welcome to my little corner of the internet where I spiral daily over my current obsession: the slytherin boy specifically? tom riddle. And just to be very clear: this is the fictional son of voldemort, not the noseless menace himself. Will update when i can ....
key; ⋆ ᥫ᭡ - dark but fluffy ⋆ ☆ - dark obsessed! tom⋆ ❀ - dark!riddle family⋆♱ - very dark⋆ ⏾ - death eater mentions
ᥫ᭡ 𝐄𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐀𝐳𝐤𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐧 -After visiting Tom in Azkaban every Thursday for five years, Y/N misses one visit—six hours late. In response, Tom breaks out and finds her, holding her tightly and reminding her that she belongs to him.
☆ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 -Y/N always knew Tom Riddle was intense — brilliant, unreadable, untouchable. What she didn’t expect was to become the center of that intensity. It starts with a look. A stare, to be exact. One that doesn’t waver. One that says far too much without a single word.
❀ ᥫ᭡ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐩 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 -Albus never questioned life with Tom and Y/N — until he finds an old journal that reveals the truth. Harry Potter was right: Tom didn’t just fall in love with Y/N… he planned it. And Mattheo? He was the baby trap that sealed the deal.
☆ 𝐒𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐇𝐢𝐬, 𝐎𝐛𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐲 -Everyone at Hogwarts knows Y/N belongs to Tom Riddle—even though he never asked, and she never said yes. No public claims. No grand gestures. Just possessive stares, and a level of obsession only a dark wizard in love could pull off. She rolls her eyes. He doesn’t smile for anyone else. And somehow, without a single word spoken… she became his.
⏾❀ ᥫ᭡ 𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐑𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐦 -Albus asks to join the ranks of Death Eaters. Tom refuses, not out of cruelty—but to protect the only son he might actually care for.
⏾☆ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐇𝐞𝐫, 𝐈 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 -During what should be a serious Death Eater training session, Y/N turns the yard into a chaotic dance class. Tom watches in disbelief and tries to get Draco to stop her, but Draco refuses, especially once Hermione joins in. Helpless and mildly horrified, Tom realizes he may be the Dark Lord—but he’s still no match for his wife.
⏾❀ ᥫ᭡𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 - Albus is supposed to be an Auror—but his boyfriend is a Malfoy, and his best friend is the next Dark Lord. Albus jokes he’d become a Death Eater for love. Scorpius is concerned. Marvolo is over it.
⏾❀ ᥫ᭡ 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐘𝐨𝐮 - Tom Riddle tells his son it’s time. Marvolo has always known this moment would come. Now, he must step into the role he was raised for — not as a copy of his father, but as something even more dangerous.
⏾❀ ᥫ᭡ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 - One of Tom Riddle’s old Death Eaters dares to criticize the way he raises his children—calling them undisciplined, chaotic, and unworthy of their legacy. But Tom, no longer the boy forced into darkness, reminds them exactly why he is the Dark Lord.
ᥫ᭡ 𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 - Tom Riddle returns home from a Death Eater meeting only to find Y/N grumbling about how much he’s grown and how his robes have become too short and ridiculous.
⏾❀ ᥫ᭡ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 - Lilith and Silas don’t bat an eye at black robes and dark magic—they’re too busy throwing shade at their older siblings’ lack of subtlety.
⏾❀ ᥫ᭡ 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 - In a chamber of flickering torchlight and whispered loyalty, Tom Riddle and Y/N watch as their youngest son, Marvolo, remains behind enthralled by power, by legacy, and by destiny. A future Dark Lord is beginning to rise.
❀ ᥫ᭡ 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞 - At a formal gathering, Marvolo steps in to protect his mother, Y/N, when a guest oversteps. With quiet authority, he dismisses the man, impressing Tom, who watches proudly as Nagini slithers off to handle the rest — a silent reminder that Y/N is never unguarded.
⏾❀ ᥫ᭡ 𝐇𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐇𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐭 - Tom Riddle swore he’d retired from the Dark Lord business his kids just found out that was a technicality. Now the entire magical family must cope with the fact that Dad’s still casually conquering the world… between family dinners.
ᥫ᭡ ☆ 𝐒𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 -Y/N finds herself unable to stop staring at Tom Riddle. He notices, of course and uses Legilimency to invade her thoughts, teasing her with dark, possessive whispers. While Harry, her boyfriend, sits just a few feet away, Tom makes it clear: he sees everything, and he’s not letting her go.
ᥫ᭡ ☆ 𝐑𝐮𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 - Y/N can feel Tom’s gaze on her like a spell heavy, deliberate, impossible to ignore. She tries to brush it off, bury herself in studies, but his silent obsession pushes her to the edge. When she finally leaves, desperate for space, he follows.
ᥫ᭡ ☆ 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 -Seeking space from Tom Riddle’s constant presence, Y/N hides in the far corner of the library, hoping for a rare moment of solitude. But Tom finds her easily, claiming he's not following her. He's watching over her. In a tense, charged exchange, he reveals just how deeply he knows her: her habits, her fears, her ways of hiding. He doesn’t ask for her affection only her nearness.
ᥫ᭡ ☆ 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐝 - Y/N is stunned to discover that Tom Riddle has gotten her full name Y/N Y/M/N Riddle tattooed over his heart, only months into their relationship.
ᥫ᭡ ☆ ⏾ 𝐀 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 - After receiving his Dark Mark, Tom Riddle returns to Hogwarts in pain, trying to hide his vulnerability. Y/N stumbles across him, she sees the mark but doesn’t recoil — instead, she tries to heal him, kisses his mark gently, and reminds him that even Death Eaters deserve care.
⏾❀ ᥫ᭡ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐎𝐮𝐫𝐬 - Tom Riddle speaks to his followers, making it clear that Y/N and their unborn son are his top priority. As Y/N overhears the conversation, she’s surprised to hear Tom’s rare protectiveness and tenderness, revealing a side of him she never expected.
♱ ☆ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 - Tom apologizes to Y/N, comforting her with soft words and affection, but beneath his tenderness lies manipulation. When she’s at her weakest, he seals their future by branding her with the Dark Mark—ensuring she can never leave him.
♱ ᥫ᭡ ❀ 𝐅𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐬 -Mattheo seeks advice from his father, Tom, on winning Astoria back, only for Y/N to walk in and realize just how much their son takes after his possessive, obsessive father.
❀ ᥫ᭡ 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫-𝐒𝐨𝐧 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 -A heartbroken Mattheo gets a lesson in Riddle-style love, learning that his father has always played the long game. Y/N just sighs, knowing it’s hopeless.
♱ ⏾ ☆ 𝐀 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐔𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐦 - Tom is faced with an ultimatum from his father, Voldemort: join him or watch Y/N suffer. Tom refuses to yield, threatening his father and proving that his love for Y/N is stronger than his loyalty to the Dark Lord.
♱ ☆ 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐓𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐝 - Y/N stands before the man she once loved, now a ruthless Dark Lord. Bound by ropes and broken by the weight of his betrayal, she is forced to watch as he reveals his plans to destroy everything she holds dear.
♱ ☆ 𝐖𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝 - Y/N's life is turned upside down when her estranged ex-fiancé, Tom Riddle, is named her father's successor as Minister of Magic. Trapped by dark magic and her father’s betrayal, Y/N must face the haunting truth—she is now a pawn in Tom's dangerous game of ambition and power.
♱ ⏾❀ ᥫ᭡ 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 - Mattheo’s first kill leaves him shaken, but his family, led by Tom and Y/N, quickly springs into action to help him clean up the mess. While Y/N offers maternal comfort, Tom expresses pride in their son’s actions.
♱ ⏾❀ ᥫ᭡ 𝐈𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 - A quiet evening at the Riddle household is interrupted when Delphini calls for help, revealing she's accidentally killed a student. Tom and Y/N react differently: Tom approves, while Y/N is exasperated but can't deny the dark legacy they've passed on to their children.
♱ ⏾❀ ᥫ᭡ 𝐓𝐨𝐦'𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐚𝐥 - In a moment of mischief, Delphini and Mattheo attempt to convince Nagini to deal with a pesky student, but their plot is interrupted by their mother’s disapproval. Tom’s unexpected approval leads to a humorous standoff between him and Y/N.
♱ ☆ 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐮𝐢𝐧 - Y/N’s love for Tom Riddle turned into a nightmare when she discovered his hunger for power. Years later, as the Dark Lord wages war on the wizarding world, she joins the rebellion to protect the innocent—even as Tom’s shadow looms closer with every step she takes. (this is a long one)
♱ ☆ 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞, 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐌𝐮𝐬𝐞 - Y/N breaks into Tom Riddle’s home, seeking retribution for his years of stalking, only to realize she’s been lured into a trap. Watching through his cameras, Tom welcomes her into the very nightmare she was trying to escape.
☆ 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 -After breaking off her engagement to Tom Riddle, Y/N is haunted by the lingering presence of her former fiancé. As the nights pass, she realizes the dark truth: Tom has been watching over her all along, and he isn’t ready to let her go.
ᥫ᭡ ☆ 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐤 - Tom Riddle takes Y/N to a tattoo parlor, determined to prove the reality of their arranged marriage. He insists on getting her name inked beside his Dark Mark and demands that she mark herself with his name, solidifying their bond through both blood and ink.
ᥫ᭡ ☆ 𝐔𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 - Y/N corners Tom Riddle, her ex-boyfriend turned enemy, and prepares to exact revenge. But Tom’s unexpected surrender, both in words and action, shakes her resolve, leaving her to question whether she can truly destroy the person who once had her heart.
⏾ ᥫ᭡ ☆ 𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤 - Y/N catches Tom wearing his Death Eater mask for the first time. Expecting fear or rejection, Tom is stunned when Y/N instead gently removes his mask, cradling his face and showing him she sees and loves the real him beneath the titles, power, and darkness.
ᥫ᭡ ☆ 𝐀 𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐔𝐬 - Tom and Y/N’s inevitable fight about the war erupts, revealing his possessive love and manipulative desperation to keep her by his side.
❀ ⏾ 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 -Euphemia struggles with the pressure to become a Death Eater but confides in Y/N, who reassures her that love gives her the power to choose her own path. Y/N reveals that Tom’s son, Mattheo, was raised to make his own decisions and not follow a dark legacy blindly.
❀ ⏾ 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞-𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧 -Y/N, Delphini, and Lilith walk into the sitting room to find Tom and his sons—Mattheo, Marvolo, and Silas—all wearing the same intense, unmistakably Riddle glare.
☆ ❀ ⏾𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝-𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐞 - On what should have been her wedding day, Y/N walks into a church of corpses, not flowers. Tom Riddle Jr. waits at the altar, having slaughtered everyone she loves to reclaim her.
☆ ❀ ⏾ 𝐓𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐖𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐔𝐬 - Tom Riddle claims Y/N not just as a bride but as an obsession. In a church desecrated by dark magic, he kneels with her after branding her soul, whispering vows that echo like chains: she will be his, forever.
☆ ❀ ⏾𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 - Tom Riddle stops by Y/N’s dorm before leaving on a dangerous Death Eater mission for his father. He can’t bring himself to leave without seeing her one last time.
☆ ❀ ⏾𝐅𝐚𝐫 𝐄𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 - Tom Riddle, Draco Malfoy, and Mattheo catch three familiar troublemakers Y/N, Pansy, and Hermione sneaking through the castle after curfew. When asked how far they should let the girls go, Tom stands with quiet authority and says, “She’s far enough.”
☆ ❀ ⏾ 𝐑𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 - Years after the war, Y/N visits an underground dark magic ring with Pansy and is stunned to see her ex-fiancé, Tom Riddle, fighting shirtless. More shocking than his skill is the tattoo over his heart her name, now Y/N Riddle, marking her as his.
Summary: Once the devil gets his hands on you, he’ll never let you go. You called your power a curse. He called it a gift. You wanted liberation. He's just burned your old life to ashes and crowned you his queen.
Warnings: (Mature Themes (18+), Explicit Sexual Content (Smut), Dark Romance, Dom Tom Riddle, Power Imbalance, Psychological Manipulation, Possessive & Obsessive Behavior, Kidnapping, Dubious Consent, Degradation, Bondage, Dacryphilia)
Word Count: 5.7k
Click here to read part one!
enjoy ;)
𓆙 𓆙 𓆙
Chapter 8 - Disturbed
The harsh light of morning felt like an accusation. Steam clung to the cool air as morning light illuminated my small bathroom. I pushed myself onto my feet from the bathtub, the briskness causing goosebumps to rise. As the soft cotton towel moved down my inner thigh, my fingers brushed against a patch of skin that was exquisitely tender. I looked down. A perfect mouth-shaped bruise, serving as tangible proof of my night in the cemetery with Tom Riddle.
If not for that mark, I would swear last night was a fever dream, a lurid fantasy concocted in the depths of a mad mind. But it was real. The proof was right there, painted on my skin in shades of blue and purple. And even worse, a secret, shameful part of me never wanted it to fade.
Last night felt like a triumph. Now, in the unforgiving clarity of day, a hot shame warred with cold dread in my gut. What was I thinking? Clearly I wasn’t, because I had not only surrendered to him; I had actively participated in my own ruin, a willing participant in the desecration of a holy place.
The depravity of our actions was quickly eclipsed by the memory of his sweet praises. Never before had someone been so undeniably proud of my abilities. So willing to guide me through my deepest fears. He didn’t see my abilities as a curse; he called it a gift.
My cheeks turned pink with embarrassment. Had I really been so desperate for validation that I let my self-respect crumble that easily? This was Tom Riddle after all. A cocky know-it-all who looked down on everyone around him. A man who views himself as perfection and accepts nothing less.
I walked to my kitchen to brew some much needed tea. The mundane motions kept my hands busy as my mind wandered back to last night. I found myself latching onto the nickname he had given me, Treasure. The romanticism of it seemed simultaneously foreign on his tongue and as natural as the death surrounding us. But a treasure wasn't just something cherished; it was something owned. An object to be acquired, polished, and locked away for safekeeping.
Going back into the depths of my mind, I tried to recall a time when someone took such an interest in me, but I drew a blank. Tom’s unique teaching style was definitely different than any instruction I had ever received, but surprisingly it worked. I worked.
I had been terrified to enter the cemetery and I left with an entirely new understanding of my own abilities. Part of me wished he had been an incapable instructor. At least then I wouldn’t have questions swirling around my mind. Had it really been that simple all along? Or was Tom the missing factor?
Either way, I couldn’t remember a time when my mind felt so clear and serene. I had grown accustomed to my brain being more akin to an ever-changing maze than a place of serenity. If this was what power and control felt like, then I feared I was becoming addicted.
The shrill whistle of the kettle sliced through my reverie. As I steeped my tea, I realized my day off was no longer about seeking refuge. It was about contemplating the crown I had just been offered, and deciding if I was willing to bear its weight.
A sudden knock at the door jolted me into reality. With a quick glance out the peephole, I saw the postman on the other side holding a brown paper package.
“Can I help you?”
“Package for you, miss. Signature here please.” My hand trembled as I signed. I shut the door, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
The wrapping was neat, the edges crisp and perfect. There was no sender, only my name and location scrawled in his frighteningly familiar handwriting. He knew where I lived.
My stomach plummeted. Ripping the paper open revealed a new pair of nude stockings, folded perfectly. A replacement for the ones he had savagely ripped from my body. The gesture was so thoughtful and so deeply perverse that a hysterical laugh almost escaped my lips. He breaks me, then provides the means to piece myself back together, all the while reminding me that he is the one with the power to do both.
Setting the stockings aside revealed a dense textbook cloaked in dark leather bindings. The cover possessed an intricate pattern, looping into the title, Secrets of the Darkest Art.
The thick cover groaned as it opened. My eyes widened when they landed on the inscription, for the one who owns my soul.
The air rushed out of my lungs. It wasn’t a romantic declaration. It was a statement of fact. A claim. We had shared one night of torrid passion, and he was already speaking in absolutes, in the language of possession and eternity.
With a growing sense of dread, I forced myself to open the text. The pages were filled with archaic rituals and obscure, soul-based enchantments. A darkness seemed to emanate from the very ink. My eyes scanned the chapter headings until they landed on a page illustrated with a diagram of a shattered, crystalline heart. The title read: On the Splitting of the Soul for the Preservation of the Self.
Reading the first few lines, my blood ran cold as my mind struggled to comprehend the monstrous theory. It spoke of a spell, an act of supreme evil, that could fracture a wizard’s soul, allowing a piece to be moved into an external host. An object. For safekeeping. For immortality.
I slammed the book shut with a thud that echoed in the sudden, crushing silence of my flat. I felt dizzy. This had nothing to do with my abilities. This wasn't about teaching me control. Was this a test? Had he seen my unique connection to the echoes of souls left on objects, and sought to use them as bait for his sick academic interests? Suddenly, I wasn’t sure if Treasure was such an endearing pet name after all.
The walls of my flat, once a comfort, suddenly felt like they were closing in. I stood abruptly, leaving the book and its terrible secrets on the table. I needed to get out. I needed fresh air, a clear sky. Anything to get my mind off Tom Riddle and the impossible, terrifying weight of his soul.
Chapter 9 - Obsession
The crisp autumnal air bit at my cheeks, a familiar sting that usually brought comfort. Today, it offered no relief, only echoing the chill that had settled deep in my bones since I’d slammed that wretched book shut.
My brain bent over backwards thinking of an excuse for the book he sent to my home. It wasn’t a question of who had sent the book, but the single, gnawing question of why. Part of me hoped it was all some sort of sick joke. All in an elaborate scheme to scare me or send me running. But my own curiosity seemed to be stronger than my fear as I recalled his immensely personal inscription. For the one who owns my soul.
How could he say something so absolute after only a few short meetings? I didn’t know him well enough to own his soul, nor did I want the responsibility. He didn’t seem like a man capable of love, but perhaps what he felt was more akin to obsession.
Every rustle of dead leaves beneath my shoes caused me to glance over my shoulders. The winding path of the park, usually a place of quiet refuge, felt menacing today. Each crack of a twig sounded like a deliberate intrusion, each shadow seemed to stretch and twist into a human form just at the edge of my vision. The prickling sensation on the back of my neck was undeniable, the weight of a persistent, unseen stare.
Stopping dead in my tracks, I spun around. A few witches chattered by a bench, a wizard hurried past with his head down, the wind skittered leaves across the cobblestones. Nothing. No one was looking at me. Shaking my head, I tried to dismiss the feeling. It was just paranoia, a lingering side effect of the cemetery and the terrifying book now sitting on my kitchen table. I was letting him get into my head.
I forced myself to walk on, my hands shoved deep into my pockets, focusing on the familiar sights of Diagon Alley materializing ahead. It was only when the rich, earthy scent of damp soil and dried moon-dew hit me that I realized where my aimless, frantic steps had led me. I was standing at the entrance to the narrow lane where I worked, the familiar green and gold sign of Plevins' Potions & Apothecary hanging just a few doors down.
A wave of relief washed over me. The shop, my greenhouse—my only true sanctuary. The chime of the door brought the familiar comforting smells of potions and parchment. My boss, Barnaby Plevins, a slender old man, fussed over a display in the shop window.
“Ah. Dear girl!” Mr. Plevins shuffled across the worn boards, “I thought today was your day off. Or did I accidentally get into the confusing concoction again?”
“It is. I just…” my voice trailed off. “I wanted to ask you something, sir.” Though my feet had brought me here subconsciously, if there was anyone in the world who might have answers about dark, forbidden texts without casting judgment, it was my boss.
His thick, white brow furrowed with genuine concern. “What’s on your mind, my dear?”
Unsure which question to ask first, I mulled the words over a few times before asking, “Sir, what do you know of soul magic?”
The light, eccentric air that usually surrounded Mr. Plevins vanished in an instant. He set down the bottle of powdered moonstone he was holding, his movements suddenly slow and deliberate. He removed his thick spectacles, and without the magnification, his eyes seemed smaller, sharper, and far more serious.
“That is a dark and treacherous path, my girl. Not a subject for idle curiosity,” he said, his voice low and devoid of its usual whimsy. “It meddles with the very essence of a person, the part of us that is ancient and should remain untouched. Why do you ask?”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. I couldn’t meet his gaze, focusing instead on a crack in the worn floorboards. “I just… I read something about it. I didn’t understand it.” I took a small, hesitant step closer, lowering my voice to a near-whisper. “About… splitting it? Splitting the soul.”
The reaction was immediate and visceral. Mr. Plevins flinched as if I’d struck him, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. His shock wasn't accusatory; it was pure, unadulterated horror at the concept itself.
“Merlin’s beard,” he whispered, his eyes wide with disbelief. “That’s not magic, my dear. That’s an abomination.” He looked at me then, his expression softening from horror into deep concern. “For such a thing to even cross your mind… what have you been reading?”
I shook my head, unable to tell him about the book or the man who sent it. But I had to know. The question that had been pressing on my mind since I’d first read the chapter title tumbled out. “Why might one do such a thing?”
His usual jovial smile dropped, replaced by a deep, weary sadness. “To defy death,” he answered grimly. “A wizard who fears the natural order of things, who believes their own existence is more important than anything else, might seek such a path.” He paused, his voice dropping even lower. “A wizard capable of such an act values himself over all else. It is the most vile type of arrogance.”
His words painted a perfect, horrifying portrait of Tom Riddle. The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity.
“My dear girl,” Mr. Plevins said, his voice laced with worry as he stepped closer. “I must ask you again, and I need you to be honest with me. Why is this on your mind?”
I opened my mouth to answer, though no words came. I was trapped by his wise, worried gaze, with no explanation that wouldn't sound like a confession of madness. Before I could string a lie together, the bell above the door chimed sharply, announcing the arrival of a pair of chattering customers.
“I’m sorry, sir, I shouldn’t have asked,” I mumbled, already backing away toward the rear exit, once again desperate for solitude.
I stumbled into the alley and took two frantic steps before crashing into a chest as solid as stone. Before I could even gasp out an apology, a low chuckle rumbled through the chest I was pressed against. "Going somewhere, Treasure?"
Chapter 10 - Proclivity
The smooth, possessive purr of his voice froze the blood in my veins. My mind, still reeling from Barnaby’s grim words, went blank. I was a cornered animal, paralyzed in the sudden, inescapable presence of the predator. Before I could find the breath to scream, his hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my upper arm in a grip as unyielding as iron, and the world dissolved in an instant.
Apparating against my will was a unique kind of horror. It wasn't just the familiar, nauseating squeeze; it was a terribly violent intrusion. My body was ripped from the cobblestones, sucked into a suffocating vortex of pressure and roaring darkness. It felt like being hit by a lorry and vacuumed into a pinhole at the exact same moment. My soul screamed, tethered to my body by a single, fraying thread.
Just as quickly as it began, the assault ended. The world slammed back into focus with a sickening lurch. We stood on a quiet, tree-lined street, in front of a row of elegant, soot-stained townhouses. The late afternoon sun was beginning its descent, casting long, peaceful shadows across the pavement. The world was serene. I was anything but.
The violent reentry of my atoms sent a wave of violent nausea through me. I doubled over, my hands on my knees, heaving dryly as my stomach tried to claw its way up my throat. A large, warm hand began rubbing slow, soothing circles on my back.
“Breathe,” Tom murmured, his voice a calm, steady presence beside my ear. “Deeply. Through your nose.”
For a horrifying second, my body responded to the gentle touch, the primal urge for comfort overriding the terror. But as the world stopped spinning and the sickness receded, clarity returned with the force of a slap. I straightened up, shrugging his hand off me, and stumbled back a step. The gentle comfort was a lie, a thin veneer over the brutal reality of what he had just done. He hadn't helped me; he had kidnapped me in broad daylight.
“How dare you!” The words tore from my throat, raw and furious. “You can’t just take people off the street!”
Tom didn’t even flinch. A low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, a sound that made the nausea return with a vengeance. He looked at me, his eyes gleaming with a cool, detached amusement. “Do keep going,” he said, his voice laced with patronizing indulgence. “I quite like the sound of your annoyance.”
My rage sputtered out, extinguished by the cold water of his condescension. Yelling at him was pointless; it was like screaming at a brick wall, only if the wall enjoyed the sound of it. Taking a ragged breath, I forced my voice into a flat, icy tone. I crossed my arms over my chest, a fragile shield against his overwhelming presence.
“Why did you bring me… here?” I looked around trying to make sense of my surroundings.
“I wanted to discuss your latest reading assignment.” The foul, dark text sent to my private sanctuary had sent shivers down my spine, and he wanted to discuss it?
Though his actions confounded me, his effortlessly calm demeanor and silken voice were making it difficult to stay enraged. “Why did you send me that book, Tom?” I asked, my tone more even and collected.
With a sigh, he ran his hand along his jaw as if stroking a beard. “I thought you might find… some resonance within.”
He thought I would somehow relate to that deranged sorcery? It was becoming abundantly clear that Tom Riddle had gotten the wrong impression from me. But could I truly blame him? I had let him defile me in the graveyard, and even now, after being taken captive, I still didn’t run.
He must have sensed my growing curiosity despite my disgusted expression. “And did you?”
Taking another step back I nearly stumbled over my feet, causing Tom to lunge forward and catch my waist. I found my footing, but he was still impossibly close, his hands gripping my waist tenaciously. “N-no,” I stuttered, his proximity stealing the air from my lungs. “I thought it was revolting, dark magic.”
The devilish smirk that plastered his face only grew. “Hm,” was his only response as he let go of my body and took a step back, allowing me to let out a shaky exhale.
“Where are we?” I asked. Looking around the serene neighborhood gave me no hints to our whereabouts. “Why did you bring me here?”
“I had hoped to catch you at home.” As if that explained everything, he took out his wand and spun on his heel to face the row of townhouses. With a swish, the gap between houses three and four began to grow, revealing a dark, dilapidated narrow home.
“Come.” He held his hand out to me, his big brown eyes deceptively innocent. “Not until you tell me where we are.” My own response surprised me. I should scream, run, and hide, but something kept me there seeking the truth from the devil.
“I’ve been staying here for a few months, It’s perfectly safe.” His still outreached hand opened up again, a silent command. I hesitantly placed mine in his, “Somehow I doubt that.”
Guiding me up the narrow steps, we entered the dark home. The door groaned on its hinges revealing a surprisingly clean, albeit barren sitting room with a single charcoal grey sofa facing the fireplace.
Tom glided over to the fireplace and used his wand to spark the flames. The old sofa groaned under his weight as he took a seat. Patting the cushion for me to join him, I hesitated. My nerves quickly dissipated as he fluttered his long eyelashes. “I won’t bite.”
His tone was serious but the smirk plastered on his face told me everything I needed to know. He had me right where he wanted me. As if pulled in by his orbit I found myself walking towards the sofa and carefully sitting down at the opposite end.
“Closer”
I cautiously inched towards his seat. But he still wasn’t satisfied.
“That’s not good enough.” The air between us charged and I found myself complying, his pupils were blown wide, never leaving mine. With a sigh of disapproval at my distance, he reached forward and pulled me onto his lap, my legs straddling his hips.
“Tom!” I cried out in shock. We were all alone in the dark house, but his flippant display of intimacy still surprised me.
Taking my hand and gently kissing up my arm, the boyish glint in his eyes flickered again. “Yes, my Treasure?”
Having my skin peppered in kisses caused me to melt into him, momentarily losing my resolve. With a jolt the rational part of my brain chastised me. He kidnapped you. Leave. Now.
When I found my voice it was huskier and laced with more arousal than I expected. “Why did you bring me here?”
His touch was intoxicating. Every reverent stroke warmed me in a way the fire could not. When his mouth landed on my throat I couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped my lips. His kisses seared my skin and I found myself clenching my legs in response.
Pulling away from my throat to scan my form, he gathered my hair behind my back and tugged harshly, causing me to gasp. “I’m going to make you mine.”
Chapter 11 - Submission
Before I could refute his claim, his lips were on mine. This kiss was all-consuming, ravenous. His tongue expertly roamed my mouth leaving me breathless and wanting all of him.
With a few swift motions, he unbuttoned my coat and tossed it aside leaving me in my long sleeve, linen dress. I silently wished I had worn trousers because the button closure running down the length of my dress was giving him easy entry as he made quick work of it.
When my dress was on the floor, his eyes roamed my practically-nude body, heavy with intense hunger that flooded my own body with anticipation. Suddenly, I was lifted with ease and placed on my feet before him. My brow furrowed, unsure of my predator’s next move.
Sensing my confusion and the final shreds of my apprehension, he took a step forward. His voice bellowed with his sharp command, “Strip.”
My heart pounded in its cage. I should have known my teacher would expect me to participate in my ruin.
I should have been terrified. I was terrified. But as my eyes met his, I saw something that wasn't just cold command. He was hungry, hungry for me. Tracing the lace of my bra, his chest rose and fell in a rhythm that was anything but calm. My eyes flickered down to the prominent ridge strained against the fine wool of his trousers.
A strange, heady rush of power flooded my veins. He wanted this. He was losing control, even as he commanded me. A slow, deliberate smile touched my lips. Fine.
My hands moved with a newfound, theatrical slowness. I reached behind my back, my fingers finding the clasp of my bra. I held his gaze as I unhooked it, letting the straps slide languidly down my arms. The fabric pooled in my hands before I let it drop to the floor, the sound a soft, defiant thud in the quiet room.
His jaw clenched. He said nothing, but a muscle twitched in his cheek. I savored the small victory. I sat on the edge of the sofa, briefly turning my back to him, and slowly kicked off one of my heels, then the other.
Reaching for the top of my thigh, my fingers found the garter. I unclipped it, and then, with an agonizingly slow pull, I began to roll the silk stocking down my leg. I could feel his eyes burning into my skin. I could hear the sharp, impatient intake of his breath. I relished it, drawing out the moment, rolling the delicate fabric over my calf, my ankle, and finally, my foot. I repeated the process on the other side, the air in the room growing thick and electric with his barely-leashed anticipation.
When the last of the silk was gone, I stood, turning to face him. I was completely bare, exposed to the firelight and, more terrifyingly, to his all-consuming stare.
A low, rough sound escaped his throat, a sound that was half-groan, half-curse. "Perfect," he breathed, the word a ragged, broken whisper. "Merlin's beard... you are... perfect."
He surged to his feet, his own control finally snapping. His hands moved to his throat, and with a single, violent yank, he loosened his tie, pulling the strip of dark silk free from his collar. I braced myself, assuming he was finally removing his own clothes, that he would meet my vulnerability with his own.
But he stopped. He stood there, fully clothed, the tie dangling from his fist. His eyes were impossibly dark.
"Turn around," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
My stomach fluttered with hot, wicked desire. "What?"
"Turn. Around." He stalked closer, his dark necktie in hand.
I found myself complying, shamelessly eager to surrender to his commands. "Hands behind your back," the clipped demand sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through my body.
Submitting to him shouldn’t be this thrilling.
I had barely offered my hands before he captured them. His fingers were brutally efficient, knotting the silken noose that bound me, body and soul, to him.
Once satisfied, he turned me, and I was met with the very features that would be my ruin. Those long, dark lashes, his deceptively warm eyes... they were but the beautiful lure of a monstrous creature. And I was at his mercy.
His eyes never left mine. His hands moved from my wrists to his own waist. His black leather belt hissed as he unthreaded it from the loops of his trousers. He held it, dangling from his fist.
A shameful thought intruded my mind as I fantasized all the ways he could use the leather on me. My skin, already hypersensitive from the cold, prickled with desperate, electric anticipation. The thought alone was enough to make my legs tremble.
His voice was clipped yet thick with a potent combination of lust and unparalleled authority, “On your knees.”
I was rendered speechless, too distracted by the slickness his brazen commands caused between my legs. All I could do was obey.
As I sank down, my bare knees met the cool, wood floor, his hands worked quickly, shoving his trousers down, just enough to free himself.
A small, involuntary gasp escaped me. He was thick and throbbing, a carnal reality that was both appalling and astounding. I looked up, from the crude display of his need to the aristocratic perfection of his face.
The shadows from the firelight carved his sharp cheekbones stunningly, and his dark eyes gleamed with a possessive, predatory hunger. "Have you ever been on your knees for a man, Treasure?"
My cheeks flushed crimson at the low seductive rasp of his voice. All I could manage was a small shake of my head.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across his otherwise stoic face. He relished being the only man to bring me to my knees. Pride coursed through his every vein as he tilted my chin upward, making me look into his eyes as he delivered his next cruel command.
“Open wide.”
Chapter 12 - Liberation
My mouth fell open on a stunned, hitched breath. My eyes, wide and disbelieving, were locked on his. There was no turning back.
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, his eyes glinting with dark victory. “That’s the idea.”
My eyes dropped, drawn inexorably to the thick, twitching proof of his desire. He was a creature of such perfect, cold calculation, but his body betrayed him, revealing his desperate, human need. He took himself in hand, his grip firm. He gave one slow, deliberate pump, and then another. A single, glistening bead pearled at his tip, a taunt in the firelight.
I was still taking in the sight, my mind a dizzying mix of terror and fascination, when he moved.
He didn't ease me onto him; he shoved his full length into my mouth in one brutal, conquering motion. My jaw ached, my throat rejecting the sudden, thick intrusion. A choked, panicked gag tore from my chest. My eyes watered instantly, a humiliating sting of severity. With my hands bound behind my back, I had no choice but to let him in.
I had made a choice, though.
“Don’t be useless.” I snapped back to reality, at Tom’s hissed command. “Use your tongue. There. That’s it,” he groaned as I explored his throbbing length with my tongue.
“You like that don’t you, Treasure? Me calling you useless while you choke on my cock.”
My body burned with desire so potent, I could barely breathe. I couldn’t deny the ways his degradation affected me. Neither could he.
Moving with more confidence, my tongue swirled at his tip and I sucked. A low, guttural whimper escaped him.
The sound shot through me like a jolt of lightning. I’d done that. Wicked pride bloomed in my chest. I did it again, this time with more purpose
"Yes," he growled, his hand fisting my hair. The pace changed instantly. He began a brutal, punishing rhythm that stole my breath and smeared tears across my cheeks. I was a mess, a blithering fool on her knees for her master.
He was watching me fall apart. I could feel his gaze burning into me, relishing the sight of the poised, quiet girl from school, being reduced to this.
“This is what you were made for,” he grunted, his hips slamming into my jaw. “Not hiding with your plants, but on your knees... serving me.”
A violent tremble wracked my body. His words were a brand, a possessive, degrading claim that should have appalled me. But I was so lost, so overwhelmed, I could only focus on him.
“Take all of it,” he snarled, his jaw twitching with barely-contained need. “Sloppy, desperate little creature.”
I obeyed, my throat aching as I took him as deep as I possibly could. Just as I thought I couldn't take any more, he ripped himself out.
I collapsed forward, gasping for air, a shaky, desperate sob catching in my throat. I tried to collect myself, to find some shred of dignity, but there was no time.
His hands were on me, yanking me up from the floor. He pushed me onto the sofa so I was on my knees once more. My breasts rested heavily on the sofa’s rough upholstery, my hands still bound behind my arched back. I was completely exposed, a blatant offering.
Then, silence.
It was eerily quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and my own ragged breathing. The anticipation was a new kind of torture. It was unnerving, but it was also working. My blood was electric. Taking him into my mouth had lit a fire in me, a dark, primal need I never knew existed.
A shadow fell over me. He was approaching, slow and deliberate. A hand reached around my body, his fingers grazing my stomach before closing over my breast. He squeezed, his thumb finding my nipple, rolling the already-hard bud until I whimpered.
His other hand trailed downwards and parted my shamefully wet lips without ceremony. He was met with a gushing, humiliating wetness. Plunging two fingers inside, I bucked, a strangled cry ripping from my throat.
I felt him rub his fingers together, a low, appreciative hum vibrating in his chest. He leaned in, his hot breath a shock against my ear.
"I just had you sobbing on my cock," he whispered, his voice a depraved caress, "and look at you... still drenched for me. What a perfect little whore I'm making."
I found myself nodding, a small, pathetic motion. His words, his dirty, degrading praises, were unraveling me.
He pulled his hand back, and the sudden loss was an ache. I heard him undoing his own clothes, the sound of fabric rustling, a zip being undone. He was behind me, the heat of his body a promise. He lined himself up, the blunt, hot head of his cock pressing against me, a silent, terrible question.
“This is your liberation, Treasure,” he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic spell. “This is the only truth. All that poise was a lie, but this... this is real.”
He was about to do it, to claim me completely. I turned my cheek to face him, my voice a small, terrified whisper. “Will it hurt?”
A dark smirk twisted his lips.
“Yes.”
He didn't give me another second to prepare. He impaled me.
A raw, agonizing scream tore from my throat as he slammed into me, burying himself to the hilt in one, brutal, violating thrust. The pain was sharp, tearing fire that I thought would split me in two. But beneath it... beneath the pain... was a feeling of being full. Of being stretched and claimed in a way that was almost a relief.
He didn't give me a moment to adjust as he slammed into me at a relentless, punishing pace. He was a creature of pure, selfish need that I was beginning to appreciate. All my life, I had been treated like something fragile, a porcelain doll to be handled with care. Tom treated me like something to be used. He was rough, and in that, I found a freedom I had never known.
I was a mess of whimpers and moans, my body arching back to meet his every brutal thrust. I didn't care that he was probably making me bleed or that I would certainly be sore tomorrow. I only cared about the feeling of being his.
Just when I thought I could take no more, a new, electric shock of pleasure shot through me, ripping a fresh cry from my throat. A hand snaked around my front. His long, deft fingers found the very heart of my pleasure, his thumb pressing down on the hypersensitive bud with a brutal, knowing accuracy.
It was almost too much, the relentless, pounding from behind and the sharp, coiling focus of his touch in front. I was coming apart at the seams, a tangled mess of frantic, desperate gasps. The pressure built, winding tighter and tighter, my hips bucking against his hand in a mindless, desperate plea for release. I was on the very edge, a precipice of agonizing bliss, my body trembling on the verge of collapse.
He felt my body clenching around him and leaned in, his hot breath a searing presence against my ear. "That's it. Scream for me, Treasure. Let me hear how you fall apart.”
At his command, a world burning, soul-splintering orgasm exploded, ripping a guttural scream from my throat. His fingers didn’t stop their brutal pace as I bucked from the aftershocks. “The most exquisite sound in the world, and it's all for me," he grunted out as he finished with a tyrannical roar.
His body collapsed against mine, and I fell forward, boneless and panting. He pulled out, leaving me hollow and shaking and stalked away. His movements were precise and controlled once more as he picked up my discarded clothing.
For a foolish, naive moment, I thought he was bringing them to me. I turned on the sofa to give him a polite smile, my knees comically unsteady.
Instead, he turned to the fireplace. With a casual, indifferent flick of his wrist, he tossed my bra, dress, stockings—everything—into the roaring flames.
He looked back at me, my naked, bound body still leaking his fluids onto the sofa. His eyes were full of dark victory.
“You won’t be needing these, my queen.”
My stomach dropped, the cold, final realization. I wasn’t going anywhere.
𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙
I hope you're liking the story so far because I'm had so much fun writing it. The final part is out now! Click here to keep reading
All the likes, comments, and reblogs are so appreciated. It’s still wild that there are actual real humans who like my writing :)
Author's note: "Here's the thing: I love writing. I love Harry Potter lore. And I know exactly who's reading this — the same kind of unwell that I am. You want the dark, obsessive, ink-and-winter-air boy to win? Me too. That's why we're here. That's why Beth is tired. Welcome to the club. We have butterbeer and terrible decision-making skills.
Hogwarts is quieter than usual, like the castle itself is holding its breath. Laughter echoes down the corridors, and the floating candles spill gold across the old stones, soft and warm. My arms were overloaded with potion supplies, the scent of asphodel and brimstone clinging to my robes, stubborn as ever. The portraits whispered, eyes following me, judging or maybe just bored. Overhead, the ceiling glimmered with a half-hearted starlight. My friends wanted to drag me to Hogsmeade after this week’s exam marathon, and honestly, I needed it. I needed to clear my mind and forget about exams and Slytherin scheming, even for a little while. All I wanted was a simple afternoon with friends, a chance to feel normal again, far away from watchful eyes and endless pressure. I could have disappeared in a swirl of Floo Powder, but after so many hours buried in the dungeons, I was desperate for sunlight and air that didn’t taste like old cauldrons. I dumped my books in my room, dodged a few enchanted scrolls and potion bottles that glowed like sleepy fireflies, and finally headed for the castle doors. Freedom was just a few steps away.
Leaving the common room, I catch the familiar scene: Tom Riddle surrounded by eager admirers, first-years desperate for his guidance, though everyone knows his help always comes at a cost. They seem more than willing to pay. As I pass, I spot a jittery first-year gripping a parchment. Tom leans in, his voice smooth but edged with something cold. “One vial of Gillyweed, and I’ll show you the answer charm for your essay,” he whispers. The first-year nods, already rummaging through his pockets. The transaction is swift and secretive, invisible to any professor’s eye. Tom hands over a folded note, wearing a saintly smile, but everyone knows who truly holds the strings. He basks in their dependence, thriving on the power it gives him. For most students, this is typical, but Tom and I have our own history: last year’s duel in the library, where my own charm caught him off guard and left an impressive scorch mark across an entire bookshelf, though he never admitted defeat. After that, our whispered arguments over who brewed the better sleeping draught in Slughorn’s class turned sharper, and when I called out his tricks, we both landed in detention, cleaning cauldrons for hours in icy silence broken only by the occasional glare. He notices my eye roll as I walk by, and though he looks mildly irritated, he knows his status is secure. I, however, remain thoroughly unimpressed.
As I began to climb the stairs, my footsteps echoed against the endless shuffle of student shoes. I dodged a group of third-years arguing about who lost the latest House points, then passed rushing first-years and second-years in a panic because their scrolls had flown away—thanks to Peeves, who cackled as he sent a rain of parchment fluttering down the hall. One unfortunate second-year chased hers as it hopped frantically down the corridor, having turned into a frog mid-sentence after a stray spell gone wrong in Charms. Someone shouted “Finite!” but only succeeded in turning the frog-scroll bright blue. A pair of twins dueled with Jelly-Legs Jinxes, their legs wobbling comically as a professor sighed and righted their wands with a flick. I remembered getting hexed and such in my first year—fond memories, like the time Filch made me scrub cauldrons for sneaking into the kitchens after curfew. The scent of toast drifted from the Great Hall, and I heard distant cheers—probably someone celebrating a Quidditch win. Finally, after weaving through a knot of Ravenclaws discussing O.W.L. revision and dodging a pair of enchanted gobstones rolling underfoot, I found the heavy door to the front of the castle. I pushed it open and walked into the light; the breeze was warm, and the sun was out. How lovely. I walked over to the fountain in the middle of the entrance courtyard and began to watch the quiet life hum around me: a pair of Gryffindors practiced levitation charms on chocolate frogs, a Slytherin fourth-year scribbled the answers to Slughorn’s latest riddle, the faint scent of honeysuckle drifted from the Herbology greenhouses. Beth caught up and grinned, producing a Fizzing Whizbee from her pocket—“Don’t tell Filch,” she whispered conspiratorially. A group of Slytherin students strolled past, laughing too loudly as they boasted about their latest prank on the Ravenclaws. Someone tossed a handful of Fizzing Whizbees into the air, and they sparkled through the sunlight, popping and fizzing while a prefect scolded them from across the courtyard. Their Head Girl, badge gleaming, chided them with a look, but it was the Head Boy—Tom Riddle himself—who actually got them to quiet down with a sharp word. Everyone knew Slytherin ruled these halls after dark, and Tom Riddle was the reason why. Soaking in some sunlight after this week was much needed, until a shadow fell over me. I could feel the looming presence, so I opened one eye and sighed. Tom.
I sensed Tom before I saw him—the air always changed, thickening with the sharp, dark scent of ink and winter air, something cold and unyielding that clung to my skin and burned in my lungs. Every time he was near, I felt it first, a warning and a promise.
“Do you mind?” I asked, as if he were a bug on my shoe. Tom’s eyes flickered, assessing, but he just offered a smile that was too sharp to be sincere. “Going somewhere?” he asked, his tone light, but there was a certain intensity behind it, as if he was cataloging every detail about me—what I wore, how close I stood, whether I flinched when he leaned in.
The first time he cornered me after Potions, I had nearly choked on his scent—so close, so overwhelming, it left me dizzy and aching in a way I hated to name. He offered help I didn’t want, hovering a little too close, and seemed genuinely surprised when I turned him down. Since then, it had been a game: his pursuit, my resistance, and the wild, sick thrill that pulsed beneath my skin every time our eyes met.
“And why does the prefect care?” I hum as I stand to look over his shoulder. “Simply. I’m ensuring you are not breaking rules,” he replies, his voice smooth but his eyes glinting with something more than schoolyard authority. For someone who loves rules so much, he seems awfully interested in where I am going. “No,” I reply, catching the way his gaze lingered after my answer—a flicker of frustration at my evasion. When my friend finally appeared, looking dead on her feet from studying, I sighed and turned my attention back to Tom. My heart always skipped when he was near, though I refused to let it show. I wished I could tell myself it was just annoyance that got under my skin, but it wasn’t that simple. Sometimes it felt as if I was caught in the pull of something dangerous and rare, the way he could make everyone else fade into the background with just one well-aimed glance. Maybe it was how easily he got under people’s skin, or how every word he spoke felt loaded with meaning I could never quite decipher—equal parts invitation and threat. There was a sharpness in him that both warned and compelled me, the promise of secrets and the thrill of being singled out by someone who hid so much. I told myself he was nothing but trouble, but I could not ignore how every encounter left me restless, wanting to know what lay beneath his careful mask. Maybe it was the way he always seemed to notice what others missed, or how his confidence was both infuriating and magnetic at once, pulling me into his orbit even as I tried to resist. Underneath all of it, what I truly wanted was simpler and a thousand times harder: to belong, but on my own terms. Not just to a House or a name, not to someone else’s expectations, but to a group who saw all of me and still called me friend. Sometimes I wondered if I would even like the real Tom, or just the version of him I let myself imagine—the clever, misunderstood boy in the shadows, not the snake with secrets.
Beth catches my eye and gives me a look that says, “Are you alright?” but she doesn’t say anything in front of him. I wonder, fleetingly, if she’s noticed the strange tension between us—or if she’s just worried I’ll get caught up in Tom’s schemes. Later, she’ll nudge me and whisper, “What’s his deal with you, anyway?”
Beth is the kind of friend who notices too much. She’s cautious, always warning me not to get close to Tom, calling him “snake-charming trouble” and rolling her eyes at my half-hearted denials. Once, after a run-in with Tom in the library, she cornered me in the corridor. “You know he’s only interested when he wants something,” she’d said, her voice low. “Just… don’t let him get in your head, okay?” I’d laughed it off, but her words lingered longer than I’d admit.
Go find your fan club, Riddle, I say, exasperated, with an annoyed look. As I push past him, his hand lingers at the edge of my sleeve. It’s not gentle; it’s possessive, cold, as if he’s reminding me I’m still within reach. I move to hug my friends and hook my arm through theirs, but I can still feel Riddle’s presence, a shadow just behind us. His gaze isn’t longing—it’s a calculation, a silent warning that he does not like to lose.
Beth, my friend from Hufflepuff, turns to look only to see Tom following close behind, but not enough to be seen as part of our group. She stiffens, her fingers tightening around my arm, and her voice drops to a whisper: “I didn’t realize Tom was coming with us.” There’s a note of fear in it now, brittle and thin. I sigh and roll my eyes. “He’s not,” I reply bitterly as I glance back at him. Beth subtly shifts to put herself between us, pulling me just a little closer. It’s almost funny—someone so in control can’t seem to help trailing after someone who won’t fall into step. Maybe he’s just curious, or maybe there’s a reason he always seems to be hovering just a little too close. I catch his eye for a split second; there’s nothing there—no warmth, no anger, just an emptiness that makes my skin crawl. I look away quickly, unsettled.
As we walk, my friend runs off as she sees her favorite candy in Honeydukes. Suddenly, I feel an arm wrap around mine, firmer this time. The cold brush of his fingers is deliberate, a claim. Annoyance flares, but beneath it is something like dread. I don’t dare react.
“Don’t be so cold, my dear,” Tom murmurs, his voice pitched so only I hear it. There’s no affection in it, just a cool threat: he’s reminding me that I’m still under his watch. I don’t need a babysitter, I huff, forcing a casualness I don’t feel. He hums, not as an answer but as a dismissal, like my words are already irrelevant. What do you want, Tom? I ask, trying to sound bored, though my heart pounds. Up close, I can smell ink and something darker, something that’s entirely him. For a moment, I wonder if he’s keeping tabs on me for reasons that have nothing to do with school rules. If I let him in, if I rely on him for even a moment, I could lose more than just my pride. People whisper he can make or break anyone’s future here. But if I push him away, I risk becoming a target, or worse, losing my friends to the kind of manipulations only Tom can pull off with a word behind closed doors. “Why? I’m simply curious: why do you never need your prefect help?” he asks, voice low, the words stripped of any real interest. I get the sense he’s less offended by my resistance than bored by it, like a puzzle he hasn’t solved yet, and might discard if it takes too long. Unlike your goons, I study,” I reply with a bitter tone. Tom’s laugh is quick and sharp, more mockery than amusement. Don’t sound so sure, he says, and the threat is unmistakable.
For one wild moment, I wanted him to kiss me, just to prove to myself that all this wanting wasn’t only in my head.
I sigh as I pull my arm free of Tom’s grip, feeling the ghost of his touch long after. Tom’s brow pulls together as if he’s offended I wouldn’t stay by his side; first years swarm him, asking how they can be as good as Tom at potions. A few are there just because they find him attractive—many do. He knows this but never does anything; if he does, it’s for his own gain. As they gush and pull his attention in various ways, I shake my head and smile as I watch him suffer with them. He’s fuming because this happens way more than he’d like, though his eyes keep darting past them, searching for me in the crowd.
The noise of the village was a welcome relief after what felt like years of studying—people, how enjoyable. Beth emerged from Honeydukes with a bag full of peppermint toads and chocolate frogs; she looked guilty, as if she stole the whole stock. The air outside was bright with laughter and chatter, the scent of treacle tart wafting from the bakery and the distant clatter of hooves as a Thestral-drawn carriage rattled past. We passed Zonko’s, where a group of fourth-years set off a cascade of Fizzing Whizbees, and the joke shop windows were crowded with enchanted displays.
The short walk to the Three Broomsticks was filled with snippets of conversation—someone boasting about a Quidditch win, another groaning about Dumbledore’s latest transfiguration essay. Beth and I stepped inside, and warmth hit us, butterbeer-sweet and buzzing with House banners overhead and students pressed shoulder to shoulder. There was Kyle—three butterbeers down and chugging a fourth. His pouch was filled with pumpkin juice and new dragon skin gloves. A post-game errand.
“Hey, still recovering?” I ask as he slams down the glass. He looks up at us and smiles. “I’ve never been better,” he replies, tapping his chest. Beth, a sweetheart as always: “You fell 30 feet in the air.” He laughs loudly. “I’m the best, obviously,” he jokes, his ego as big as the Quidditch pitch, motioning for two more butterbeers. Beth rolls her eyes as we sit. “You haven’t even begun on potions,” she huffs, as the noise suddenly grows loud, many voices cheering for their house’s win.
Tom Riddle
She laughs with her friends, sunlight catching the angles of her face, utterly unaware of the way she draws the room’s attention—and mine. From my vantage above the main floor, I watch her. She doesn’t seek me out, doesn’t glance up, and that should be beneath my notice, but it isn’t. It infuriates me. Others clamor for my help, for a scrap of my time, and she simply… does not. She talks with that Hufflepuff girl, her voice low, hands animated, a smudge of chocolate on her thumb from Honeydukes.
But she is not just any girl. Her family traces back to the earliest council of wizards, their crest tangled in the roots of these walls, their names whispered in the Great Hall’s highest rafters. There are whispered stories about her bloodline: it was her ancestor who enchanted the hidden vault beneath the castle, and some say a single word from her family can bend lesser wards. Last year, a rumor went around that her great-uncle once turned aside a curse meant for an entire House with only a flick of his wand. Even now, magic clings to her; every time she walks through the old doorways, the castle seems to recognize the signature of her blood—wards that sometimes shimmer at her touch, a trickle of light along the stone when she passes, portraits tilting slightly in silent greeting. She once absentmindedly summoned a lost book from a sealed faculty shelf, the charm barely whispered, the lock unraveling itself like it remembered her voice. Those old bloodlines carry powerful connections, the kind that could open doors even I cannot force. There is strength in legacy, and she holds it so carelessly, as though it’s nothing more than another schoolbook or trinket tucked into her bag. If she would only realize what we could accomplish together…
I could make this easy for her—solve her little problems with a word, if only she’d ask. But she won’t. She acts as though she doesn’t need me, and each time she refuses, it sharpens something inside me. I could offer her the answers she’ll want for Potions, the trick to Slughorn’s ridiculous riddle—she must know I have it. Instead, she leans on the Quidditch brute, lets him boast and preen, as if his empty bravado is worth more than what I could give. Her resistance is as captivating as it is maddening.
I grip the polished rail so hard my knuckles pale. Below, a fourth-year’s spell fizzles and his cauldron belches out a foul green smoke. The boy coughs, panicked—until I lock eyes with him and offer nothing, not even a warning. He sees my smile and falters further, his potion ruined, and I savor the way fear lingers in the air a moment longer. Power, real power, is knowing I could help but choosing not to.
She is a locked door, not a prize. I could call her over, force her to need me, but I will not stoop. Not yet. Let her struggle. Let her try to work things out on her own. She will falter, and when she does, she’ll have to come to me. Once she does, once she’s mine, I won’t need to try anymore. She’ll be useful until she isn’t.
She laughs again, unaware, and I watch, silent and unseen, as she chooses everyone but me. It is intolerable, but the outcome is already decided. She will come to me. They all do.
Somewhere above, on the second floor, I feel a prickle at the back of my neck. I glance up to spot Tom, half-shrouded in shadow, watching from the balcony—a silent, uncomfortable presence, eyes fixed on me even as he pretends to listen to the students around him. No matter the distance, his attention is a weight, cold and possessive, threading through the crowd. I try to ignore the way my heart stutters under his gaze. There’s a darkness behind his eyes—a warning. It’s not affection, not really; it’s hunger, a need to possess, to consume and control. In that moment, I realize that being wanted by Tom Riddle is not a fairytale. It is a curse, a test, a question I am afraid to answer: what would I give up just to keep being seen by him?
His shadow lingers, unsettling and inescapable. I wonder if the portraits whisper about us now, if the castle itself is watching, waiting to see whether I will run or turn toward the darkness that keeps calling my name. Something in the air feels taut, as if every glance and silent dare between us is winding tighter with every passing moment. I can almost sense the storm gathering, as if one secret slipped or one careless word might shatter the careful balance between us. Maybe it will be the next time we cross paths alone, or when one of Tom’s bargains goes too far and drags me in, but whatever it is, the moment is coming. Sometimes I think a single act of kindness from my friends, or a reminder of who I am beyond school and House, might anchor me to the light. Other days, when the fear of being ordinary feels too heavy or the promise of finally understanding what makes me different calls to me, I am not sure. One day soon, I know this tension will break, and when it does, it will change everything. There are choices waiting—whether to trust the people who see my scars and still pull me into the sun, or to reach for the shadows that promise control when I feel helpless. A part of me thrills at the promise of power, secrets, and a world opened by choosing Tom, but I can feel, too, all the warmth I might lose: laughter with friends, the sunlight I crave, the trust that makes this place home. And I am not sure, when the time comes, whether I will choose the light, or follow the darkness, even as it costs me everything I once thought I could never give up.
The common room had emptied by the time I returned from Hogsmeade, the fire burned down to embers, and the green glow of the lake filtered through the windows. I should have gone straight to bed. Instead, I sat at my desk, a Potions essay open in front of me, my quill dry, my mind blank. Not thinking about him. Definitely not.
Then came the knock.
Three raps. Measured. Unhurried. The kind of knock that didn’t ask permission—it announced.
I knew who it was before I opened the door.
Tom Riddle stood in the corridor, Head Boy badge catching the torchlight, his expression unreadable. But something was different. The sharp edges seemed softened, the usual coldness tucked away like a weapon he’d chosen not to draw. Yet.
“Patrol duty,” he said. Not a question. “You’re late.”
“I’m not late. You’re early.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost human.
I grabbed my wand and followed, because what choice did I have? We were Heads. This was the job.
The corridors were empty, the portraits dozing in their frames. Our footsteps echoed, two sets, falling into an easy rhythm. He didn’t speak at first, and the silence should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. It was almost… peaceful.
That was the first warning sign. Peace had no business being anywhere near Tom Riddle.
“You were quiet today,” he said eventually. “At Hogsmeade.”
I glanced at him. “I was with my friends.”
“I know.” A pause. “You laughed. At something the Quidditch boy said.”
I wasn’t sure if it was an accusation or an observation. “Kyle is funny.”
“Kyle,” Tom repeated, like he was tasting the name and finding it bland. “He’s not your type.”
My heart skipped. “You don’t know my type.”
He stopped walking. Turned to face me. The torchlight flickered across his features, and for a moment just a moment—I saw something that looked almost like uncertainty.
“No,” he said softly. “I don’t. You won’t let me.”
It was the most honest thing he’d ever said to me.
We started walking again, but closer now. Close enough that when he breathed, I could smell him. Ink and old parchment. Something clean and sharp, like winter air. And beneath it, something darker. Cedar, maybe. Or smoke. Or just him.
My head felt fuzzy. Not in a bad way. In a way that made me want to lean closer, just to know if the smell changed when he was nervous.
Was he ever nervous?
“You’re staring,” he said.
I looked away. "You’re hard not to look at." The words came out before I could stop them. I waited for the smirk, the cold laugh, the reminder that he was Tom Riddle and I was just another puzzle to solve.
Neither came.
Instead, he said, “That’s the first true thing you’ve said to me all week.”
And the worst part?
I couldn’t tell if he was lying.
The rest of the patrol passed in a haze of quiet conversation and stolen glances. He asked about my family. My favorite subject. A book I’d been reading. Normal things. Human things.
By the time we reached the corridor outside my room, I had almost convinced myself that this was the real Tom. The one behind the mask.
Almost.
“Goodnight,” he said. His voice was warm. Too warm.
I paused with my hand on the door. “Tom…”
He waited.
Ask him. Ask him why. Ask him what he really wants.
“Nothing,” I said. “Goodnight.”
I closed the door. Leaned against it. Pressed my fingers to my lips like I could trap the smell of him before it faded.
My heart was pounding. My head was spinning.
And I still didn’t know if the sickness in my stomach was fear or want.
🟌 Tom Riddle being the type to force you to write “Tom Riddle’s Property”
Female reader
WARNINGS: Minor Blood and Body Engraving.
-
You'll write over and over again with a cursed quill - much like Umbridge made Harry do - until the words are deeply engraved into your belly’s soft sensitive skin, the red blood shining on the fresh wound, marking you as permanently his.
He coldly ignores your cries and whimpers of pain, focused on completing a Potions assignment while he makes you write the painful words.
He doesn’t relish from your pain, but it’s an effective method to remind you of your place, which is beneath him. From the moment he laid eyes on you, you no longer belonged to yourself but yes to him.
Tom wishes to erase the concepts of autonomy and independence from your vocabulary, those are silly words for you to be using. He is the one who controls you, dictating your every action and thought, so it’s only fair that the reminder of such power is portrait in your body.
No one will be allowed to see the extent of your nude body, except him but it’s a subtle reminder - to you - that you are indeed his property.
Something that one day will be even more evident when he puts his heir inside you and your stomach will grow, the skin and the words stretching on top of his unborn child - another evidence of his power and ownership over you.
You had spent the rest of the night shivering and reeling in your bed in the Slytherin dorms. Too many questions clouded your mind. Nothing about this situation made sense. You should be dead, but you're not, and somehow Fate decided to throw you back into the past, in the body of your seventh-year self at that. And why, out of all the possible parts in your life, did fate decide to throw you and bring you back to your seventh year?!
But that's beside the point. The point is you were back, and you have been given a second chance to live. Sure as hell, you would make sure in this life you lived the way you wanted. And with that thought, you patiently waited for the sun to rise.
The morning after your newly discovered dilemma was a blur. Getting out of bed, not that you slept at all, was more challenging than necessary, and having the care to make yourself look presentable seemed impossible. After months of being on the run and living in a tent, you couldn't have cared less about your appearance. That being said, you weren't there anymore; no, you were back in 1944 before the war. If you wanted your plan to work, there could be no evidence of your knowledge of the future. You had to act like the 'pureblood wannabe' you used to be in your school years.
It would be exasperating to act like the gullible and obedient fool you used to be; however, a necessary sacrifice of your pride. It was crucial that nobody could find out. Then there was the problem of your physical appearance. The numerous scars you've accumulated over the years would need to be glamoured invisible, especially the scar on your neck and shoulder running up onto the right side of your face, the scar you received from your self-inflicted Killing curse.
The next one to worry about would be the butchered scar etched into your arm, "mudblood." The particular scar would prove difficult to hold a glamor over regularly since the blade used was one cursed with a nasty type of dark magic. It would never heal or fade; the grotesque letters would forever be branded into your arm, the sore and elevated skin around the letters infinitely left to be a reminder of the painful memory.
Despite being back in the body of your seventeen-year-old self, you still held onto the war-ridden features of your future self. Once bright eyes were hollow and haunted, your unblemished body now ridden with scar after scar, and your mind forever remaining as of a tortured soldier.. It would be hard to assimilate back into the girl you used to be.
Nevertheless, you would have to find a more permanent way to hide the scars. It would be hard to explain why a seventh year at Hogwarts had several cursed scars in a highly protected school. In addition, your mannerisms would have to change. No longer could you be '(Y/n) (L/n), Freedom Fighter of The Order of the Phoenix'; you would have to go back to just being (Y/n) (L/n), Tom Riddle's loyal and faithful mudblood. You would have to stop the constant fits of "fight or flight" your body would no doubt put you in, and if things weren't difficult enough, it doesn't help that the entirety of Slytherin is made up of future Deatheaters. Deatheaters you have fought, death eaters that have killed your friends, and, of course, the Deatheater that tortured you for the span of weeks and who gave you your cursed scar. Avoiding them would be difficult and would undoubtedly draw more attention to yourself.
You left the Slytherin dorms only after knowing everyone had already left for breakfast. You didn't think you were quite ready to face the mess that would be walking into a busy Slytherin Common Room; there would be too many familiar faces and, of course, him. However, the painful coils of hunger soon took over your stomach, forcing you to start making your way to the Great Hall.
As you walked, you couldn't help brushing your hand over the unblemished walls of Hogwarts, ones not tarnished by war. Never did you think you'd see these halls' beauty again. Soon, before you knew it, you were in front of the doors to The Great Hall, the loud chorus of laughter and chatter breaching the old wooden doors and the smell of breakfast permeating the air, making you salivate. Merlin, when was the last time you ate? A question you could ponder on later. You raised one hand to push open the doors; your other left gripping your wand.
Immediately, you regretted your decision.
As you anxiously walked to the Slytherin table, you felt the predatory eyes of its inhabitants lock in on your frame. The grip on your wand got tighter, knuckles now turning white. You didn't dare look up to meet the many eyes you knew were on your form. Walburga must have informed the rest of the seventh years of your midnight 'episode.' Surely, that wouldn't be of any interest to Voldemort; it shouldn't be.
He hadn't paid you any attention since fifth year - not that you were complaining - so you were confident to say that your little episode shouldn't have roused his interest. That was until you felt the all too familiar heavy gaze you have grown to fear over the years. The eerie chill that went up your spine shortly after made you shudder violently, something the Dark Lord did not leave unnoticed. With a deep sigh, you took a seat, one as far away as possible from the head of the table where the Dark Lord and his Deatheaters sat. Unfortunately, due to the other years taking up the end and middle of the table, you found yourself closer to the very people you wanted to avoid.
Well, it couldn't be helped.
Quickly you grabbed whatever you could before stuffing it in your mouth. You tried to limit your pace and maintain etiquette, but after months of starving, you couldn't help yourself. The food was gone from your plate faster than you could comprehend, and you had to stop yourself from reaching out for another portion. Not only would it seem unbecoming to the rest of your house, but you doubt your stomach could handle any more food after the time your stomach spent constantly empty. The stares were getting worse. Grabbing your goblet filled with water, you drank slowly to ensure your breakfast wouldn't come back up. That would be most unfortunate, not to mention embarrassing.
Without sparing anyone else a glance, you darted up and rushed out of the Great Hall. Hopefully, everyone would simply categorize your skittish behavior as a byproduct of the "startling episode" you had last night. Mentally crossing your fingers, you made your way to Slughorn's Office. You desperately needed to re-learn your schedule since it's been almost six years since you've walked the halls of Hogwarts as a student. Slughorn being the Head of Slytherin meant the information you needed would be with him. The only matter now is coming up with an excuse for why you've forgotten your schedule mid-semester. It's a good thing old Sluggy has always been quite credulous.
____________________________
"Your schedule? By Morgana, it's the middle of the semester! Pray tell, however did you forget your schedule this late into the semester Ms. (L/n)?" Professor Slughorn inquired animatedly.
"Well, Professor, it was actually quite silly. I was trying to practice a memory charm, but embarrassingly enough, it backfired onto me. Thankfully it's only temporary, so I should regain my memory within the next day or so; I simply wanted to ensure I was prepared for the school day today and would be able to make my classes." You said, feigning embarrassment whilst adding the extra show of looking down in shame.
Hopefully, Sluggy would buy the 'embarrassed student act', which, much to your delight, he did.
Slughorn let out an amused laugh.
"No need to fret Ms. (L/n). Even the most established wizards and witches have faced hiccups when dealing with magic in their youth, but it takes an even more exceptional wizard to learn from their shortcomings. I'd advise you, Ms. (L/n), to take this experience as a lesson and to grow further from here. Actually, I'm sure if you asked Mr. Riddle, he'd be more than happy to help you! He's mastered almost any charm I can think of, yes!" Slughorn responded with excitement.
You cringed internally.
And there it was-the ulterior motive behind Slughorn's kind words. Slughorn thought Tom Riddle and you were close; in his mind, he thought you to be his future bride. It wasn't too wrong of an assumption. At one point in your youth, you also believed Tom Riddle to be your future husband. Plus, considering that you were the only girl Tom had ever been close to (that being said, only till your fifth year), it wasn't hard to assume the possible relationship between you two. Even so, Slughorn was still a bumbling, blind fool. You knew he was only kind to you because he thought you would be the 'Great Tom Riddle's' bride as if that was a great title to hold.
You gave him a strained smile, not that he noticed.
"Yes, of course. I'll be sure to ask Riddle if he has any time later to help me with charms. Thank you for your kind words and advice, Professor." You thanked him without any real admiration.
He replied with a jolly "anytime!" before he accioed a copy of your schedule and handed it to you. Finally, you had what you needed. After a quick goodbye to Slughorn, you left his office and started making your way to your first class whilst examining your schedule.
ℌ𝔢𝔯𝔟𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔶
𝔇𝔦𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫
ℭ𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔐𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔩 ℭ𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢𝔰
𝔇𝔢𝔣𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔄𝔤𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔄𝔯𝔱𝔰
𝔗𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔣𝔦𝔤𝔲𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫
𝔓𝔬𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰
ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔰
'Yup, seems familiar enough.'
You took your time, enjoying the Hogwarts of your youth, before you made your way to the greenhouse for Herbology. As you neared your destination, you couldn't help but dread attending the class. Tom, no, Voldemort would be here along with his merry gang of Deatheaters, and you would be expected to interact with them. You would have no choice; they would expect you to act like your younger self, meaning you would have to include yourself in whatever activities they were doing. You would have to cling onto their group as you used to in the past to avoid suspicion.
You sighed.
Even if you wanted to distance yourself-because, truly, you wanted nothing to do with them-you would have to do it slowly and carefully to deflect suspicion. You sighed again; it was way too early for this. With a heavy hand, you opened the doors to the Greenhouse and made your way to where the rest of your house congregated. You felt the burning stares pinpoint onto you as you walked further into the greenhouse, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes in an undignified manner. What a bunch of tossers; did they really have nothing better to do?
Slowly, you could feel your fear start to melt away. It was a bit laughable how afraid you were at first. Sure, young Voldemort's intelligence and cunning were nothing to underestimate, and you would undoubtedly have to watch yourself in his presence, however, this Voldemort was nothing compared to the Voldemort of the future. You could do this; Fate knows you've dealt with worse.
You claimed your place next to Antonin Dolohov, future Deatheater, and readied yourself for the boring lesson you knew was incoming. He glanced over at you, eyes squinting into a sharp glare. Rolling your eyes again, you ignored his presence and let your eyes aimlessly wander around the classroom. Green and red were separated, each at opposite ends of the greenhouse, little inter-mingling present. Again you found yourself becoming annoyed at the blatant display of house rivalry, although the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor was more complex than just petty inter-house squabbling. This opposition against each other's house dates all the way back to Salzar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor; Slytherins with their prejudice and unrelenting pride, and Gryfindors with their obnoxious ideals of good versus evil, black versus white, and their superficial understanding of 'what makes a person evil?'.
If any progress were to be made between students, both sides would have to forget their prejudices. Basically, meaning nothing will ever change; Slytherins will forever cling to their pure-blood propaganda, and Gryfindors will never give up their desperation to be the "heroes the world needs." Anyways, enough of your monologuing. You sighed as you continued to lazily trail your eyes over the Gryfindors across the room; many familiar faces were present, both dead and from the order. However, there was one specific person you were looking for: Flemont Charlus Potter. Or, as you knew him, Monty. The one true friend you had when you joined The Order. He was the only person in The Order that treated you as something more than an 'evil and conceited Slytherin" in your initial years after joining. However, you couldn't blame the others for their reactions. At that point, many had already lost their loved ones to Voldemort and his goons so you could understand the mistrust.
But not Monty, never him. He was everything to you. He was family, your 'brother,' a title he dubbed himself (not that you minded). You two loved each other. That very much was clear to anyone who watched you both interact. Dear Merlin, how you missed him. At this point in time, he would be a seventh year with you, sharing most of your classes, always crossing paths but never interacting. It pained you to think about how you were not friends (not yet anyways) or had yet to share his laughter. You could see it, him being at an arm's length away but always out of your reach.
Oh, how you wanted to reach out to him, tell him everything like how you did before, to confide in him, and to feel his comforting embrace. And if you did, you knew he would open his arms up to you as he did before; it was just his character to care and to be kind. You wouldn't; however, you wouldn't jeopardize his safety like that, especially so early on in the timeline too. If Voldemort even heard whispers about your sudden friendship with a Gryffindor from a rather prominent light family, he would make it his top priority to slaughter Monty and his family. If that happened, you wouldn't be able to live with yourself. So you won't seek him out. But just being able to see him, to hear his voice, will be enough; it has to be.
Eventually, your eyes landed on the boy you were looking for and Merlin, how you wanted to cry. There he was, Fleamont Charulus Potter, Monty, your brother. You could feel the sting of tears building up behind your eyes, a weakness on blatant display for everyone to behold, so you shoved the emotions welling into a pit in your mind. You shouldn't pay him any attention; it would put him further in danger. But before you could tear your eyes away from him, his honey-brown gaze flickered up toward you. His gaze moved over your figure, subtly analyzing it, recognition filtering across his face. His gaze softened before flashing you a bright smile, teeth on full display. You froze, breath hitching.
'No, no, it couldn't be.'
One of his teeth, his top tooth, was chipped. Albit it was barely noticeable; it was wrong. Flemont never had a chipped tooth seventh year. His teeth were in perfect condition until- until he chipped his top tooth in an accident involving a hippogriff. But that doesn't happen until three years after you both graduated from Hogwarts. Which means-
'That is not the Fleamont Potter of this timeline.'
It was your first year at Hogwarts and you were quite excited to learn everything there was about magic and make friends. You were on the Hogwarts Express and you tried to find an empty compartment when you finally stumbled upon a compartment with a guy who looked a few years older than you and had raven black curls on his pale skin as he lazily flipped through the pages of one of his books in his hands. You opened the door and you entered the compartment as you asked him whether you could sit inside with him. His eyes met yours and his gaze surveyed your features with a calculating sharp look. He had a look of slight annoyance in his eyes but beckoned for you to sit without saying a word. You smiled and thanked him and sat opposite towards him and when you pulled your 'A History of Hogwarts' book out, his lips curved into a cheshire like grin. "I'm guessing you're a first year?" he asked you. "Well yes, I'm reading more about Hogwarts so I can learn more about it and it's actually quite fun'' you said with a smile. For a while only the sound of the train on the tracks was heard along with the chatter of the other students from the other compartments and there was a peaceful silence between the two of you
"I didn't get your name'' you said and looked at the guy in front of you. "Tom Marvolo Riddle, 3rd year'' he replied with a smirk as you shook his hand and introduced yourself. He liked how soft your hand felt in his, you looked so...innocent and docile and so gullible with that silly yet slightly endearing grin etched across your face. He couldn't wait to have more of you. The two of you were talking with each other when the compartment door slid open as a few Ravenclaw students entered and they stared at you. "You're new eh? Well if you ever need anything lemme know, I'll be more than willing to be your...guide'' said one of them as he licked his lips and his eyes travelled down your body hungrily which you were unaware of. It didn't go unnoticed by Tom though as he had a fake smile plastered across his face and asked him to step out of the compartment for a few moments with him. As the both of them stepped out, he immediately grabbed him by the tie and glared at him. "If I ever see your filthy gaze on Y/N again, by Merlin I will torture you till you fall at my feet and BEG me for death as I gouge your bloody eyes out...now get lost'' he snarled as the guy in front of him whimpered in fright. "Bloody pathetic...I'll kill you in your sleep at some point'' said Tom and smirked at the guy while the guy hobbled away in fright. Tom wasn't going to let anyone take you from him, you were his little prey, a little lamb meant to be devoured by him
He returned back to the compartment and you kept talking to him while he listened and absorbed every word you said. The train finally reached the station as you and the other First Year students headed into the Great Hall ready to be sorted. You spotted Tom sitting with the rest of his other friends at the Slytherin table and you could feel his eyes on you. You were nervous and started fidgeting with the hem of your robes, anxiously waiting for your name to be called to be sorted as Tom took pleasure in watching you squirm from afar. He thought you looked rather amusing and slightly endearing, his desire to make you squirm for him even more grew as he kept watching you. Your name was finally called upon and you sat down on the stool as the hat was placed on your head and after a few moments of deliberation from the hat, you got sorted into the Hufflepuff house as you smiled and joined your house. Tom's fists clenched as his knuckles as he watched you join those insignificant pests when you were supposed to get sorted into Slytherin so you could be by his side
'No matter...they're still mine' thought Tom to himself as he watched you laugh and giggle with the other people around you. He felt himself growing irritated at himself, he was angry at himself for allowing his mind to be plagued with thoughts of you, he hated the way you laughed with other people, he felt his anger and rage boiling inside him. After the dinner was over, you met with Tom and when you told him that even though the two of you were in different houses, you still wanted to be friends with him as his lips curved into a smirk. How naive and adorable you were, while the others shivered in their shoes since he instilled fear into them, there was you who actually wanted to be close to him. You failed to realize he was a wolf in sheep's clothing with a mask, hiding his unnatural feelings of obsession for you with his dark twisted desires
He was calculating when he started isolating you from the others. He threatened, blackmailed and tortured people whoever dared to come too close to you. Every time you'd meet him in the Room of Requirement wondering why people didn't want to be close to you and how you'd start sniffing pathetically, he'd coo at you in a patronizing condescending manner secretly glad that you're leaning on him and relying on him for support. He loved the way your tears fell down your cheeks, those beautiful lashes of yours tinged with your tears as your eyes are bleary and puffy, it gave him sadistic pleasure to see you cry. The other day someone invited you to a day out with them at Hogsmeade and you told Tom about it as his eyes narrowed at you and curtly told you he had a problem he had to take care of. He tracked down the git who tried to take you from him and immediately used the Avada Kedavra on him as a beam of green light erupted from his wand. He stared down at the lifeless body in front of him with contempt as he put his wand back into his robes and went back to join you
By the time you realized Tom was the one behind all those deaths and all those people getting hurt, it was too late. He'd spun a web of lies, trapping you like a helpless little butterfly in his web of deceit and manipulation. You tried to tell professor Dumbledore about his behavior after the Transfiguration class. "Professor...Professor, please, I need to have a word with you'' you pleaded as you tried to catch up with him while you walked on the steps. Someone ended up tipping Tom off that you were about to talk to professor Dumbledore as he rushed to find you. "Y/N!" yelled Tom as he strode over to you, his every step filling you with dread. "I apologize for my sudden intrusion professor, Y/N here had a question about today's lesson...I assure you I shall clear Y/N's questions'' said Tom with his usual charming smile that could fool anyone but not you since you've finally seen him for who he actually was
Professor Dumbledore bade you both goodnight and left as you wanted to cry out for him to look back and save you from the clutches of his toxic manipulative grasp but all you could do was just keep your mouth shut when Tom sent a withering glowering glare towards you. He dragged you by your wrist into a nearby classroom and pinned you against the wall. "LET ME GO! WHAT ARE YOU-" you screamed as his hand covered your mouth, muffling your cries and screams for help as tears pricked your eyes. "There are consequences when you go behind my back...you are MINE, you're MY property and I have no qualms of getting more blood on my hands to make you stay with me...I love you after all'' he whispered as he had his signature wolf like grin on his face. You tried to squirm in his grasp and he chuckled as he felt your hands weakly pushing against him, how cute, you really thought you could fight back against him. "Be a good little pet for me and stop your whining unless you don't want your family and friends to see the light of day again...'' he whispered as he leaned close to you and enjoyed the way you kept whimpering and sobbing in his arms. His thumb gently caressed your cheek as his dark obsession for you was fueled even more when he saw how soft and pliant and vulnerable you were before him. A few seconds later you started losing consciousness and he held you by the waist. You were now his, bound forever to him and he'd ensure no one would ever be able to save you from him...
warnings: smut, explicit content, swearing, dirty talk, spellbound reader, p and v sex. dub con, noncon
Your hands shake as Tom leans over you on his study table as you sign your name on the parchment. Signing your life into the hands of the devil whispering into your ear. You vaguely recall that you should be running but you can't remember why as his lips trail across your neck. “That’s it my pretty wife.” Your focus becomes fuzzy as you feel his large palm trailing up your neck turning to face him. He pressed his lips softly against yours, your mouth finding a hunger to savor the taste his lips as both fall backward toward the bed. What were you running from again? Why..? Instinct takes over as you pin your devil to the bed, reason having no place the more your kisses entwine. Grinding against him filthy kissing along his neck biting and sucking as he moans. The beautiful sound making you feral as your inner beast growling wanting more. More of his skin, his voice, more of the passion in his eyes. This wasn't normal your mind reasoned but the grip on the base of your hair had all thoughts stopping. "Don't be greedy sweetheart. I’m the one in charge here.” He warns before nipping your neck and you release a wanton moan as your clothes are removed. Want and need take over in the bed as he lays his hands over you. "My little slutty muggle. I thought you knew more patience then that." "And here I thought you were a man that took action." you quip back but he lean up gripping your neck jaw ticking. "“Don’t get it twisted darling. I’m the one in charge here. You'll take what I give you." Your tossed on your back, feeling the silk sheets move on their own wrapping around your wrists holding you in place as Tom kisses your chest as his fingers trail downward. "Look at me.” He keeps his eyes on you as he delves his fingers in between your legs, slowly driving you to madness as he continued his torment. "All it takes is a little touching here of this needy clit and your whimpering?” "Please! I want to touch you!" You beg delirious with the pleasure. "Didn't I tell you my dirty muggle? You take what I give you. You wouldn't disobey your lord would you?" You shake your head as he curled his fingers that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head. You would plead and cry when he slowed and stopped and began the sweet torture adding his skilled mouth into the mix until you had reached your climax numerous times and a mess on the bed. The bindings release from your wrists, a momentary reprieve your given before your flipped onto your stomach and a hand pinned to your back. Breath hitching as he drags the head of his cock in between your lips, teasing your clit and back to your slit before he slides in filling you as you gasp in surprise. Carnal cries echo loudly in the room as he pumps his hips into that the and rolling them to hit your walls driving you insanity. “A filthy muggle. All I want is to see fucked out on my bed like this like a good whore. Ugh clench me like that yes! Fucking take me! Fuck! Your gripping me so tight. Oh I picked you well. I knew you were a dark horse the moment I laid eyes on you. Give me more. Give me everything.” Your body caves under his fingers as your body is quickly reaching another organism. “You’re going to be so pretty with my heir. Your cunt is clenching me as you want it. Go on love. Cum" Your body shakes and you don't recognize your voice as your scream in pleasure as Tom follows right behind you groaning as he cums. Your both panting with the exhaustion as he pets your hair and you can't help but feel as is you've forgotten something else important...but you can't find the energy to care as your embraced in Tom's arms.
