swung his legs from the bed. The other beds were empty, curtains drawn back neatly. Silence pressed in on all sides.
He dressed without hurry, folding his clothes with precise movements, aligning everything until it was exactly as it should be. Routine steadied him.
Still, as he straightened, his gaze drifted toward the door.
You would not be walking through it.
Irritating.
He left the dormitory and went straight to the library.
The doors creaked open, revealing long tables and towering shelves swallowed by shadow. Pale winter light spilled through the high windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Tom chose his usual seat and opened his book.
He read.
At least, he attempted to.
The words blurred together more than once. His eyes skimmed lines without absorbing their meaning. He turned a page, then stopped, realizing he had no idea what he had just read.
You used to sit across from him in the mornings.
Not every day. Only when you knew he would tolerate it. You always brought your own book. You never spoke unless he did first.
The memory irritated him.
He forced his attention back to the page.
This was preferable. Solitude meant efficiency.
Yet his gaze lifted again, unbidden, drawn to the empty chair across from him.
He closed the book with a controlled motion and leaned back slightly, jaw tightening.
You were at home. That was all.
You had said you would write.
The thought lingered longer than it should have.
He stood abruptly and left the library.
The corridors were still, the stone cold beneath his boots. Snow pressed thick against the windows, muting the world outside. As he walked, he found himself listening for footsteps that were not there.
At the Great Hall, breakfast was already laid out. The space felt cavernous, the long tables nearly empty. He took his usual seat and ate mechanically, barely tasting the food.
Across from him, the bench was empty.
He remembered the way you always slid onto it quietly, offering him a small smile before focusing on your plate. You never crowded him. You never demanded his attention.
He looked away sharply.
This was nothing.
He finished quickly and stood, leaving the hall without lingering.
It was just another morning.
He told himself that as he walked back into the quiet corridors.
He told himself it meant nothing.
You wake before dawn.
The castle is quiet. The world outside is quiet. Snow lies thick on the grounds, covering every surface with a soft, glimmering layer of white. The sky is pale gray, the first hints of morning light brushing over the horizon.
You dress quickly, wrapping yourself in warm layers. Thick scarf, woolen gloves, heavy boots, all of it necessary. Today cannot be rushed. Today must be perfect.
You step outside, pulling the thick, dark invisibility cloth from your bag. It is large enough to drape over an entire area, strong enough to hide everything within, yet still flexible so you can move and work freely. This cloth has been in your family for generations, passed down from your grandparents to your parents and now to you. Your parents told you stories of the times it had been used, of the careful work and adventures it had hidden over decades. You handle it carefully, feeling the weight of all that history in your hands.
You cast it carefully, murmuring the incantation as it rises into the air, forming a perfect, dome-like tent over the snow. The inside shimmers faintly to you alone. Everything is visible. The world beyond the dome is gone, muted, nonexistent. You are alone.
You place a small, portable brazier in the center and cast a heating charm over it. The flames spread warmth, not enough to burn, just enough to keep you from shivering in the early morning chill. Frost still clings to your hair and scarf, but it no longer bites at your skin.
The picnic blanket goes down first, large and dark gray, stretched carefully across the snow. Its corners are anchored with small stones to prevent the wind from shifting it. It will be the centerpiece of everything.
Next, you hang the decorations. Tiny banderitas in black and gray strung along invisible threads ripple gently in the heatless air. They arc gracefully above the blanket, tied to invisible supports and branches, creating a soft, subtle canopy. Then come the balloons, clustered in small groups, black and gray, bobbing lightly even in the faintest draft.
You start arranging the gifts. Each one is placed deliberately. Five books stacked neatly in one corner, their spines lined up evenly. Three perfumes that he has been talking about for months, set beside them. The broom leaned against a small nearby tree, polished and ready.
Next, the clothes. The new coat rests unfolded across one end of the blanket. The three hoodies, five polo shirts, and three trousers are folded and stacked carefully. The new messenger bag and the polished leather shoes sit neatly beside them. Every item has its place, each chosen with precision.
You pause to check your work, stepping back and adjusting the positioning of the candles. Small flames will illuminate the space once lit, adding a soft glow over the blanket and gifts.
The invisibility cloth stretches overhead, a protective dome. To anyone outside, there is only snow and frost. To you, the world inside is warm, safe, and perfect. You can see every detail. You can breathe without fear of being seen.
You glance around the space again, heart thumping. The lake beyond the dome is still and black, reflecting the sky, faintly glittering with snowflakes. Trees border the area, invisible barriers hidden beneath the magic of the tent.
You smile softly. For now, he cannot see you. For now, he will not notice a thing. The preparations are entirely yours, secret, controlled.
You crouch near the brazier, warming your hands, imagining him stepping into this space later. How he might pause. How he might hesitate. How he might notice the care you took in every detail.
You adjust a ribbon on a gift, straighten the blanket, check the balloons. You whisper a quick incantation to ensure the heating charm remains steady. You cannot risk frost creeping in, cannot risk him seeing the effort marred by cold or wind.
Everything is ready.
December thirty first has begun.
And for the first time in Tom Riddle’s life, someone will be waiting for him, prepared to make him feel chosen, remembered, and seen.
All She had to do now was to get tom.
You sit at your desk in the quiet of the early morning, a fresh sheet of parchment before you. The candlelight flickers softly, casting a warm glow over the room. You pick up your quill, feeling the familiar weight in your hand, and take a deep breath.
The words must be precise. Careful. Gentle, but firm enough to make him come. He cannot suspect you. Not now. Not ever.
You dip the quill in ink and begin to write.
Tom Riddle, you start, you do not know me, but today is a day meant for you. Follow the path to the Black Lake. You will find something waiting there. Be prepared. Be careful. Do not look around for who sent this. It is not for you to know. Just come.
You pause and read it over, then add a few small details to make sure he knows exactly where to go without giving anything away.
Bring nothing but yourself. You will not need more. Arrive before noon.
You set the quill down and let your hands hover over the paper. You imagine him reading it, brow furrowed, mind already working to puzzle it out. Perhaps he will suspect a trick at first. Perhaps he will hesitate. Good. That hesitation will make the surprise all the more effective.
You fold the parchment carefully and seal it with wax, pressing the stamp with the emblem you always carry. There is nothing on it that could identify you. The seal is plain, simple, anonymous.
Now comes the tricky part. Sending it.
You pick up your wand and mutter the incantation softly. The parchment folds itself neatly, gliding from your hand like a paper bird. It will find its way to him quickly, without anyone else noticing.
You imagine him opening it later, alone in the common room, perhaps by the fire. The parchment rests in his hands, the words on it clear, unavoidable. And you imagine the first moment he realizes he must follow its instructions.
A small smile tugs at your lips. Everything is falling into place. The invisibility tent, the decorations, the gifts, all waiting for him, just as you planned.
You stand and stretch, heart pounding in quiet anticipation. The lake is ready. The fire will burn. The candles will glow. The gifts will be there. And soon, he will be there too.
You tuck the letter carefully into the spell that will deliver it and whisper one last charm, ensuring it travels safely.
Then you let yourself step back, letting the quiet of the morning settle around you.
December thirty first has begun.
And for the first time, the day belongs entirely to him, even if he does not yet know it.
Tom Riddle was sitting alone in the common room, the morning sun filtering weakly through the tall windows. He had been reading, or at least attempting to, although his mind kept wandering. The castle was empty, most students gone for the holidays. The silence pressed against him in a way that made every sound echo sharply.
When the parchment appeared before him, sliding across the table as if carried by an invisible hand, he froze for the briefest moment, assessing it carefully. He did not startle, but his sharp eyes immediately took in every detail. The parchment rested perfectly flat on the smooth surface. There was nothing unusual at first glance, yet the very fact that it had appeared unbidden sparked his attention.
Tom reached forward and picked it up with deliberate care. The paper was smooth, crisp, and unmarked. There was no seal, no wax, no symbol of ownership. It was clean, ordinary, unremarkable. That made it more suspicious. He tilted it, scanning for hidden charms, for subtle traces of magic, for signs that someone was trying to manipulate him from afar. There were none.
He broke the fold slowly and read the words.
Tom Riddle, you do not know me, but today is a day meant for you. Follow the path to the Black Lake. You will find something waiting there. Be prepared. Be careful. Do not look around for who sent this. It is not for you to know. Just come.
He read it again, silently, his eyes narrowing. Each word carried weight. The phrasing was precise, deliberate. The instructions were clear. There was no excess, no wasted language, no flourishes. It was calculated and efficient, which both irritated him and captured his attention.
Bring nothing but yourself. You will not need more. Arrive before noon.
Tom’s fingers tightened around the parchment as he considered it. He knew he should discard it. He knew he should ignore it. In his mind, such an unsolicited message could only be a trap. It could be an attempt to test him, to provoke him, or to humiliate him. That was the way of the world. That was the way people often tried to control or manipulate him.
Yet he found that he could not simply discard it. His curiosity had been caught. The precision and confidence of the message tugged at him, forcing a rare and uncomfortable acknowledgment of interest. He leaned back in his chair, letting his mind run through every possibility, every scenario that could explain it.
Who would send this? Why? Could it be a trick from a student? A prank orchestrated by someone with too much time and too little caution? The words revealed nothing. The handwriting revealed nothing. The parchment itself carried no hint of the sender. And yet the message had been delivered flawlessly. That fact alone demanded his attention.
He set the parchment down and leaned forward again, studying it carefully. His eyes traced every line, examining every curve of the letters. The phrasing was unusual but controlled. It suggested effort. It suggested thought. Someone had gone to great lengths to ensure he would follow the instructions. Someone wanted to lead him somewhere.
The very concept was irritating, but beneath the irritation, a subtle thread of intrigue began to form. For all his life, Tom had relied on knowledge, on control, on understanding every factor. This letter offered none of that. It offered mystery, it offered the unknown, and it forced him to act. That was not something that happened often, especially in his life.
He picked up the parchment again, folding it with precise care, and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. He stood and adjusted his posture, shoulders straight, movements controlled as always. He told himself he was merely going to investigate, that he would remain cautious, that he would analyze every step. That was true. He always analyzed everything.
But even as he moved, a small part of him, one that he rarely acknowledged, felt a spark of anticipation. He imagined walking to the Black Lake, imagining what he might find. Perhaps it was a trap. Perhaps it was a trick. Perhaps it was nothing at all. And yet, he could not deny the pull to see for himself, to confront whatever had been arranged so deliberately.
The thought lingered in his mind, more persistent than he would have admitted to anyone, even himself. He straightened his coat, adjusted his sleeves, and began walking toward the castle doors. He would go. He would see. He would be cautious. He would be prepared. And yet, underneath all of that, there was the faintest trace of curiosity, a rare and dangerous spark that urged him to follow the instructions to the Black Lake without delay.
For a man like Tom Riddle, controlled, precise, and careful in all things, it was a sensation he did not often experience. He did not recognize it fully, and he certainly did not acknowledge it aloud. And yet, he could feel it, threading through his mind and settling into a quiet, insistent place where intrigue had no choice but to grow.
The morning was cold, the castle still and quiet around him. He stepped out into the snow, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp, mind alert. He had no idea what awaited him at the lake. He did not know if the message was friend or foe. He did not know if the effort was genuine or a deception. And yet, despite all the caution he demanded of himself, he was going.
Tom Riddle was walking toward the Black Lake, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a faint tug of something unfamiliar stirring within him.
Tom Riddle’s boots crunched softly in the snow as he walked along the edge of the Black Lake. The morning air was cold and sharp, but he barely noticed. His mind was focused entirely on the letter, on the precise instructions and the mystery behind them.
When he reached the spot described, he stopped. The lake lay still and black before him, reflecting the pale gray sky. He scanned the area carefully, his sharp eyes noting every shadow, every branch, every glimmer of snow. Yet there was nothing. No blanket, no decorations, no gifts, no fire. No one. Only untouched snow and frost stretching as far as he could see.
He frowned. Whoever had sent the letter had promised something, and yet there was nothing here. He took a step forward, then another, scanning for subtle enchantments, hidden objects, illusions, anything that might explain the emptiness. He found nothing.
A small irritation crept in. This was a waste of time, or perhaps a trick. Whoever had sent this was clever, yes, but overly cautious or foolish. It was obvious now that there was nothing here at all.
He turned his back to the lake, ready to return to the castle, still frowning, still calculating.
Then a soft voice broke the quiet behind him.
“Looking for something?”
Tom froze, every muscle tensing immediately. He spun around sharply.
There she was. YN. Standing there, warm and visible, no invisibility cloth, no trick, just her.
He blinked, taken aback. His mind raced, trying to assess the situation, trying to calculate every possibility. How had she done this? The calm precision he always carried faltered for just a heartbeat.
“You… you,” he began, voice sharp and controlled, tinged with confusion. “How?”
YN smiled, stepping closer, a small warmth in her eyes. “Surprise.”
He took a step back instinctively, scanning the area quickly for any hidden danger, any trap. But there was nothing. She was simply there. Everything else remained exactly as he could now see: the dark gray blanket spread over the snow, candles flickering gently, black and gray banderitas strung above, balloons bobbing lightly, and neatly arranged gifts laid on the blanket.
Tom’s sharp eyes took it all in. Every detail. The books stacked carefully, the perfumes he had been talking about, the polished broom, the coat, hoodies, polos, trousers, the messenger bag, the shoes. Every item meticulously chosen, deliberately placed.
He swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words. He had expected nothing. He had prepared for a trick, for a trap, for empty snow. And yet here it was. Everything had been planned. Everything had been hidden perfectly until the right moment.
YN stepped closer, voice soft. “Happy birthday, Tom.”
He stared at her, blinking, mind racing. Anger, disbelief, suspicion, and something else, something quieter, unfamiliar, battled within him. How had she managed all of this without him noticing? Why had she done it? The control, the precision, the effort, it was overwhelming.
“Why?” he asked, finally, voice low and sharp. “Why would you do this? Without permission?”
She smiled faintly, placing a hand over her heart. “Because no one has ever celebrated your birthday. I thought maybe you should have one.”
Tom’s eyes flickered over her face, over the scene, and for the first time that day, he allowed himself to pause and simply take it in. The meticulous planning, the care, the thought behind every detail, it was deliberate, careful, and completely unexpected.
He said nothing at first, standing rigid, still processing. Yet beneath his sharp exterior, something softened. A rare flicker of something he could not name passed through him. The world, for this one brief moment, felt less controlled and more human.
Then, slowly, as if testing the reality of the moment, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. She stiffened for just a moment before relaxing into the embrace. It was firm, protective, and unexpectedly gentle.
When he pulled back slightly, he rested his forehead against hers. His hand lingered at the back of her neck. For the first time, he allowed himself to show tenderness without restraint. Then, softly, almost reverently, he pressed his lips to her forehead.
It was brief, but it carried more meaning than words could express. The warmth of the gesture lingered between them, quiet but undeniable.
YN smiled softly, resting her hands against his chest. He remained still for a long moment, absorbing the scene, the gifts, the effort, and the presence of someone who cared enough to do all of this for him.
And for once, Tom Riddle allowed himself to feel something more than control, ambition, or suspicion. He allowed himself to feel seen, remembered, and chosen.
Tom pulled back just enough to look at her fully, his dark eyes scanning her face as if memorizing every detail. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then spoke, his voice quieter than usual, almost unsteady.
“Thank you… for this. For everything.”
YN smiled, warmth flooding her chest. “You don’t have to thank me. I just wanted you to have a birthday, finally.”
He swallowed, taking a slow breath, as if the words were difficult to form. “I… I love you,” he said, and the gravity in his voice made it feel like the first time he had ever truly meant anything at all.
Her eyes softened, a gentle smile spreading across her face. “I love you too, Tom,” she replied, voice full of certainty, warmth, and relief.
For a moment, there was nothing else. No snow, no wind, no frozen lake, no carefully arranged gifts. There was only them, standing in the quiet, cold morning, wrapped in the weight and wonder of everything they had come to mean to each other.
Then, as he rested his forehead against hers again, YN whispered playfully, a tiny smirk curling her lips:
“Well… next year, you are helping me hang the balloons.”
Tom blinked, frozen for a heartbeat, then let out a short, quiet laugh, the kind of laugh he never let anyone hear.
The lake reflected their silhouettes, the early sun glimmered off the snow, and for the first time in his life, Tom Riddle felt a birthday was exactly what it was meant to be, unexpected, unforgettable, and entirely his.
likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated !!!!!!!!
Also thought of doing a Sirius black x reader fan fiction that’s a song fic
I have the song picked out but like the last time I thought about writing it I burst into tears at the cvs because I got way way to deep in the story planning lol
