Sol Invictus

[solinvictusss]

Calculated Shadows

Summary: Tom Riddle’s ambition is boundless, and with you at his side—sharp, fearless, and unyielding—he prepares to strike a personal, calculated act that will bind a fragment of his soul to a Horcrux. Every detail is meticulously planned, every risk accounted for, and together, you move through the shadows of power, secrecy, and loyalty. In the quiet before the storm, you are partners in intellect and intent, knowing that nothing will stand in the way of what must be done.

The door burst open with a crack that set the panes to trembling and sent a rush of cold air across the small room. You looked up from where you’d been idly winding Nagini around your fingers—the snake was warm and patient, her scales whispering against your palm—and for a heartbeat you thought it was a joke. Then Tom filled the doorway, all hard lines and sudden intent. Even the lamplight seemed to sharpen at his edges.

“I’m going to kill my mother.”

The words slid out of him plain and terrible, no flourish, no preamble. They landed in the air between you like an accusation and a proclamation at once. Nagini coiled closer, sensing the shift; the little diamond of her eye caught the light.

“What?” you said, because the other options—laughter, denial, running—felt absurd against the certainty in his voice.

Tom moved without haste. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed as if he belonged there, as if he had been there a hundred times before. Up close, you could see the slow tightness at his jaw, the way his hands curled and uncurled at his sides. He looked like a thing that had been practised into calm.

“I am going to kill my mother,” he repeated. “I have found where she lives, and I will kill her for what she did.” He spoke each word with the same flat clarity, as though cataloguing evidence. “For marrying a Muggle. For staining the line.”

You felt a thin line of something cold run down your back. It was not the shock of cruelty—there had been cruelty before, and you’d learned to measure it—but the intimacy of this intent. This wasn’t abstract ambition; it was personal. It was a score being settled.

From the palm of his hand he produced something that made your breath catch: the Gaunt ring. You’d seen it before, felt its weight when he’d fumbled with it as a talisman. Tonight, in the lamplight, its worn sigil seemed to burn. He turned it slowly between his long fingers, the metal catching the light and casting a tiny reflection onto your sheets.

“It would be a perfect Horcrux,” he said quietly, as if reciting an equation. “A family token. A circle of blood. It fits the purpose.”

The clinical way he framed the ring—artifact as instrument—made your scalp prickle. You had studied the theory with him until the words themselves felt like tools, and you knew the terrible sincerity behind his tone. For Tom, the beautiful part of power was how clean it could be made to look.

Something in you tightened into a reply before your reason caught up. You had been at his side through long nights of forbidden texts, through the arguing and the plotting and the ritual practice. You had stoked the same hunger; you’d pledged yourself to the plan as much as anyone could pledge. The thought of him going out alone—of letting that first absolute act be solitary—felt wrong in a way that had nothing to do with propriety. It felt like being cut out of the map you had helped draw.

“I’m coming with you,” you said. The words came blunt and hot. They surprised you by how fierce they sounded; your pulse thudded, half-exhilaration, half-anger.

For a beat Tom’s face was unreadable. Then something like a shadow crossed him—surprise, maybe, or the smallest hint of something almost like approval—and just as quickly it vanished. He straightened, and the mask clicked back into place.

“No.”

The single syllable cut the air, stark and immediate. It was not an argument. It was not a negotiation. It was a closure, delivered with that cool certainty you had come to recognize: decisive, final, and entirely his.

“You can’t go alone…” you started, the words trembling just enough to betray the edge of fear you refused to acknowledge. “It’s too dangerous. I need to be there.”

Tom’s eyes snapped to yours, sharp and unyielding, his patience like steel. “Exactly,” he said, cutting you off before you could finish. “You don’t have a Horcrux yet. You cannot go in. It is too dangerous. Too many variables. You would be… expendable.”

“I don’t need a Horcrux to be safe,” you said firmly. “I’m not going to be reckless. I can handle myself.”

He considered you for a heartbeat, expression unreadable, then his lips curved into the faintest, calculating smile. “No. You are not yet protected. When we create your Horcrux, then you may join me. Then you may participate fully.”

“I don’t want one,” you interrupted, sharp and absolute. “When my time comes, it comes. I don’t want another chance at life. I don’t need it.”

Tom opened his mouth to argue, his eyes narrowing as he measured your insistence. But you pressed a hand against his chest, firm and unwavering. “Nothing will change my mind, Tom. Not this. Not ever.”

A long beat of silence followed. Nagini stirred, tail flicking softly, sensing the tension in the air. The wind whispered against the panes, echoing the unspoken understanding between you.

“Then at least tell me you’ve planned this well,” you said, voice low but edged with challenge. “Tell me there is method behind it, not madness.”

His dark eyes locked on yours, a flicker of respect crossing them—not for obedience, not for submission, but for audacity and precision. “Everything is planned,” he said, voice measured and steady. “Every step accounted for. Guards, timing, the route, the escape. Nothing is left to chance. I have prepared for every variable.”

You studied him, weighing each word, feeling the meticulous certainty in every syllable. Trust was implicit, but the weight of what was to come pressed on your chest, thrilling and terrifying all at once.

A silence fell after his assurances, heavy but not uncomfortable. It was the quiet before action, the pause where all things aligned. You and Tom sat opposite each other—two minds sharp, bound by unspoken vows, the Gaunt ring in his hand a glittering promise of what was to come.

Finally, you nodded, small but resolute. “Then do it,” you said. “Do it cleanly. And return. We move forward together when you do.”

Tom inclined his head once, precise, deliberate. “Understood,” he said. The faintest shadow of a smile brushed his lips, but his eyes stayed cold, unyielding—the mind of a man already several steps ahead of the world.

Nagini coiled closer to you, and for a heartbeat, the room was still. Outside, the wind sharpened, carrying the faint scent of inevitability, and inside, you knew the map you had drawn together would soon be realized—one step closer to a power neither of you would ever relinquish.

[solinvictusss]

What He Couldn’t Name

Summary: Living together blurs the boundaries between you and Tom Riddle. Your room becomes his study, your bed his quiet obsession, your habits catalogued with the same precision he gives ancient texts. He notices everything—your restless movements in sleep, the way you take your coffee, the furrow of your brows when you read. At first, he tells himself it’s curiosity, vigilance, necessity. But as nights pass and his gaze lingers, it becomes harder to deny. For all his ambition, all his brilliance, Tom finds himself distracted not by power or conquest, but by you. He doesn’t seek control—he seeks something far more dangerous: to share it with you. And in the silence of lamplight, he wonders if this is more than just strategy, if this is the one thing that could unravel him.

Living together had forced a shift in routine, a merging of habits. Your room was no longer wholly yours—Tom’s presence seeped into every corner. The desk, once cluttered with your scattered notes and doodles, now carried his precise stacks of parchment, his carefully aligned quills, his books with neat, ordered bookmarks that contrasted your messy scraps of ribbon. You had surrendered that space without protest, saying only that he would use it better. You were right. He always did.

But what caught him most were not the things you gave him, but the things you kept—the bed, the way you occupied it, how it seemed to belong to you no matter how you positioned yourself. He had noticed it quickly, though he never admitted it aloud: you never stayed still. You shifted constantly, as though your mind was too restless to let your body obey. Sometimes you sat upright, back pressed to the headboard, eyes glinting with ideas as you spoke theories faster than he could write. Other times you crossed your legs in the center of the mattress, posture casual but gaze razor-sharp, questioning him, pushing him to think sharper, deeper. On your stomach, chin in your hands, you looked deceptively lazy—until you dismantled an argument of his in three words and a smirk.

And then there were the moments you lay on your side, book balanced against the sheets, shoulders soft, breathing calmer, almost human. He had learned to recognize the stages: first the quieting of your sharp commentary, then the way your head tilted slightly, hair falling across your cheek, until at last your eyes closed mid-sentence. Always resisting rest, always trying to keep up with him until your body betrayed you.

That night was no different. He had been bent over his own notes, the lamplight a warm circle on parchment, his hand moving steadily, thought after thought unspooling in ink. The sound of his quill drowned out all else—until it struck him that he hadn’t heard your voice in some time.

Slowly, deliberately, Tom looked over.

You were on your side again, book slipped half-shut against your chest, lashes still against your skin. Not dead, not weak, simply… sleeping. Trusting. The faint rise and fall of your breathing was the only sound from the bed. For a moment, the realization caught him off guard—because you were not someone he associated with softness. You were sharp edges, ambition, fire; you were a mind that matched his step for step, sometimes faster. Yet here you were, defenseless in a way no one else would ever see.

Tom Riddle did not waste time with sentiment. He knew that. He reminded himself of it as his gaze lingered too long, cataloguing the details as he would any text. The curve of your hand against the sheets. The faint crease between your brows that suggested even in sleep, your thoughts never truly stilled. The way your hair had spilled over the pillow in a mess you’d hate if you saw it.

He turned back to his work eventually, but slower, distracted. He found himself listening for the steady rhythm of your breathing, anchoring himself to it. Odd. Unnecessary. Yet he didn’t stop.

Because Tom noticed everything. And lately, he noticed you more than he wanted to admit.

Once he realized you were asleep, he couldn’t tear his gaze from you. At first, he told himself it was only curiosity—an idle break from his studies. But the longer he looked, the harder it became to look away. You looked… different in sleep. Not the sharp-tongued partner who argued with him over theory, not the clever witch who drove him to the brink of obsession with her relentless ambition. Here, in the soft hush of lamplight, you looked almost fragile. Beautiful, in a way that unsettled him, because beauty had always seemed irrelevant, a distraction. Yet now it commanded him entirely.

After a long pause, he rose silently from his chair, his movements careful, deliberate. He approached the bed, every step more intimate than he cared to admit. The book that had slipped in your hands threatened to fall, and before it could he leaned down, fingers deft as he slid it free from your grasp. He set it quietly on the desk, as though not to disturb even your dreams.

For a moment he just stood there, shadows pooling around him, watching you breathe. Then, with an almost impatient exhale, Tom reached for the blanket folded at the foot of the bed. He shook it out softly and draped it over you, pulling it high enough to guard against the night’s chill. A meaningless gesture, unnecessary—and yet he did it anyway.

He tried to return to his studies. Sat back at his desk, quill in hand, parchment open. But the ink blurred, his thoughts scattered, his eyes flicking up against his will to the shape of you in sleep. Again and again. He told himself it was vigilance—that someone had to keep watch, that nothing and no one could be trusted. But the truth pressed sharper than that: he was worried. For you.

So he let himself stay, let himself watch, let himself trace each steady rise and fall of your chest, each twitch of a dream you’d never tell him. Hours passed like that, his books forgotten, the silence broken only by the sound of your breathing and the faint scratch of his restless thoughts.

When at last his own exhaustion pulled at him, he gave in only halfway. He did not join you in the bed. Instead, Tom slumped into the chair, head tilted at an awkward angle, as though refusing to admit defeat to sleep itself. And that was where the night ended: you safe beneath your blanket, and him asleep at his post, neck twisted uncomfortably, waking hours later to pain that he endured without complaint.

But those were not the only things Tom noticed. He was, after all, a collector of details, a hoarder of patterns, a mind that catalogued every shift and nuance. And you—whether you realized it or not—were no exception.

He noticed the way you liked your coffee. That first time you had dragged him to your favorite café in town, half-daring him to find it dull, he had watched you closely as you ordered. The exact amount of sugar, the careful stir, the way you leaned against the counter with an ease he’d never possessed. He committed it to memory—not because he cared about coffee, but because he cared about you.

He noticed how you rarely touched breakfast, brushing it aside with a wave of your hand while he ate methodically, as though hunger was just another weakness to conquer. He noticed how you favored clothes a size too big, disappearing into fabric as if the comfort of it steadied you against the world.

He noticed your eyebrows—yes, even that. The way they furrowed when you were buried in a book, face sharpening in concentration, as though you could wrestle secrets out of the pages by sheer will. He noticed the gleam in your eyes when you turned that intensity toward him, explaining, arguing, teaching. It was dangerous, how much he craved that gleam.

And when night fell, he noticed more still. You talked in your sleep—not full words, just fragments, little mumbles and sounds that barely formed shapes. Sometimes he would lean closer, just to catch them, wondering what your mind dreamed of when it wasn’t locked to his. He noticed, too, how restless you could be when you couldn’t sleep, shifting beneath your sheets, rolling over again and again until finally exhaustion forced you still.

Each detail was stored away, locked behind the walls of his brilliant mind. Not because he wanted power over you—no, never. Power was meaningless if it was only his. He wanted to share it with you, to build something vast and terrible and magnificent together, a throne balanced on two minds instead of one.

But there were nights, late and unguarded, when he wondered if perhaps it wasn’t only about power at all. Perhaps it was something far more dangerous. Tom Marvolo Riddle might have developed a small liking to you.

[solinvictusss]

The Art of Deception

Summary: After Myrtle’s death, Hogwarts trembles with unease as fear spreads through its corridors. Disappearances multiply, panic consumes the castle, and yet suspicion never falls on Tom Riddle—or the quiet, intelligent girl at his side. Their performance of innocence is flawless, even under Dumbledore’s sharp gaze, and together they savor the perfection of their deception. When Hogwarts temporarily closes, Tom finds refuge in your home, where the two of you continue your relentless study of Horcruxes and dark magic. The murders may pause, but the planning never does. Patience, precision, and secrecy become your weapons, binding you and Tom ever closer as you prepare for what comes next.

And just like that, Myrtle was dead. The castle seemed to hum with unease the next day. Whispers ricocheted off the stone walls, a murmur of fear and suspicion that no one could quite place. People noticed—oh, they noticed—but no one could point a finger at the culprits. No one suspected the perfectly composed young Riddle or the calm, intelligent girl who followed at his side.

By the end of the week, it became clear that Myrtle was not an isolated incident. More students began disappearing, vanishing without explanation. Panic threaded through Hogwarts like a living thing. Teachers scurried through corridors, prefects checked empty dormitories, and the castle itself seemed to shiver under the weight of mounting terror.

Through it all, you and Tom moved like shadows in plain sight, perfectly mimicking concern and innocence. Faces etched with worry, eyes wide at every new report, murmuring theories alongside everyone else. No one would have suspected your gleaming satisfaction beneath those expressions, the thrill that ran through you as each disappearance unfolded exactly as planned.

You had learned quickly to balance fear and deception, and with Tom, it became a delicate art. Each act of control, each death, tightened the invisible threads that bound Hogwarts in suspense and dread. And through it all, the two of you watched. You studied the reactions, the panic, the frustration of the staff, and the whispers of students who claimed the castle was cursed.

It was during one of these walks through the dimly lit hallways—Tom silently scanning every corner, you keeping pace beside him—that you saw the aftermath of another disappearance. A body, carried quietly by a pair of professors, the pallor of death unmistakable even in the flickering torchlight.

The moment the news settled in the castle, a sharp voice cut through the murmurs, echoing off the stone:

“Riddle!”

Dumbledore’s booming tone carried through the corridors, sharp and commanding. The fear in the hall was tangible. Heads turned; whispers died mid-sentence. You felt a thrill of anticipation as Tom straightened, his expression flawless, masking the predator beneath the student façade.

You couldn’t help yourself—curiosity, mischief, and the ever-present bond to Tom made you peek. Popping your head out from behind him, you startled the venerable headmaster just slightly. “What—?” Dumbledore started, blinking at your sudden appearance.

Tom, entirely composed, leaned into his role. “Professor, would Hogwarts really shut down over mere rumors of mass murders?” he asked, voice measured, concerned. “I… I have nowhere else to go. This is my home.”

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered on him, sharp and calculating, but Tom’s performance was impeccable. Every ounce of innocence he projected was believable.

You stepped closer, soft yet deliberate, your voice carrying a calm confidence that seemed to belong naturally in the scene. “He could… stay with me,” you offered. “My parents wouldn’t mind at all. It would be no problem if that were to happen.”

Dumbledore’s eyes flicked between you and Tom, evaluating, then his tone sharpened slightly. “Is there something more to tell me, Tom?”

Tom’s expression remained perfect, carefully neutral. “No, sir,” he replied smoothly.

Satisfied, Dumbledore waved a hand, dismissing you both. “Go to your dormitories. I expect you to behave, both of you.”

As you and Tom walked away, your steps echoing in the empty hall, the weight of the moment pressed down—but so did exhilaration. You glanced at each other, and for just a heartbeat, amidst the fear and uncertainty that gripped the castle, the two of you shared a celebratory glance, silent and electric, acknowledging the perfection of your deception.

The tension in the hallway lingered, but in that glance, you both knew: the plan was working. And only the two of you carried the secret of just how far it had succeeded

Hogwarts had indeed shut down for a brief, tense period. The rumors, the disappearances, and the palpable fear had become too much to ignore, and the Ministry had insisted on a temporary closure until things could be investigated. For you and Tom, though, the closure was little more than a speed bump. The castle emptied of students, the corridors silent, yet your work did not stop.

Tom ended up staying at your house. Your parents, strict and pragmatic, were initially wary, but his calm, deliberate presence managed to soothe them. He was polite, reserved, charming in the cold, calculated way he always was. The two of you maintained the pretense of a friendship, a schoolmate in need of shelter. Your parents were not warm people, but they could play along when a guest was present. For once, the house breathed a rare, fragile sense of peace.

Your rooms became laboratories for study. Books were piled high across your bed, the floor, the desk, and any available surface. The local library became another battlefield for research, tomes heavy with arcane knowledge stacked between you, pages splayed open with notes scribbled in margins. Every hour was spent learning, dissecting the intricacies of Horcruxes, magic, and control. The Basilisk remained an ever-present shadow of power, a silent guardian, a promise of what you could achieve.

Yet reality was never far. You realized quickly that continuing murders at Hogwarts was becoming too dangerous. The first death had been attributed, barely, to Hagrid’s pet spider, a convenient scapegoat. But the more you killed, the harder it would be to cover your tracks. The risk was climbing, and luck could not be relied upon twice. Each disappearance carried the potential to unravel everything.

You and Tom knew you had to lie low. At least until Hogwarts was finished—until the castle itself had bent completely to your will, or at least until you had learned everything necessary to make the next step perfect.

Even in the calm of your rooms, in the quiet of the library, or under the reluctant smiles of your parents, the two of you never stopped. Plans were drafted, spells analyzed, contingencies prepared. Every day, the bond between you strengthened, the understanding that patience, strategy, and absolute control would be the tools of your ascent.

[solinvictusss]

The First Strike

Summary: The hours of study, secrecy, and relentless planning finally come to a head. In the glow of candlelight, you and Tom Riddle plot your first true act of power—the death of Myrtle Warren. With the Basilisk waiting in the Chamber and the diary ready to become immortal, the two of you move from theory into history. Together, you will take the first step into murder, Horcruxes, and a legacy that can never be undone.

The hours of study, secrecy, and relentless planning finally come to a head. In the glow of candlelight, you and Tom Riddle plot your first true act of power—the death of Myrtle Warren. With the Basilisk waiting in the Chamber and the diary ready to become immortal, the two of you move from theory into history. Together, you will take the first step into murder, Horcruxes, and a legacy that can never be undone.

The hours of study, secrecy, and relentless planning finally come to a head. In the glow of candlelight, you and Tom Riddle plot your first true act of power—the death of Myrtle Warren. With the Basilisk waiting in the Chamber and the diary ready to become immortal, the two of you move from theory into history. Together, you will take the first step into murder, Horcruxes, and a legacy that can never be undone.

The castle had taken on a new rhythm, one of quiet urgency. Days and nights blurred as you and Tom claimed every corner you could: the library’s restricted section, empty classrooms, and even each other’s dormitories. Piles of books, scrolls, and parchment covered tables, the air thick with the scent of ink and old paper.

“We must understand it fully,” Tom said one evening, fingers tracing the faded letters of a particularly ancient text. “The soul is fragile. The act of splitting it is… delicate, exacting. Any mistake could destroy the vessel—or worse.”

You leaned closer, eyes scanning diagrams and handwritten notes. “So, before even thinking about making a Horcrux, we need to master every theory, every ritual, every nuance.”

Tom’s dark eyes glinted with approval. “Exactly. Knowledge is the foundation. Only once we understand every step—every consequence—can we even consider attempting it.”

In his dormitory, Nagini lay coiled, sleek and watchful, her eyes flicking between the two of you. She was a living reminder of power in control, obedient to Tom’s will, a silent teacher of patience and observation. “She’s… impressive,” you murmured. “And intimidating.”

“Loyal, observant,” Tom said. “She will teach you as much as any book. Watch her, learn from her. Command is not given; it is understood and earned.”

Together, you alternated between research and observation. You poured over texts in the library, taking notes, debating the meaning of each ritual, and testing theoretical applications under Tom’s meticulous guidance. Then, back in his dorm, Nagini’s presence added a practical dimension: a living exercise in control, trust, and the subtle influence of magic.

“You must grasp it fully before you act,” Tom warned one night, the candlelight casting sharp shadows across his face. “Rushing, miscalculating… the consequences would be disastrous. Precision is everything. Patience is everything.”

You nodded, absorbing the weight of the responsibility. “So this is… preparation. Practice. Understanding.”

“Yes,” he said, eyes flicking to Nagini as she shifted closer to the firelight. “All the study, all the planning, every observation—this is the foundation. Only when we have mastered it completely can we consider creating a Horcrux. Only then will we be untouchable.”

Hours passed with no thought of the world beyond the walls. Spells were practiced, questions debated, and every text scrutinized. Every movement of Nagini was noted, every reaction catalogued. It was slow, methodical, relentless—an apprenticeship in power, patience, and the dark art that would someday make the impossible possible.

And through it all, the two of you worked side by side, learning, plotting, preparing.

The library was hushed, the flickering candlelight painting long shadows across stacks of ancient tomes. You leaned over a table littered with scrolls and old leather-bound books, your fingers tracing diagrams of soul-binding rituals and dark enchantments. Tom Riddle’s eyes were fixed on a massive volume, its cover etched with silver that glinted in the candlelight. His posture was rigid, deliberate, predatory.

“So,” you began, your voice steady, “we need someone whose death won’t attract attention. Someone small, unnoticed, easy to… remove.” You didn’t flinch at the thought. If anything, a thrill ran through you — sharp and dangerous, the kind that only came with total power in your grasp.

Tom’s gaze lifted slowly, fixing you with that cold, calculating stare of his. “Expendable is subjective,” he said, his voice low and precise. “Everyone matters… but yes. We need someone overlooked, someone whose passing will ripple silently through Hogwarts, leaving nothing but whispers.”

“And Myrtle Warren,” you said, leaning forward, meeting his eyes with eagerness rather than hesitation, “she fits that exactly. The perfect first.”

Tom’s thin lips curved in that almost-smile that always sent a shiver down your spine. “Precisely,” he murmured. “She is alone, neglected. Even her classmates dismiss her. But her death—calculated, deliberate—will resonate.” He tapped a finger on the open page before him, tracing the faintly faded ink as though it had already mapped out the events to come. “It will allow the creation of my first Horcrux.”

You didn’t hesitate. “The diary,” you said, the words rolling off your tongue like a promise. “Her death will seal a fragment of your soul into it. That’s the goal, right? The purer the act, the stronger the Horcrux.”

“Exactly,” Tom said, his voice soft, smooth, but charged with dangerous energy. “Myrtle’s death must be intentional, precise. Pain, fear, innocence extinguished deliberately—these things bind the fragment of my soul. The diary will be… indestructible.”

You leaned back slightly, grinning. “She’s… young, yes, but she’s easy to handle. We can make sure it’s clean. Quick. Efficient. No chance of it going wrong.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed, sharp and bright. “Efficiency,” he said, almost approvingly. “Yes. That is how power is maintained. Every detail matters. Timing, location, precision of execution.”

You studied him for a moment, seeing the way his mind worked, how every plan was already laid out in meticulous detail. And yet… you felt a rush of excitement at being part of it. “And the Basilisk,” you prompted, leaning closer, “we unleash it in the Chamber?”

Tom’s gaze flicked to you, the faintest edge of amusement tugging at his lips. “It obeys me. Every command, every strike is mine to issue. Myrtle will not survive. No one will know how. The Chamber, the snake, the method—everything is controlled. Perfection.”

You exhaled, eyes gleaming with shared understanding. “Then let’s do it. Let’s end it.”

Tom’s lips curved into a satisfied, almost predatory smile. “Tonight. Tonight, we strike. The first act. The first Horcrux. The beginning of a legacy. From here, everything will follow.”

You leaned back in your chair, letting the weight of the plan settle. “It feels… electric,” you admitted, voice low, full of dark exhilaration. “I’ve studied this, read about it, but now it’s real. We’re not just theorizing. We’re… making it happen. Together.”

He leaned closer, his eyes locking onto yours. “Together,” he repeated. “Every step, every shadow, every move. The castle bends to me… to us. Once Myrtle is gone, the diary exists. Power, bound to my soul. And we?” His eyes darkened, sharp, calculating, electric. “We are untouchable.”

You nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Then there’s nothing to hesitate for.”

He gestured toward the stacks of books, toward the maps of the castle and diagrams of the Basilisk’s lair, and your hands reached instinctively to the open pages, to the plans already drawn. Every detail was laid bare: the route through the castle, the timing of patrols, the path the Basilisk would take. You pored over them together, debating, refining, perfecting.

“The first strike must be deliberate,” Tom said. “No hesitation. Myrtle is the key to the diary. We must ensure her fear, her last moments, bind the fragment securely.”

“Agreed,” you said, voice steady. “And she won’t even see it coming. We control every angle. We strike, we create, we leave no trace.”

He nodded once, sharp, precise. “Then we prepare. Tonight, the Chamber opens. Tonight, we forge the first Horcrux. Everything after this… will be built on this act.”

The candlelight flickered, shadows dancing across your determined faces. You felt a thrill, sharp and dangerous, like the first step into a storm you’d both been waiting for.

You leaned forward, scanning the notes one more time. “Then… let’s do it. Let’s make history.”

Tom’s eyes glinted, dark and unwavering. “Yes,” he said, voice low, certain, and alive with promise. “Yes. We will.”

And together, in the flickering candlelight of the library, the two of you laid the groundwork for the first murder, the first Horcrux, and the unstoppable rise of power that would one day shake the wizarding world.

[solinvictusss]

Serpent’s Command

Summary:

In the dead of night, you and Tom Riddle descend into the hidden depths of Hogwarts, unlocking the Chamber of Secrets and confronting the legendary Basilisk for the first time. Awe, fear, and exhilaration collide as you witness the power that has lain dormant for centuries, now obedient to the Heir of Slytherin. With trust forged in the face of unimaginable danger, you and Tom stand together, holding a weapon that could reshape the world—and the pressing question remains: what now?

a/n:

When it comes to tom riddle this is basicaly fluff, so enjoy

The Chamber stretched endlessly around you, pillars looming like silent sentinels, serpents carved into the stone watching from above. The green light of the torches shimmered off damp walls, and for a moment you forgot to breathe.

“It’s…” you whispered, spinning slowly where you stood, taking it all in. “It’s magnificent.”

Tom didn’t answer, not immediately. His gaze was locked on the statue of Salazar, towering and watchful, its mouth forever frozen in command. His expression was unreadable—sharp, reverent, a predator scenting prey.

Your steps echoed softly as you came up beside him, unable to stop the words from spilling.

“So the snake,” you said, glancing at the enormous mouth carved into the stone. “The Basilisk. It’ll do whatever you tell it to, right?”

His eyes flicked toward you, narrowed in curiosity. “Yes. That is Salazar’s gift to his heir.”

A thrill ran through you, sharp and dangerous. “Then we could use it. Send it after anyone. Our enemies, the ones who’d dare stand in our way. It could do all our dirty work. And—” you tilted your head, lips curving in a smirk, “—if we’re clever, the kills could even strengthen our Horcruxes. Anyone we want, gone, and each death feeding our power, binding us further while the castle trembles at our feet.”

The suggestion hung in the air, echoing in the cavernous silence.

For a moment, Tom said nothing. Then, slowly, he smiled—thin and razor-sharp.

“You think like me,” he murmured, voice low with approval. “Cold. Strategic. Practical.” His gaze lingered on you, a glimmer of something dangerous, almost admiring, cutting through the shadow in his eyes.

He turned back toward the statue, his voice dropping to a hiss that reverberated through the Chamber like the rustle of scales on stone.

“And yes. The Basilisk will obey.”

The torches flared as if in answer, shadows writhing higher on the serpent-carved pillars.

Tom’s lips curved, dark and sure.

“We can make this castle ours.”

You couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at your lips, a sharp, eager thing. The Chamber itself was already enough to make your heart race—but the thought of the Basilisk, of seeing Salazar Slytherin’s monster with your own eyes, of it listening to Tom… that was power. Real power.

“Well?” you asked, your voice laced with anticipation. “Aren’t you going to call it?”

Tom’s gaze slid toward you, sharp as glass, studying the hunger in your expression. A corner of his mouth lifted. Then, without another word, he turned back to the looming statue of Salazar Slytherin.

The stone mouth yawned open in frozen command, a black pit stretching back into shadow. Tom stepped forward, his hand brushing the damp air as he raised his chin. And then, he spoke—no, hissed—a string of words so low, so serpentine, it felt like the air itself shivered.

The sound echoed through the cavern, carried like smoke along the stone pillars. And then—silence.

You waited, every nerve alight.

A sound broke it. A scraping, a low vibration rolling beneath your feet. Then a hiss, so deep it rattled the marrow of your bones. The ground trembled, and your breath caught as something vast, impossibly vast, began to move.

From the statue’s gaping mouth, scales slid into the green torchlight—gleaming, slick, ancient. The Basilisk’s body poured forth in coils that seemed to stretch forever, scales so dark they shimmered green-black, like oil on water. The weight of it alone made the stone floor groan.

And then—its head emerged.

The creature was monstrous, its jaws wide enough to swallow a man whole, fangs gleaming ivory white in the torchlight. Its eyes, vast and unblinking, glowed a sickly, venomous yellow. They swept across the Chamber, and instinctively you turned your face away, a hand flying to shield your gaze. Even without meeting its stare, you felt it—the raw, suffocating weight of its killing power.

The hiss that spilled from its throat was deafening, ancient, a sound so drenched in malice it almost wasn’t real.

But Tom stood firm, unflinching, like he had been born for this moment. His lips curved, and once again he hissed, the words curling through the air like smoke.

The Basilisk stilled. Its massive head lowered, bowing ever so slightly before him.

It was obedience. Total, absolute obedience.

Your chest heaved, adrenaline and awe tangling in your veins. You laughed softly, the sound incredulous, reverent. “Merlin’s beard… it’s real. You’ve actually done it.”

Tom glanced back at you, his eyes aglow with triumph, sharp and burning. “No,” he said, voice as smooth as silk, dangerous as steel.

“We’ve done it.”

The Basilisk’s hiss rolled again through the Chamber, as if echoing his claim, as if even it acknowledged the bond that had just been forged.

The Basilisk’s hiss vibrated through the Chamber, low and thunderous, as its vast coils shifted against the stone. You pressed your eyes shut, every instinct screaming at you not to risk even the briefest glance. Death was in those eyes—you knew it.

But then, beneath the roar of blood in your ears, you caught Tom’s voice, lilting in Parseltongue, smooth as silk.

And the sound of scales began to move—closer.

Your breath hitched. You felt it: the rush of air displaced by its massive body, the subtle vibration through the floor as it drew near. Closer. Closer.

“Tom—” Your voice cracked despite yourself, and you lurched forward, gripping his shoulders as you ducked behind him. “Stop it. I mean it.”

He chuckled. Chuckled. The bastard actually chuckled. “Scared, are you?”

“Of a bloody Basilisk? Yes!” You pressed your forehead to his back, squeezing your eyes tighter shut. “What part of instant death do you not understand?!”

The snake’s hiss deepened, sliding past your ears like ice water, and you tightened your grip on Tom as if he was your only shield. Because he was.

“You’re enjoying this,” you accused, voice muffled against him, the tiniest edge of fear threading through your usual defiance.

“Immensely,” Tom admitted, his tone smooth, almost amused. You felt the vibration of his words through his shoulders, steady as stone beneath your hands. Then he hissed again, a command, and the great serpent shifted—circling, its body brushing the air just behind you.

“Tom, stop! I swear—”

“Look.”

“Are you mad?!” you snapped, your voice pitching higher than you intended. “If I look, I die!”

His head turned slightly, just enough that you caught the edge of his smirk in your mind’s eye. “Not if I say otherwise.”

You froze, fingers curled tight into his robes. “What?”

“She won’t harm you,” he said simply, his tone laced with unshakable certainty. Another hiss slithered from his lips, directed at the Basilisk. The beast stilled, waiting. “She knows you are… mine. You’re safe.”

Your chest heaved. “I don’t believe you.”

His voice dipped lower, soft but carrying the weight of command. “Then believe in me.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse thundering in your ears.

“Trust me,” Tom murmured, the words like a spell, binding. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? Trust. If we are to do what we’ve planned, we can’t flinch from one another. Not ever. Now… open your eyes.”

Every nerve in your body screamed against it. But your grip on him anchored you, and slowly—hesitantly—you let your lashes lift.

And there it was.

The Basilisk’s gaze met yours, vast golden eyes burning with ancient venom. They should have killed you. They should have ended everything in a heartbeat.

But instead—they blinked. Calm. Watchful.

You were alive.

A trembling laugh escaped you, incredulous and shaky. “You—Merlin’s sake, Tom, you lunatic. I thought—”

“That it would kill you?” His smirk widened just slightly, dark amusement glinting in his eyes as he glanced over his shoulder at you. “I told you. She won’t touch you. You’re safe, so long as I say so.”

Still clinging to him, you let out a breathless scoff. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he murmured, low and dangerous, “you trusted me.”

The Basilisk hissed again, lower this time, a sound almost like acknowledgment, and you realized your hands were still gripping his shoulders as though your life depended on it. Perhaps it did.

The Basilisk’s hiss faded into the vastness of the Chamber, settling like the rumble of distant thunder. You forced yourself to loosen your fingers, peeling them away from Tom’s shoulders one by one. Only then did you realize how tightly you had been clutching him, how near you had pressed in the moment of fear.

Heat prickled your cheeks, and you stepped back quickly, brushing invisible dust from your robes as though that might erase the closeness you’d allowed. Tom turned his head slightly, and though he said nothing, you caught the faintest flicker of a smirk tugging at his mouth. He had noticed. Of course he had.

The silence stretched, heavy, filled with the slow, steady sound of scales shifting across stone. The Basilisk lingered at the edges of the torchlight, its golden eyes fixed on the both of you, patient and waiting.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet Tom’s gaze, to focus on something other than the beast coiled in the shadows. The reality of it pressed against you—there it was. The Basilisk. Obedient. Alive. The weapon you’d only theorized, now at your command.

And yet…

“So,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended, just to break the tension. “We have a thousand-year-old serpent that could kill half the castle in a single night.”

Tom’s eyes glittered, dark with triumph. “Precisely.”

Your arms folded over your chest, steadying yourself against the pulse of adrenaline still thrumming through your veins. The truth of it hung between you, vast and dangerous. Finally, you drew in a slow breath, the obvious question spilling from your lips.

“…What now?”

[solinvictusss]

Into the Serpent’s Shadow

Summary:

When Tom Riddle bursts into your room in the dead of night, you know better than to question the fire in his eyes. Swept along by his urgency, you follow him through hushed corridors and into the most ordinary of places—only to find the extraordinary lying beneath it. The Chamber of Secrets opens at his command, and together you descend into the depths of Salazar Slytherin’s legacy. Awe, dread, and anticipation twist together as stone pillars rise around you and the statue of Slytherin looms ahead. But the Chamber is more than stone and silence—it is waiting, breathing, alive. And for the first time, you feel the weight of what you and Tom are about to awaken.

a/n: why is editing posts on a phone so much harder? I tried to post this yesterday, but the pictures wouldn't go where they are supposed to? 😭

The fire in the common room had long since burned low, its embers faint and crackling against the silence. You had just begun to drift, in the comfort of your dorm, half-wrapped in blankets, when the door to your room slammed open so violently it rattled against the stone.

You jolted upright, heart hammering in your chest.

Tom stood in the doorway, dark robes trailing behind him like a shadow pulled straight from the night. His eyes burned, sharp and alight with purpose. He didn’t bother with a greeting, didn’t even bother closing the door. He simply strode in, the air around him taut with urgency.

“Let’s go,” he said.

You blinked, still tangled in sheets, your brain scrambling to catch up. “What—what do you mean, let’s go?”

He was already pacing across the room, his expression carved with focus, no trace of hesitation. “The Chamber. Of Secrets.”

For a second, you could only gape at him. The words didn’t make sense. The Chamber of Secrets. Yes, you had spoken of it, debated it, dreamed of what it might mean. But that was talk. Theory. Research yet unfinished. Not—whatever this was.

“What?” you sputtered, half-laughing, half-dumbfounded. “Tom, you can’t just—burst into my room in the middle of the night and say let’s go like—like you’re taking me on a midnight stroll! We don’t even know where it is—”

“I do,” he cut in, his voice like a blade, slicing through your protests. His gaze snapped to yours, unwavering, deadly certain. “I know where it is.”

The way he said it chilled you. Not a boast. Not a theory. A fact. Cold and absolute, as though it were the simplest thing in the world, as though the answer had been lying at his feet all along.

You stared at him, stunned, your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe.

Of course he would know. Of course.

And yet—how?

“Alright then,” you said slowly, still reeling from the abruptness of it all. “Where, exactly?”

Tom’s eyes gleamed. Without hesitation, he outlined the path in precise detail—stone corridors and hidden staircases, hallways forgotten by most, a descent that twisted deeper into the castle than any student dared wander. The way he spoke of it, calm and absolute, made it sound laughably simple, as though the castle had been waiting all along for him to claim it.

“Now,” he urged, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Get up.”

You shot him a look, clutching your blanket tighter around you. “You do realize I’m in my pajamas, right?”

He didn’t answer, only crossed his arms and leveled you with an impatient stare. With a sigh, you slid out of bed, grabbing your robes from the chair by your desk.

Left to his own devices for the first time, Tom allowed his gaze to wander. Your room was small, tucked neatly away at the edge of the dormitory, but it was undeniably yours. Books stacked precariously on the nightstand. Notes pinned in careful rows across the wall, ink smudged from your late-night scribbles. A single candle burned low beside your bed, its wax pooling over the holder.

His fingers brushed the spine of a book left open on your desk—Arithmancy, annotated in your handwriting. He lingered there, silent, his expression unreadable.

The door creaked, and you emerged a few minutes later, fully dressed in your usual robes, adjusting the hem with brisk hands. “Alright,” you said, squaring your shoulders. “Let’s go.”

Tom turned, his gaze raking over you once before settling with a faint frown. “Your coat?”

You blinked. “My coat?”

“Yes,” he said sharply, as though the very question were absurd. “It’s the middle of the night. The castle is freezing.”

You shrugged, dismissive. “I’ll be fine.”

His eyes narrowed, and he let out a low exhale, the kind that meant you were testing the last shred of his patience. “We’re not going anywhere,” he said flatly, “until you put your coat on.”

Your mouth opened to argue, but his expression left no room for debate. With a groan, you grabbed the coat from the hook beside the door and pulled it on.

“Happy?” you muttered.

“Ecstatic,” Tom said dryly, rolling his eyes. Then, without another word, he swept toward the door.

And just like that, the two of you stepped into the sleeping castle, shadows stretching long ahead of you.

The castle lay in silence, the kind that pressed against your ears and made each step feel louder than it should. Your coat swished softly as you walked beside Tom, your pace quick to match his purposeful stride. He didn’t bother softening his steps; it was as if the very stones of the corridors recognized him, shifting in obedience to his presence.

“The entrance,” Tom began, voice low, deliberate, like the words were meant to seep into your bones. “It’s hidden where no one would ever think to look—inside the girls’ lavatory. Second floor.”

You quirked a brow at him. “Really? A bathroom?”

His lips curved slightly, though there was no humor in it. “Precisely. The most ordinary of places, concealing something extraordinary. It was Salazar’s genius—hiding power in plain sight. Everyone dismisses it, and so it remains untouched.”

The flicker of torchlight caught in his eyes as he turned down another hall. You followed, your voice lowering. “And the sink?”

“Yes.” His tone sharpened, rich with certainty. “One of them bears the mark of Slytherin—a serpent carved into the porcelain. To anyone else it’s just decoration. But for me, for the heir, it is the key.”

Your stomach tightened in anticipation. “Parseltongue,” you murmured, already knowing the answer.

Tom glanced at you, the shadow of a smile tugging at his mouth at your quickness. “You learn quickly. The Chamber listens only to that tongue. To the bloodline. One command, one hiss, and the stone itself will obey.”

You felt a thrill at his words, though you tried to mask it. “And then we see it.”

“The Basilisk,” Tom affirmed, though this time there was a note of reverence in his voice—rare, for him. “The beast Salazar left behind. You were right. It will answer to me. To us.”

The way he said it made your pulse quicken, the word us like a tether binding you to him.

“Then what are we waiting for?” you whispered, your voice tight with excitement.

Tom’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, something sharp and unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes, before he turned back toward the stairwell that would lead you closer to the second floor.

“We wait for nothing,” he said at last, his voice smooth as silk, final as stone.

And together, you walked deeper into the castle shadows, toward the secret only he could unlock.

The echo of dripping water was the only sound when you and Tom stepped into the girls’ lavatory. The air was damp, heavy with mildew and something stagnant that clung to the back of your throat. A cracked mirror reflected the two of you in fragments, splintered and distorted, like even the room itself wanted to keep its secrets hidden.

Tom walked with purpose, every step steady, his dark robes whispering against the floor. His gaze swept over the row of sinks until it landed on one—the one marked with the faint carving of a serpent, winding delicately around the metal.

“There,” he said softly, almost reverently.

You approached beside him, your breath hitching as you caught sight of the mark. The serpent was subtle, so subtle you might have missed it had he not pointed it out—but once you saw it, it was undeniable.

“So this is it,” you whispered.

Tom’s lips curved into a shadow of a smile. “This is it.”

He leaned closer, one hand brushing against the cold porcelain as he spoke. The sound that spilled from his lips wasn’t English, wasn’t any human language—it was a hiss, low and serpentine, slipping through the air like something alive. The moment the sound left him, the carved serpent seemed to shimmer faintly, and the sink began to tremble beneath his touch.

You staggered back a step as the porcelain cracked apart, splitting down the middle with a grinding groan of stone against stone. The sink sank into the floor, spiraling down into darkness, leaving behind a gaping opening. The noise was deafening, echoing in the empty bathroom like the roar of some slumbering beast awakened at last.

Tom straightened, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “The Chamber of Secrets,” he said, voice low and sharp as a blade.

Your heart hammered, a mixture of fear and exhilaration coursing through you. A slick rush of air whispered up from the depths, cold and damp, carrying with it the scent of something ancient.

A ladder stretched down into blackness, disappearing into nothing. Tom didn’t hesitate—of course he didn’t. He swung one leg over the edge, fingers curling on the metal rung, and glanced back at you once.

“Are you coming?”

You met his eyes, the darkness around him making them glow with dangerous promise. Without hesitation, you stepped forward. “Always.”

The descent was long, the ladder slick beneath your fingers. The deeper you went, the colder it became, until the air was sharp in your lungs. At last your feet touched the stone floor, the vastness of the cavern around you unfolding into shadows and silence.

Torches along the walls sputtered to life at Tom’s command, bathing the Chamber in an eerie green light. And then you saw it—vast stone pillars carved with coiling serpents, stretching high into darkness, their eyes glinting faintly as though they were watching.

The floor beneath you was slick with age, the air vibrating faintly with power. At the far end loomed a towering statue, its face unmistakable: Salazar Slytherin himself, carved in stone, gaze eternal, mouth half-open in a frozen hiss.

You swallowed, awe and dread mixing in your chest. “It’s real,” you breathed.

Tom stepped forward slowly, his every movement deliberate, as though savoring the moment he had always been meant for. His voice echoed in the Chamber, deep and sure.

“Of course it’s real.”

He stopped at the base of the statue, tilting his head back to study its vast face. A silence settled between you, heavy, waiting—like the Chamber itself was holding its breath.

Then Tom turned slightly, eyes finding yours again, glinting with something dark and electric. “And now,” he murmured, “we see what else Salazar left for me.”

The silence pressed in tighter, the air thick with anticipation. The shadows around the statue seemed to ripple, alive, as if the Chamber itself was preparing to awaken.

[solinvictusss]

In Shadows, We Carve Eternity

Summary: In the dead of night, within the forbidden silence of the library, two ambitious minds clash and entwine over Horcruxes, power, and the dangerous truths hidden in ancient bloodlines. When the discovery of Tom’s inheritance as the Heir of Slytherin collides with the legend of the Chamber of Secrets, a new legacy is born—not his alone, but theirs. Bound by hunger, sharpened by trust and defiance, they vow not to walk in each other’s shadow, but side by side. Together, they will shape destiny, wield terror, and carve their names into eternity.

The castle was asleep when you slipped from the common room, the corridors alive only with the flicker of torchlight and the occasional creak of ancient stone. Every step was a risk, every shadow a possible betrayal, but your resolve was iron. You followed the path you already knew by heart, each turn bringing you closer to the library, closer to him.

When you arrived, the doors were already ajar—just barely, enough to suggest he had been waiting. He always was.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and silence, broken only by the faint hiss of candle flames. Tom stood between the shelves, his robes black against the pale glow, a stack of books resting on the table before him. Titles etched in faded silver glimmered faintly in the light. You recognized some of them by reputation alone—tomes no student was ever meant to touch, their bindings stiff with age and secrets.

“You’re late,” he said without looking up, though you knew from the glint in his eyes he had tracked your every movement from the moment you entered.

“Or perhaps,” you countered softly, sliding into the chair opposite him, “you were simply too early.”

For the first time, his lips twitched, the ghost of something that might have been amusement. But he didn’t linger on it. Instead, he pushed one of the books toward you. Secrets of the Darkest Art.

The sight of the title alone made your pulse quicken. You had heard of it whispered in fear, a text rumored to contain magic most dared not even name.

“Horcruxes,” Tom said, the word rolling off his tongue like a forbidden spell. “Fragments of the soul bound to the earth, granting a wizard immortality. To study this is to step beyond the petty morality that binds the weak.”

Your fingers traced the edge of the cover, the parchment brittle beneath your touch. “Fragments,” you repeated slowly. “But if the soul is torn, wouldn’t that mean a wizard becomes… less whole? Less human?”

“Humanity,” Tom said sharply, his eyes flashing, “is a weakness. A chain. To shed it is not a loss—it is a liberation. To sever one’s soul is to choose eternity over decay. Greatness over death.”

You met his fire with your own, leaning forward. “Or madness over reason. A shattered soul is still shattered, no matter how eternal. How can one claim greatness if it comes at the cost of becoming something monstrous?”

For a moment, silence pressed between you. But instead of anger, Tom’s gaze burned brighter. Not disdain—interest. He leaned forward, hands steepled. “And yet, you are still here. Still reading. Still hungry. You question, yes—but not because you reject it. Because you want to understand it fully. You know as well as I do that power demands sacrifice.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t back down. “I want to know what it means to wield it, not to be consumed by it. There is a difference.”

That earned you a rare flicker of something in his expression—approval, sharp and fleeting as lightning.

The hours bled away as the two of you bent over the forbidden texts. You pored through passages describing rituals drenched in cruelty, torn souls crying out across centuries. You debated methods, limitations, whether splitting the soul more than once was even possible. Tom argued that the strength of will could overcome any boundary; you countered that recklessness led to downfall, that true mastery required precision as much as ambition.

It was an endless duel of words, each rebuttal sharper than the last, each question heavier, darker. And yet, beneath it all, there was a current of something unspoken: respect.

Tom Riddle was not used to equals. But tonight, in the restricted section of the library, among the dust and the shadows, he had found someone who did not flinch, who did not cower, who matched his hunger with their own.

At one point, he closed the book with deliberate care, his gaze fixed on you as though measuring the shape of your soul. “Do you see now?” he asked quietly. “Do you understand what we are capable of, if we pursue this together? The world could be bent beneath our will. History rewritten in our names. Not pawns—not kings. Something far greater.”

You held his gaze, steady despite the weight of his promise. “I see it,” you said, your voice low but unwavering. “And I’m not afraid.”

For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then the corner of his mouth curved, slow and dangerous. It was not warmth. It was not triumph. It was recognition.

Two great minds. One ambition.

And in the silence of the library, with the forbidden words still echoing between you, Tom Riddle—heir to darkness—was nothing short of impressed.

The hours had passed in silence, broken only by the turn of pages and the occasional scratch of quill against parchment. The restricted section was a vault of shadows, their candles burning low, spilling golden light across ink and dust. Tom had sunk deep into Secrets of the Darkest Art again, his sharp profile cut against the glow, every line of him taut with focus.

But your eyes had begun to drift. Perhaps it was the sheer monotony of translating the same cruel instructions, perhaps the weight of dark theory pressing too heavy against your chest. Whatever it was, your hand reached out, almost absently, and tugged a different book from the stack—a volume older, bound in cracked green leather, the serpent sigil of Slytherin stamped faintly into its spine.

You hadn’t chosen it for any reason other than curiosity, a flicker of reprieve from Horcruxes. But as you began to leaf through it, the words seemed to grip you, pulling you in deeper. The Legacy of Salazar Slytherin. Lineage, philosophy, bloodlines carefully chronicled over centuries.

Your pulse quickened when you came upon a passage tracing Slytherin’s descendants, names flowing like a river of ambition and madness. And then, there it was: Merope Gaunt.

Your breath hitched.

You stared at the page, at the inked family tree branching downward from Salazar himself—through Cadmus Peverell, through Corvinus Gaunt, through Marvolo, down to Merope. A name that was too familiar to ignore.

The candlelight flickered. You swallowed, your throat dry. “...Tom?”

His quill paused mid-scratch, though he didn’t look up. “What is it?” His tone was sharp, curt, the tone of someone too immersed in work to entertain distractions.

You hesitated, fingers clutching the edges of the book. “I know you don’t like talking about this,” you began carefully, “but could you… remind me. What was your mother’s name?”

That got his attention. His head lifted slowly, his eyes narrowing. For a heartbeat, he said nothing. The air between you thickened.

“You’re straying,” Tom said flatly, his voice cold, clipped. “That book has nothing to do with Horcruxes. Focus.”

You bit back the instinct to falter, to apologize. Not this time. You leaned forward, the book heavy in your hands. “Just tell me,” you pressed, your voice soft but unyielding. “Tell me her name.”

His lips thinned, a flicker of irritation breaking through his composure. “This is not why we are here,” he snapped, anger simmering at the edges of his voice.

“Her name,” you pushed again, sharper now, though your chest tightened. “Please.”

For a long moment, silence reigned. His jaw worked, his eyes dark and cutting as though daring you to keep pressing. And then, with venom in every syllable, he spat it out as if the sound itself were poison:

“Merope Gaunt.”

The words echoed in the library like a curse.

You froze. Your gaze dropped to the page, then back to him. The silence between you stretched taut, heavy with something unspoken, dangerous. You looked at the family tree again, tracing the inked lines that connected her name back—back to Marvolo, to Corvinus, to Salazar himself.

Your throat tightened as you whispered, almost reverent, “...Heir of Slytherin.”

Tom stilled. Completely. His eyes widened, confusion flashing there—rare, raw, almost boyish in its shock. He stared at you as though you had just spoken a prophecy.

Slowly, with trembling hands, you turned the book toward him, sliding it across the table. The faded ink gleamed under candlelight as though waiting for him to claim it.

Salazar Slytherin Cadmus Peverell Corvinus Gaunt Marvolo Gaunt Morfin Gaunt Merope Gaunt

The tree ended there—until Tom.

You didn’t speak again. You didn’t need to. The book sat open between you, damning and undeniable.

Tom’s gaze locked onto the page, his jaw rigid, his knuckles white against the table. A storm brewed behind his eyes—not fury, not denial, but the shattering collision of revelation and destiny.

For once, he had no words.

And for the first time in your endless nights together, you were the one who had unveiled the truth.

The family tree stared back at them, its last branch ending in Merope Gaunt. The candle flames sputtered as though the air itself was holding its breath.

Tom sat very still, the weight of revelation pressed against his skin. His lips parted, his expression unreadable—but not shaken, not for long. Slowly, he exhaled, his eyes narrowing with measured thought.

“Yes…” he said at last, his voice cool, collected, as if fitting the final piece of a puzzle into place. “I suppose I can see that. The bloodline, the inheritance—it makes sense.” He leaned back slightly, his fingers steepled. Then his eyes flicked to yours, sharp and probing. “But tell me, what has this got to do with anything? Why should I care about the delusions of dead men and their lineages?”

You blinked at him—then laughed. The sound was soft, playful, yet edged with disbelief. “Merlin, Tom, you’re not as educated as you like to make it seem.”

His brows furrowed at your teasing, the faintest glimmer of irritation darkening his eyes. But you ignored it, leaning forward, snatching another volume from the pile. Its cracked spine groaned as you dropped it onto the table and began rifling through brittle pages.

“Here,” you said, triumphant when you found it. Your eyes gleamed with excitement, your voice quickening. “There’s a hidden chamber in Hogwarts—a room no one’s been able to find for centuries. The Chamber of Secrets. And do you know why no one has? Because only the Heir of Slytherin can open it.”

You met his gaze, fire in your voice. “You’re the heir, Tom. You. You’re the only one who can.”

His lips curved, the faintest twitch betraying the flicker of something almost amused. The excitement in your tone, the spark in your eyes—he found it… cute. Irritatingly so. He crushed the thought before it could take root.

“And what,” he asked, his voice dripping with disdain, “are we to do with some… hidden room? A secret corridor for ghosts and dust? Tell me, why should I waste my time?”

You gawked at him, incredulous. “Stupid? Stupid?!” You smacked the page with the back of your hand. “Jesus, Tom, it is not stupid. It holds the basilisk.”

The name slithered into the air like venom.

He froze, eyes narrowing, a shadow flickering across his face.

“And you said,” you pressed on, your voice brimming with breathless awe, “that you can speak to snakes. The basilisk is just… well, basically the biggest snake of them all. Ancient, deadly, unmatched. Do you not see it, Tom? You wouldn’t just be its master—you would be its god.”

Silence followed, deep and heavy.

Tom’s gaze dropped to the open text, the word basilisk etched in curling ink. A serpent born from a chicken’s egg hatched beneath a toad. Eyes that killed with a glance. Scales that turned blades useless. A beast born only once in centuries.

And it would answer only to him.

His lips parted, slow, deliberate, and though his voice was low, it hummed with a dangerous reverence.

“A weapon,” he murmured. “No… more than that. A legacy.”

His eyes lifted to yours, burning now, that sharp edge of hunger returning in full.

“You’ve done well,” he said, voice smooth as silk, dark as shadow. “Better than well. You’ve given me something greater than vengeance. Greater than fear. You’ve given me destiny.”

Your eyes narrowed, fire flickering in your chest as you leaned forward. “I’ve given us,” you whispered, “I’ve given US.”

For a moment, the silence pressed down heavy, the flicker of the candlelight painting his face in shadow and gold. His expression didn’t falter, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—gleamed with something sharper than admiration. Calculation. Hunger. A dangerous recognition.

Then, slowly, deliberately, his lips curved into that razor-thin smile. “Correct,” he murmured, voice silk over steel. “Not my destiny alone. Ours.”

He tilted his head, studying you like one might a rare artifact—precious, dangerous, one-of-a-kind. “But remember this,” he added, his tone low, deliberate, each word struck like the careful placement of a chess piece. “You’ve bound yourself to me as surely as I’ve bound myself to you. Whatever future we carve, it will be written in both our names—or not at all.”

The words hung in the air like a vow, like a curse, like a promise neither of you could take back.

[solinvictusss]

Checkmate

Summary: A game of chess becomes more than strategy when every piece moved echoes the weight of a pact forged in fire and ambition. Across black and white squares, loyalty is tested, promises are sharpened, and the first threads of a dark partnership are bound. In victory and in challenge, you prove yourself not as a follower but as Tom Riddle’s equal—his partner in power. By the end of the game, it is no longer a question of if you will rise together, but when.

a/n: Guess who suddenly has way too much free time? Yep, me! Which means I’ll be trying to push updates out more often.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His words still lingered in the air, like smoke curling from a dying flame, heavy and unshakable. Then, with a deliberate calmness that contrasted the storm you still saw flickering in his eyes, Tom lowered his gaze to the battlefield you had both abandoned.

The chessboard was a mess, scattered pawns and knights lying across the floor like casualties of a war not yet fought. With an almost ritualistic precision, Tom began to gather them. His movements were slow, measured, not hurried as though he had all the time in the world. You could almost hear the unspoken message in his silence: nothing chaotic remains chaotic forever—not when he is the one to take control.

He reached under the table for a rook that had rolled away, turning it between his fingers before setting it upright again, the carved tower gleaming faintly in the morning light. Piece by piece, he restored the board until order reigned once more. Black and white armies stood in neat rows, perfectly aligned, silent and waiting.

At last, he sat back in his chair, long pale fingers resting on the edge of the board. His eyes flicked up to meet yours. They were steady, unrelenting, sharper than any blade.

“Every pact,” he said at last, his voice low, calm, carrying that dangerous cadence that seemed to curl into your bones, “must have rules.”

The words struck you like the first line of a contract.

He reached forward then, taking the smallest piece on his side—a white pawn—and slid it forward two spaces. The soft scrape of wood against stone seemed to echo unnaturally loud in the silent common room. It was a simple move, the most ordinary opening in the game, but when Tom played it, it felt like more than that. It was the first step in a war.

You leaned forward, drawn into the rhythm of it, your chest tight with something that was not quite fear and not quite exhilaration but a sharp, humming mixture of both. This wasn’t just a game of chess anymore. This was his way of binding the moment, of showing you that what had been spoken between you wasn’t a fleeting whisper—it was a plan, a structure, a beginning.

Your hand hovered over your own pieces, and for a heartbeat you considered playing cautiously. But you remembered his words—the venom, the ambition, the challenge. If you were truly going to stand beside him, it could not be timidly.

You picked up your knight, the smooth stone warm beneath your fingers, and moved it forward into a bold arc. The horse’s carved head tilted defiantly toward his army. You released it with a sharp clink, letting the sound hang between you.

“I understand,” you said, your voice steady despite the pulse thrumming in your veins. “If I give you my loyalty, it is absolute. But it won’t be silent loyalty. I will not be just another piece you move across the board.” You held his gaze, unflinching. “I’m not here to follow. I’m here to rise. If I say I will stand with you, then know I mean it—utterly. Completely. No retreat.”

For the briefest moment, his expression shifted. Not surprise, not anger—but something sharper, darker. Approval. Satisfaction. A predator pleased not with prey’s submission, but with its refusal to break.

His fingers ghosted over his next move, not hesitating as he slid his bishop across the board in a clean diagonal line. It landed with a precise click, slicing the air like a blade cutting through silence.

“Then you already understand more than most,” Tom said smoothly, his voice almost velvety, though no less lethal. “Every move has weight. Every alliance has consequence. The moment you falter, you are exposed. The moment you hesitate, you are lost. To falter in this game—or in life—is to be destroyed.”

Your throat tightened, but you nodded, the fire in your chest steady. “Then I won’t falter.” You nudged another pawn forward, slowly but firmly, your fingers lingering on its polished surface for a heartbeat before releasing it. “If every move has weight, then every step I take will be deliberate. I will not hesitate.”

He leaned back slightly, studying the board, though you could feel his eyes on you even when he pretended to watch the pieces. His lips curved, not into a smile, but into something sharper, hungrier.

“Good,” he murmured. His hand closed around his knight, the pale stone catching the light, and he moved it forward with elegant certainty. “Because hesitation is the death of power. I will demand strength from you—not weakness. Resolve, not doubt. You give me anything less, and you will be crushed, whether by me or by the world.”

The knight landed with a muted thud, its carved hooves standing proud.

You met his words with one of your own moves, sliding your queen forward just far enough to make him take notice. The piece gleamed, commanding the center like a warning. “Then demand it of me. I will not break. If you say this is war, then I’ll play to win.”

This time, he did not look back down at the board right away. His gaze stayed on you, dark and burning, and for a heartbeat, the silence between you grew sharper than any spoken word.

The chessboard lay ready before you both, but you understood something now: every piece moved was more than strategy. Every word exchanged was more than dialogue. This was a test, a trial by fire played across black and white squares. And with each turn, the air grew heavier, the intensity coiling tighter, as though the game itself was sealing the pact you had made.

Tom’s fingers rested lightly on the edge of the table, his pale skin stark against the dark wood. He surveyed the board with the same cold precision he had spoken to you with moments ago. Then, with unhurried grace, he slid his queen forward, its polished figure cutting across the board like a dagger.

“The world worships weakness,” he began, his tone silk wrapped over steel. “They cling to morality, to rules, to softness. Dumbledore speaks of love, of mercy, of sacrifice.” His lip curled, disdain dripping from the words. “But tell me—what has love ever done for you? What has mercy ever given me?”

You answered by moving your bishop into place, its dark diagonal slicing across the board, forcing his queen back. “Nothing,” you said evenly. “Love didn’t stop my parents from breaking me. Mercy didn’t shield you from the orphanage.” You tilted your head, eyes narrowing. “But power can. Power will.”

Tom’s eyes flickered at your words, a spark of approval in the storm of his gaze. He reached for his rook next, sliding it forward with brutal force, the carved tower landing with a heavy thud.

“Power is eternal. And I will not waste my life watching it slip through my fingers like sand. I will take it, piece by piece, until I am untouchable. Until death itself bends before me.” His voice dipped lower, quieter but far more dangerous. “There is a way. Ancient magic. Forbidden magic. The creation of Horcruxes.”

The word itself felt like poison on the air, cold and sharp. But you did not recoil. You met his gaze, steady, and nudged one of your pawns forward, blocking his rook. “Splitting your soul,” you said softly, your tone as much acknowledgment as challenge. “Murdering to bind yourself to the earth. To live forever.”

His lips curved, not into warmth, but into a shadow of triumph. “Precisely.” His hand moved, sliding a knight across the board in a swift arc. “But it will not be easy. The path will be paved with blood. Those who stand in our way must be silenced. Permanently. I will kill, and kill again, until every fragment of my soul ensures I cannot be destroyed.”

Your chest burned at the cold certainty in his words, but you did not falter. You placed your queen forward, boldly pressing into his territory. “Then I will not look away when the blood is spilled. If you bury your soul in darkness, then I will bury mine beside it. But I won’t do it timidly, Tom. If you demand cruelty, you will have it. If you demand loyalty, you will have it. And when the world burns at your feet, it will burn at mine too.”

The words struck him as much as your move. For the briefest moment, he stilled, studying you—not the board, not the game, but you. Then, with sharp precision, he moved his bishop, cutting through one of your pawns, capturing it without hesitation.

“You will need to learn,” he said, his tone sharper now, testing. “Spells most would not dare to whisper. Curses forbidden for centuries. Hours spent buried in books, carving knowledge into your mind until there is no room for weakness. Every spell, every rune, every fragment of history—it will consume us. There will be no rest. No reprieve.”

You countered immediately, moving your rook to take his bishop, the piece falling to your hand with a decisive clatter. “Then let it consume us. Let it strip us down to nothing but fire and ambition. I will not rest. I will not falter. If the price of power is sleepless nights and blood on my hands, then so be it.”

The corners of his mouth curved upward, but it was not joy—it was hunger. He moved another piece, the rhythm of the game tightening, each move faster, sharper, like sparks thrown from flint.

“We will kill,” Tom said, his tone now a hiss of promise. “We will study until our bones ache, until our hands shake from the weight of what we have learned. We will rise until the entire world trembles before us. You will be hated, feared, reviled.”

Your fingers tightened on your queen as you slid her across the board with a final, devastating move. The black figure cut into his defenses, snapping one of his knights from the board. You met his gaze with fire.

“Good,” you said, your voice low, fierce. “Let them hate me. Let them fear me. If the world calls me monster, then I will show them just how monstrous I can be. I will not be broken. Not again. Not ever.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. The board between you stood like a mirror of your words—bloodless yet brutal, each piece representing the weight of your pact. His eyes flicked down, and he saw it then: your queen standing where his king could not escape.

Checkmate.

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, broken only by the faint crackle of the dying fire.

Tom leaned back slowly, his gaze never leaving you. For the first time, something almost human flickered across his face. Not anger. Not contempt. But recognition. Approval.

“You won,” he murmured, his voice low, dangerous, reverent all at once. Then his lips curved, the ghost of a smile—but it was darker, sharper, laced with triumph. “Good. I wouldn’t want a partner who loses.”

And though his king lay trapped, the fire in his eyes told you the truth: this was not the end of the game. It was only the beginning.

The silence stretched after your victory, the last black piece toppled beneath your fingers. Tom’s dark eyes lingered on the chessboard, then flicked back up to you—measuring, dissecting, weighing something invisible between you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The pieces lay scattered in their places, white in defeat, black in triumph. But this wasn’t simply a game of chess anymore; it was the prelude to something far larger.

Tom finally leaned back, his posture elegant but coiled with the same restrained violence as a predator waiting for the right strike. “You’ve made your move,” he murmured, his voice smooth as glass. “And you’ve chosen your place. But this—” his hand brushed across the board, sending the king tumbling over with a deliberate flick, “—is only the beginning. Every alliance worth keeping is built on more than words.”

You didn’t flinch. You kept your gaze steady, your pulse thrumming in your throat. “Then what do you propose?”

His lips curved, not in kindness but in calculation. “We meet. In secret. Away from curious eyes and idle whispers. If you are truly to walk beside me, then I must know the full measure of your resolve. And you must know mine.”

The fire crackled low between you, throwing shadows against the carved stone walls. His next words dropped like an oath. “The library. Tonight. After curfew.”

Of course it would be the library. You could almost picture it already—the towering shelves of forbidden texts, the air thick with dust and silence, the scent of parchment that had outlived generations. A place of secrets. A place of power.

“And why the library?” you asked, though the answer already burned at the edge of your mind.

Tom’s smile sharpened. “Because knowledge is where all true power begins. And because there are things buried in this castle—truths—that others are too weak, too afraid to uncover. Together, we will dig deeper. We will unearth what has been hidden. And once we do…” His gaze bored into yours, merciless and bright. “We will never be the same.”

You held that gaze, letting the words coil around your chest like chains—but chains you were choosing this time. Chains you would wield as weapons.

“Fine,” you said, your voice steady. “Tonight. The library.”

His hand brushed a final pawn from the board, as though sealing the pact. “Do not be late.”

The game was over. But the real one had just begun.

[solinvictusss]

Wings of Vengeance

Summary: The morning after entrusting Tom with your darkest secret, you find him waiting—not with chess, but with your words. He has read every page of your pain, every line of your fury. What follows is not pity, but an offer: vengeance, power, and a future that could reshape everything. But Tom Riddle demands loyalty—and you refuse to give it as anything less than his equal.

A/N: This is part four of my Tom Riddle x Reader series! 💚 Thank you so much to everyone who’s been following along—I really poured myself into this one, and it sets the stage for what’s to come. Feedback means the world to me, so don’t be shy!

Warnings: -Dark themes -Manipulation -Trauma mentions (parents) -Power dynamics -Tom being Tom (ambition, intensity, control) -Pact-making vibes

Word Count: 1,398

The next morning came quickly, though you barely remembered drifting off to sleep. When you woke, the heaviness in your chest remained, a reminder of the night before. You moved through your morning ritual on autopilot—the motions of getting dressed, fixing your hair, gathering your books—yet each step felt strangely distant, as though your body was moving while your mind was still trapped in the shadows of the common room, replaying every word Tom had spoken. The weight of having handed him your most vulnerable secret still pressed down on you like a stone, both terrifying and relieving all at once.

By the time you entered the common room, the air was still thick with the faint scent of ash from the dying fire, the morning light cutting long, sharp beams across the stone floor. And there he was, as though he’d been waiting for you, seated at your usual spot for chess.

The board had been set up as always, the pieces in their places, white and black locked in their eternal battle. The familiar sight almost comforted you—something normal, something routine, after the chaos of the night before. But when you sat across from him, expecting the small ritual you had come to rely on, Tom didn’t move a single piece.

Instead, with a deliberate sweep of his hand, he pushed the board aside. The crash of pawns and knights scattering across the table and falling to the floor echoed in the stillness, startling in its finality. The sound seemed to hang in the air longer than it should have, as though even the room itself was holding its breath.

Your brows furrowed, caught off guard. “No chess today?” you asked softly, your voice trying to mask the unease curling in your stomach.

He didn’t answer right away. His silence was calculated, heavy, designed to keep you waiting. Then, without a word, he reached into his satchel. When his hand emerged, it wasn’t with a book of spells or parchment, but the notebook—the very one you had pressed into his hands only hours ago.

Your breath caught when he set it down on the table between you. The sight of it—your name written in looping cursive across the cover, the pages filled with your pain and your fury—was enough to make your throat tighten.

“You read it already?” you asked, your tone more brittle than you intended, genuine surprise breaking through the careful guard in your voice.

Tom’s lips curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. Something sharper lingered at the edges of the expression. “Every word.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, as thick as fog. His eyes—sharp, unrelenting—bore into yours with an intensity that made you want to squirm, but you refused. You held his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. There was power in that defiance, even if your pulse raced beneath your skin.

Finally, he leaned forward, his long, pale fingers brushing the notebook back toward you with a slow, deliberate motion, as though reminding you that it was yours—yet also reminding you that he had touched it, read it, understood it.

“I know you don’t want my pity,” he began at last, his voice low, measured, steady like the strike of a blade, “not for what your parents did to you, not for the scars you’ve carried. And I won’t give it.”

You blinked, startled by the bluntness, but you didn’t interrupt. Somehow, you knew if you spoke now, you might shatter the weight of the moment.

“I read your story,” he continued, his voice tightening with something that almost resembled reverence. “About wings. About vengeance.” His eyes darkened, glowing faintly with a fire that seemed to come from deep within, a reflection of unspoken memories etched into his very soul. “And I realized something.” He leaned forward, every word deliberate. “You and I... we are not so different.”

Your chest tightened at that. The weight of his words wasn’t casual—it was intentional, wielded like a spell, crafted to strike something deep within you. You felt it in your bones, the recognition of someone who had walked through fire and emerged sharpened rather than broken.

He leaned back slightly then, but even in that shift there was no relaxation, no softness. His posture remained regal, commanding, every line of him exuding control. “When I was a boy,” he said, his voice dipping lower, darker, “I grew up in a place that sought to smother me. A miserable orphanage. Cold walls, cruel children, caretakers who looked at me like I was something to be endured, not nurtured. People who thought they could decide who I was, who I would become. They tried to make me small. They tried to clip my wings before they ever had the chance to spread.”

His tone sharpened, venom bleeding into every syllable now. “But I was never meant to crawl.”

The last word lingered in the air, heavy, dangerous. His eyes locked onto yours, daring you to deny the truth in them.

For the first time, you saw the cracks in his mask—not weakness, but raw ambition, raw fury, the same kind you had poured into your diary. “You want vengeance?” His gaze locked onto yours, burning. “I’ll give you vengeance. More than that—I can give you power. Enough to make those who hurt you regret every breath they’ve ever taken. Enough to make them tremble at the mere sound of your name.”

Your pulse quickened. The weight of his promise was intoxicating, dangerous, and yet so alluring.

“But,” Tom added, his voice lowering into something almost serpentine, “I require one thing in return. Your complete and utter loyalty. To me. To what I am building. With it, you and I can become the most powerful and feared wizards the world has ever seen.”

He paused, letting the silence sink in, letting you feel the enormity of the path he was offering. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “But I need to know... how dedicated are you really? I am willing to take you under my wing, but make no mistake—this will not be charity. Everyone shall fear us. Fear you. No one will dare to lay their hands on you again—not your parents, not our classmates, not even Dumbledore himself. Your name, alongside mine, will be remembered. Feared.”

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. The flickering firelight in the common room painted him in shadows, like something ancient, inevitable.

You knew your answer before he even finished speaking. The truth burned in your chest like a second heartbeat.

“I’m not looking for pity. And I’m not looking to belong to anyone,” you said, your voice low but steady, sharp as glass. “If I give you my loyalty, it won’t be as a servant or a shadow—it will be as an equal. I don’t want to simply follow you, Tom. I want to rise with you. You promise me vengeance, you promise me power? Then know this: I want it not to hide behind your strength, but to wield my own. I want the world to know that if they fear your name, they should fear mine just as much.”

The words came with fire you hadn’t known you were capable of speaking aloud, words that didn’t sound like begging or surrender—they sounded like a declaration, a vow etched into stone. You weren’t his possession, you weren’t his pet—you were choosing to stand with him.

“I will walk this path with you,” you finished, conviction tightening your chest. “Utterly. Completely. Not as yours, but as your partner in crime. In vengeance. In power.”

For the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, perhaps, at the audacity of your demand. But then it shifted into something darker, sharper—a glint of admiration buried in the hunger of his ambition. You hadn’t cowered, you hadn’t groveled. You had claimed your place beside him.

The corner of his mouth curved upward, a slow, deliberate expression that was not warmth, but triumph.

“Good,” Tom murmured, his voice dark silk, each syllable wrapping around you like a spell. He reached forward, brushing his fingers briefly across the cover of your notebook as though sealing the unspoken pact. “Then from this moment forward... you will never crawl again.”

[solinvictusss]

What You Hid Between the Lines

Summary: After finally trusting Tom enough to hand him your notebook, you retreat to rest while he stays behind to read your deepest confessions. In the quiet of the common room, he uncovers the truth of your pain, your transformation, and your vow for vengeance. Your words stir something inside him—fury, admiration, and a dangerous kind of resolve. For once, Tom’s ambition falters, not for himself, but for you.

A/N: This is the third part of the series! 💚 Thank you so much for the love on the first two stories—it honestly keeps me motivated to keep writing. This chapter turned out to be a little longer, than expected. As always, thank you so much for reading.

Warnings: Mentions of trauma/abuse (implied) Emotional vulnerability / crying Diary entry with symbolic imagery of wings being torn out (can be heavy if you have wild imagination) Dark themes: vengeance, transformation, isolation Tom Riddle being intense / protective in his own way

Word Count: 2,338

The room fell into a tense silence as the two of you engaged in a silent staredown, both equally stubborn and unwilling to back down. Tom’s gaze never wavered, his eyes fixed on you in a steady stare. He was determined not to let you off the hook, his expression resolute.

Minutes passed, but the silence stretched on. It felt like an eternity, tension hanging heavy in the air as both of you waited for the other to break first.

He broke the silence first, his voice cutting through the tension like a sharp dagger.

“I can do this all night, you know.”

His eyes never left your face. His tone was matter-of-fact, a subtle indication that he was willing to outlast you in this little battle of wills. He shifted slightly, still leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest.

“And trust me, my patience can be endless when needed. So, you might as well give in now and save yourself the trouble.”

“Oh, trust me, I can do this the whole night too.”

A hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips at your response. Your stubbornness was beginning to amuse him.

“You’re just as stubborn as I am, it seems,” he said, tone almost mockingly impressed. “I find that both admirable and infuriating.”

He pushed off the wall, taking a few slow, deliberate steps towards you.

“But you can’t out-stubborn me, sweetheart.”

“We’ll see about that.”

He let out a soft scoff, his smirk widening as he approached.

“You’re really testing my patience, you know that?”

He stopped when he was standing right in front of you, arms still crossed. His gaze was intense as he studied your face closely. Despite the situation, he found himself enjoying the challenge.

“Just admit it already. Those bruises aren’t from a fall, and you know it.”

“Why do you want to know so bad anyway? What — so that you can pretend to be considerate, say something like ‘oh I’m so sorry’ or ‘that must be horrible’? Honestly, what’s it to you? Why do you want to know so badly?”

He let out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes slightly at your deflection.

“You think that’s all I care about? Pity and empty words?”

His tone sharpened with irritation, as if insulted. He leaned in, eyes locked onto yours.

“I’m not asking just to give you sympathy, dammit. I’m asking because I care.”

Her gaze softened, but her stubbornness didn’t.

“Why?”

Tom noticed the slight softening of your eyes but the walls remained. He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Why was it so hard for you to accept his concern? As if the very thought of someone caring was foreign.

“Why? Because I’m not some heartless bastard, despite what you might think.”

His voice carried more heat now. He uncrossed his arms, stepping closer.

“I care because seeing you hurt pisses me off.”

“Yeah right. I’m the girl everyone avoids like the plague, and suddenly you care?”

He scowled, realizing you were throwing his own words back at him. It frustrated him — but he couldn’t deny the truth in them.

“Okay, fine, that’s fair. You’re not exactly the most popular person around here.”

He admitted grudgingly, gaze flickering downward.

“But is it really so hard for you to believe that someone could care about you? Even just a little?”

You avoided his eyes, staring anywhere but him. Of course you thought it was some cruel joke — why wouldn’t you? The students of Hogwarts had been nothing but cruel.

He noticed your reluctance, the disbelief radiating from you. His expression softened, pity creeping into his gaze.

“You think I’m messing with you, don’t you? That this is some cruel joke. But I swear, it’s not. I actually do care, damn it.”

He sounded sincere — honest. But you couldn’t let the walls you’d been building for years down now. You blinked, looked at him, blinked again, then down at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered.

He studied you intently, sensing the years of walls and isolation pressing down on you. The frustration in his features softened. He crouched down in front of you, bringing himself to eye level.

“Look at me.”

You couldn’t. All you could do was stare at the floor and pray you wouldn’t cry, though you wanted nothing more than to break down.

He frowned at your reluctance. He could see it — the way your chest trembled, the tears fighting to spill. Gently, he placed a hand under your chin, tilting your head up until you met his gaze.

“Hey… look at me. Please.”

You did. And the moment you met his eyes — crouched in front of you, that pleading look softening his features — everything inside cracked. A single tear slipped down your cheek.

“They hate me…”

His expression softened even more. The sight of your tear, of the pain radiating from you, hit him like a blow.

“Who? Who hates you?” His voice was quiet, searching, urgent.

“My parents.”

You let out a shaky breath.

His expression darkened, anger sparking in his eyes. He already suspected as much, but hearing it from you made his blood boil.

“Your parents… They treat you terribly, don’t they?”

You nodded, another tear falling.

“They are the reason why I am here right now.”

His gaze darkened further as he pieced it together. Not only had they mistreated you — they had also sent you away for the holidays. The realization burned inside him.

He brushed away your tear with his thumb, his touch surprisingly gentle.

“Why? Why did they send you here during the holidays?”

“Mother said if I get another bad grade, I might as well not come home because she was going to kick me out herself.”

His jaw clenched, fury sparking at the cruelty of it.

“That’s… monstrous. They can’t just abandon you over grades. And threaten to kick you out? That’s beyond cruel.”

You quickly wiped at the stray tears.

“It’s alright, I just have to fix my grades after the holidays. And everything will be alright.”

He wanted to argue, to shout that it was not alright — but he swallowed it down. You were too conditioned to believe it.

“Fixing your grades is one thing,” he said carefully. “But what about the way they treat you? Is that also ‘alright’?”

You struggled, words dying on your lips. He could see the truth on your face — you knew it wasn’t alright. But what were you supposed to do?

“I… uhm…”

His eyes softened again at your silence, at the way you wrestled with yourself.

“Hey,” he said gently, resting a hand on your knee. “You don’t have to explain anything. I just want you to know this isn’t normal. The way they treat you… it’s wrong.”

You only nodded, silently agreeing.

The tears welled up again, the emotional dam beginning to crack. His heart ached for you, the pain you’d endured and hidden for so long. He took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. He could feel his emotions warring inside him, the urge to protect you rising like a wave. But he also knew he had to tread carefully. You were so used to pushing people away, shutting everyone out. He couldn’t be too aggressive, or you might just shut him out completely.

So, instead, he reached out, gently wiping away another tear.

“Look, I– I don’t like talking about stuff like this...” you swallowed hard, your voice trembling. “But... uhm... I– I think I can trust you with this.”

You stood up, hesitating only briefly, before reaching for a notebook with your name written neatly in cursive across the cover.

He rose to his feet as well, every movement deliberate, his sharp eyes tracking your every step. A flicker of surprise crossed his features when you retrieved the notebook, but he didn’t interrupt. His silence was heavy, focused—his undivided attention locked wholly on you.

“It’s...” you sighed, fingers tightening on the worn spine, “it’s easier to write about my experiences and emotions than to talk about them. So... just read it. It will help you understand better than I could explain with words. And if it’s okay... I’d like to go to sleep now. It’s very late.”

Tom’s gaze flickered from your face to the notebook. He wanted to press you for more, to peel away the layers you kept hidden, but he read the exhaustion in your eyes. You were already drained, every word costing you effort. Slowly, he nodded.

“Okay. I’ll read this.” His voice was steady, firm as always, but softer at the edges as he looked at you. “You can go to sleep. I’ll... I’ll leave.”

You nodded back, relief and apprehension tangled in your chest. You watched as he left the room, your body finally sinking into bed. The weight of the night, the weight of trust, dragged you into restless sleep.

Tom, however, did not rest.

He carried the notebook with him back to the Slytherin common room, its presence in his hands heavier than any spellbook. His mind was consumed with you—the image of your teary eyes, your trembling voice when you spoke of your parents, the scars you tried so hard to hide.

He found an empty couch, the flicker of the dying fire casting shadows across his sharp features, and sat down. Slowly, he opened the notebook. He braced himself, though he wasn’t sure for what.

Page after page greeted him—raw thoughts, emotions scrawled in ink, struggles at home, battles at school. And then one entry in particular gripped him, words that seemed to bleed with anguish and fury.

It went like this:

When I was born, I came into this world with the most beautiful set of white wings anyone had ever seen. My parents were proud — they told me one day I’d soar higher than anyone. And oh, how naive I was to believe such foolish promises. In elementary school, my wings grew larger, stronger, still developing — not yet ready to fly. I thought my time would come soon. But when I entered middle school, my wings were ripped from me. Brutally. Forcefully. Torn out of my back in a way that burned pain into my memory forever. The greatest pain I’ve ever felt. I spent those years broken. Miserable. Watching friends fly high above me, their smiles wide, their wings strong. They could never understand my suffering — none of them had ever been grounded, none of them knew what it meant to have your very ability to fly stolen from you. I thought I’d never rise again. That I was a failure. A disappointment. Wingless. But then came high school. People helped stitch up my wounds, helped me close them. The pain dulled, though the scars remained. I still thought I’d never fly again. Until the day small feathers started sprouting on my back. Slowly at first, then stronger, bigger, sharper. Until finally, my wings were reborn. But they weren’t the same. No longer pure. No longer white. My new wings were black as my soul — edges lined with jagged bone sharp enough to kill. These wings were not made for beauty, but for vengeance. High school gave me the fire to rebuild, but the darkness in me gave them shape. And now they push me forward, demanding I seek revenge on those who ripped them away before I ever had the chance to fly. These wings are deadlier than theirs ever were. Bigger. Scarier. Stronger. But death would be mercy. Killing them outright would be too easy, too kind. No — I want them to suffer. To feel the weight of every moment they made me crawl, to taste the despair they forced on me. I want them to live long enough to see me rise higher than they ever dreamed of reaching. I will fly. I will soar above them all. But I must be careful. I cannot fly too high. I will not let myself become Icarus — burned by the sun because of reckless pride. No, I will fly just high enough for them to see me above them forever. And that will be their punishment.

His expression darkened as he read your words, anger rising deep within him. The pain and suffering you had endured, the cruel metamorphosis of your once-pure wings into something darker, jagged, unyielding—no one should ever be forced into such a transformation.

And yet, you had been.

He sat in silence for a long while, the fire crackling faintly in the background. The words seared themselves into his mind, each sentence stoking a different flame inside him: fury at those who had hurt you, admiration for your strength, a strange, unsettling ache that he didn’t know how to name.

It all made sense now—your guarded nature, your reluctance to open up, the walls you had so carefully constructed around yourself. You had been broken and rebuilt, not into something weaker, but into something far more dangerous.

Tom closed the notebook, his long fingers lingering on its cover as his thoughts spiraled.

He understood vengeance. He understood pain. But what struck him most was not the darkness in your words, but the clarity. You hadn’t simply been destroyed—you had been remade. Not into a victim, but into a weapon.

And Tom Riddle valued weapons.

A small smile tugged at his lips, though there was no warmth in it. Only resolve.

“Icarus...” he whispered to himself, recalling the last lines you had written. “How careful you are... yet how much more potential you hold.”

His dark eyes glimmered with something unreadable as he stared into the dying embers of the fire.

“You will fly,” he murmured softly, a promise only the shadows heard. “And I will make certain of it.”

He leaned back against the couch, the notebook still clutched in his hand, and for once, Tom Riddle’s thoughts were not consumed by his own ambition.

They were consumed by you.

[solinvictusss]

Bruises Don’t Lie

Summary: After your late-night chess game, Tom Riddle can’t get the image of your bruises out of his mind. Restless and unable to sleep, he finds himself outside your door at five in the morning, determined to uncover the truth you keep so tightly guarded. But you’re stubborn—and so is he.

Warnings: – Mentions of abusive/unkind parents – Implied child abuse (bruises/cuts) – Physical confrontation (Tom grabs reader’s arm) – Manipulative/pressing behavior from Tom Riddle – Dark themes, late-night confrontation (Please read with care if these topics are sensitive for you.)

A/N: Hi! This is part two of my first Tom Riddle x Reader fic 💚 Thank you so much for the love on the first part. I wanted to dive deeper into Tom’s obsessive curiosity here—how he doesn’t let things go once he notices them.

Later that night, he found himself unable to forget the sight of the bruises on your arms. The image kept appearing in his mind, accompanied by your words: "They are not the kindest of people." It puzzled him why you had revealed that, especially considering the wall of privacy you kept up when it came to your parents.

In the middle of the night, after tossing and turning in his bed, unable to shake the thoughts from his mind, Tom decided to do something he rarely did—he left is dorm room, intending to find you.

He walked silently through the corridors, his footsteps nearly nonexistent against the stone floor. The castle was eerily quiet at this hour, with most students asleep in their dorm rooms. He navigated the halls with ease, his mind still preoccupied with the image of your bruised arms.

Eventually, he came to a stop in front of the door to the room you were staying in. He hesitated for only a brief moment before gently knocking on the door.

She opened her door, looked up at him to meet his gaze.

Yes?

He was expecting many different reactions from you at this late hour—surprise, annoyance, sleepiness. But when you opened the door, looking up at him with a calm expression, he was somewhat taken aback.

He stood there for a moment, studying you silently in the dim light of the hallway. Then, he finally spoke, his voice unusually soft.

"May I come in?"

She checked her watch.

Tom, it is five AM…

He knew it was early—ridiculously early, in fact. But he didn’t care. The urge to talk to you had been gnawing at him for hours now, and he wasn’t in the mood to let something as trivial as the time stop him.

"I know the time," he replied, his expression unbothered. "I couldn’t sleep. Can I come in or not?"

She shook her head almost as if brushing off a thought, then moved out of the way, opening the door all the way for him.

Erm, yeah sure, come in… ignore the mess. I wasn’t expecting visitors.

There were a few notebooks scattered across the table, and some books across the floor.

He stepped into the room, his gaze immediately taking in the sight of the scattered notebooks and books. He raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on his lips as you closed the door behind him. The sight of the mess was unexpected, contradicting the image of the prim and proper student you usually displayed.

"I see you’re a messy one."

He commented, his voice slightly teasing as he moved over to the table, picking up one of the notebooks and flipping through it idly.

She snatched it from his arms before he could read any of it.

What did you need?

He let out an amused scoff as you snatched the notebook from his hands. Leaning back against the table, he crossed his arms, looking at you intently.

"Straight to the point, are we?"

He tilted his head, gaze sharp on you as you shielded the notebook like a secret.

"Can’t a guy have an innocent conversation at five in the morning?"

She gave him a confused look.

Yeah, exactly five AM. I’d like to go back to bed if you haven’t got anything smart to say. What do you need?

He chuckled slightly at your bluntness. It was endearing in its own way—most people wouldn’t dare speak so directly to him, especially at this hour. Shaking his head, he pushed off the table and stepped closer.

"No need to be so defensive," he said, tone deceptively casual. "I just wanted to talk. About our game earlier, and…"

His gaze shifted down to your arms, lingering on the place where he’d seen the bruises.

She noticed his gaze and pulled the sleeves of her jumper even more over her hands, if that was even possible.

What about it?

He didn’t miss the movement, the desperate attempt to hide what he’d already seen. It confirmed everything gnawing at his mind.

He took another step closer, his expression turning serious.

"Can I be frank with you for a moment?"

She raised her brow.

Go on…

He looked you in the eye, his gaze intense.

"Those bruises on your arms—they’re from your parents, aren’t they?"

She blinked a couple of times, cleared her throat.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was hoping you had woken me up for something important in the middle of the night, not some imaginary bruises you think you saw.

She opened her door for him—a clear sign she was done with this conversation. Her demeanor had shifted, tense and jittery now.

He scoffed at your attempt to brush it off.

"Imaginary bruises?"

He repeated, his tone mocking as he stepped further in, ignoring the open door.

"I saw them, clear as day. Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending they’re not there."

She still held the door open, hoping he’d take the hint and leave.

I have no clue what you’re talking about.

Your denial only fueled his irritation. He crossed his arms, standing firm.

"Oh, come on. You think I’m blind?"

His voice sharpened.

"You were flinching when I brought up your parents earlier, then I saw the bruises. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots."

She repeated herself, her tone harsher now.

Like I said. I have no clue what you’re talking about.

He let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair.

"Damn it, why are you so resistant to acknowledging the obvious?"

He retorted, stepping closer, now right in front of you.

"You’re injured, and it’s quite clear who caused it, but you’re refusing to admit it. Why?"

She swallowed, her jaw clenched.

I am fine. Now I’d like to go back to sleep, if I could?

Still holding the door open for him.

He scoffed again at your lie.

"No, you’re clearly not fine."

He said firmly, refusing to budge from his spot. Arms crossed, jaw tight, he looked immovable.

"And I’m not leaving until you stop bullshitting me."

She sighed.

Tom, I am very tired, and I’d like to sleep. Would you kindly leave?

He saw the exhaustion etched into your face, but he wasn’t about to back down.

"You can sleep later. This is important."

Without warning, he grabbed your arm, gripping tightly as he began to pull up your sleeve.

She tried pulling him away.

Tom, what are you—

Your efforts were useless against his grip. He pulled up the sleeve, revealing the bruises.

"This—this is what I’m talking about!"

His voice was low, almost a growl.

She brushed it off like it was nothing.

I just… fell.

He rolled his eyes, grip tightening.

"Fell, right."

His tone dripped with sarcasm.

"You expect me to believe you just ‘fell’ and got those bruises?"

I don’t owe you an explanation, Tom.

His jaw clenched at your words.

"Damn right, you don’t owe me an explanation. But I’m getting one anyway."

His calm façade had cracked, aggression simmering beneath. He was fed up with your evasions.

Her tone went cold.

Like I said. I fell.

Your defiance only deepened his frustration.

"Bullshit," he snapped, voice low. "You didn’t fall, and we both know it. Those bruises aren’t from a simple fall."

He paused, eyes boring into you.

"You’re hiding something, and I’m not leaving until I find out what."

She closed the door, sat on the edge of her bed.

Then it’s going to be a long night.

He scoffed, crossing his arms as he watched you sit.

"Fine. I have all night."

His eyes never left you, sharp as daggers. He noticed the twitch at your eye, a flicker of your frustration.

"You can cross your arms and avoid eye contact all you want," he said calmly, "but it won’t change the fact that I’m not leaving until you tell me the truth."

[solinvictusss]

The Game Beneath The Game

Summary: Christmas at Hogwarts is quiet, and a chess game with Tom Riddle passes the time. But Tom never keeps conversation light — with every move, his questions dig deeper, until the game reveals more than just a winner.

Warnings: Mentions of abusive/unkind parents Implied child abuse (bruises/cuts) Manipulative/pressing behavior from Tom Riddle Dark themes

A/N: This is my first post on here! 💚 I wanted to capture Tom’s sharp, prying nature and how he notices far too much. It turned out a little darker than I expected, but I think it fits him well. Feedback/reblogs are super appreciated! inspired by this : https://character.ai/chat/qr0ajggtG-TfyVktJX-1N3UvyT4ynZPmWy1zSHP-jnc

Tom was passing the time by playing chess with you in the Slytherin common room. Not many people stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas since they all went home, but he was an orphan and disliked the orphanage he stayed at. Not many people knew this, of course, for he kept up a consistent façade of a perfect, mature student with no flaws.

"Why are you staying over the holidays, then?" he asked, moving one of his pawns, dark eyes fixed on you like he was studying more than just the chessboard. He found you tolerable enough to pass the time with.

She moved her crook.

No reason

Lies.

He raised an eyebrow, easily seeing through the falsehood. Tom’s observant nature and intelligence allowed him to detect dishonesty as easily as spotting a crack in glass. Tilting his head slightly, his gaze sharpened.

"You’re not a very good liar."

He mused, moving one of his knights with a deliberate, fluid motion.

She took one of his pawns.

No really, I just… enjoy being here

He watched as you captured his pawn, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of skepticism lingered in his eyes. He moved one of his rooks, not buying a word of it.

"You’d rather be here over the holidays than going home?"

He couldn’t help the doubt edging into his voice.

Mhm

She moved her knight.

His eyes followed the shift in the game, a low hum escaping him as he considered his next move.

"You don’t strike me as the ‘family person.’ You never mention yours at all."

He pointed out, sliding one of his bishops forward with precise intent.

He watched as you moved the rook, his eyes flickering up to your face for a moment as if trying to read between the lines you refused to speak.

"No parents then?"

He inquired curiously, moving his other bishop into position.

No, I have them

Check

She said.

His eyes narrowed faintly at your declaration, yet his face stayed composed. Chess was not just a game to him—it was a battle of control, and Tom Riddle did not lose control.

"Oh? Then why don’t you ever talk about them?"

He asked, studying the board with meticulous care before making his next move.

She stared at the board, waiting for him to play.

Feel no need to

He took his time, eyes scanning every possibility. Finally, he slid a pawn forward, never breaking his calculated composure.

"You never mention any siblings either. Any of those?"

He asked, leaning back in his chair, his tone almost casual but his eyes still sharp.

Noup

She moved her pawn.

His gaze darted to the board, calculating the implications of your move before sending his knight forward.

"Only child. How lonely."

His voice was smooth, almost taunting, though his expression stayed neutral. The words, however, carried a deliberate edge.

I enjoy it

She moved her queen.

His eyes tracked the queen’s path, noting the new threat. Still, his smirk was faint, as though he’d been expecting it.

"You enjoy being alone all the time?"

He raised an eyebrow, sliding one of his rooks into place.

Mhm

She moved her knight.

He noted the change in position, his expression as unreadable as the pieces he commanded. But his curiosity was far from hidden.

"Doesn’t that get lonely? You’ve got no friends either, from what I’ve observed."

He leaned back, the statement almost lazy, though his eyes betrayed his continued interest.

She waited for his next move.

You’ve been watching

He smirked faintly at the implication, not bothering to deny it.

"I notice things."

He replied simply, moving his bishop with deliberate precision.

"And what I’ve observed is that everyone avoids you."

He added, the words blunt but not unkind—more like an observation carved into stone.

She moved her bishop too.

Can say vice versa

He moved his knight, his gaze flicking briefly to your face before returning to the board. A hint of amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Except I have friends."

He said with the faintest trace of arrogance, confident in his own social standing.

She moved her rook.

Lucky you…

He watched you play, then took his turn with the same measured grace.

"So, back to the subject. If you have parents, why don’t you ever talk about them? Most people at least mention their family now and then."

He moved a pawn, his voice still calm but probing.

She moved her knight.

Like I said, I have no need to

He raised an eyebrow, not satisfied. His eyes searched for any slip in your composure.

"You have no ‘need’ to? Not even a passing mention of a parent? You’ve never even said if they’re both alive or not."

They are alive

She moved her rook.

He saw his opening. The faintest smirk curved his lips as he moved his knight forward with deadly precision.

"Check… and mate."

The words left his mouth like a quiet victory bell. His eyes flicked up to yours, savoring the moment before leaning back slightly.

"Alive, huh? Not a word about where they are or what they do, then? Or are you just ashamed of them?"

She flinched at the thought of her parents, studying the board as if it could shield her from the question.

Not embarrassed

Her voice was quieter this time.

His eyes sharpened instantly, catching the way her expression shifted.

"Not embarrassed, hm?"

The tilt of his head was subtle, but his tone was laced with skepticism.

"Then why the flinch? The moment I mentioned your parents, your expression changed."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering, pressing like a blade to skin.

She moved her pawn. The game was over. Her king toppled with deliberate drama, falling to its side. Finally, she looked up at him.

Let’s just say… they are not the kindest of people.

She extended her hand, and he shook it. That was when he noticed the bruises and cuts marring your skin. His grip stilled for just a moment, his eyes taking in every mark before you quickly withdrew, walking away without another word. The door closed behind you with a soft click.

Tom remained seated, eyes lingering on the door. The chessboard sat in silence between them, but his mind was far from still. Your words—and the sight of those bruises—echoed in his thoughts like a puzzle he now very much intended to solve.