#first wizarding war

[laced-in-ruin]

Barty, who is a mama's boy in the sense that is mother is the only relative in his life who he feels safe with.

Evan, who is a mama's boy in the sense that no matter how insanely his mother treats him he will never leave her because she can't help it and that's his mama.

Both are so sickening by the way.

[cuntrygirlcallista]

sweetest sin

mattheo riddle x fem!reader

Mattheo Riddle was a nuisance.

That was the easiest way to put it. He was the kind of boy your mom would warn you about—cocky, arrogant, always with a smirk playing at his lips like he knew something you didn't. And maybe he did. Anytime you found yourself in his presence he was sure to make some smart comment.

So when he dropped into the seat across from you in the library, you didn't bother hiding your sigh.

"Riddle" you muttered not looking away from the compact mirror in your hand.

He slouched in his chair, like he belonged there. Elbows sprawling across the table. "Your lips must be quite dry." he says plainly. You don't respond and keep your focus on your lips in the compact mirror. "You've reapplied that lipgloss three times since dinner."

That made you look up. He was staring, gaze fixed on your mouth like he was hypnotized. You raised a brow twisting the little cherry tube closed and setting it down. "Maybe I like shiny lips" you said, keeping your tone cool.

Mattheo didn't say anything, only leaned back in his chair more like he had all the time in the world.

He stayed for a while, throwing in barbed comments here and there, circling back to your lipgloss a few times. And when you left he was still slouched at the table watching you walk away.

The problem was, once he noticed he couldn't un-notice.

In class he'd see you take out the little tube, and his thoughts would skid to places they shouldn't. Glossy lips shining under the candlelight, parted around a laugh or a sigh. He wondered if the flavor would coat his tongue if he kissed you, if it would smear across your jaw if he pushed too far, if he'd taste sugar when he bit down.

It was maddening— half curiosity, half something deeper that he didn't care to name.

The second time he teased you about it you just ignored him The third time, you snapped back irritated by whatever his newfound obsession with your lipgloss was. That shut him up for a full minute. But later he saw you twisting that cap shut again, pressing your lips together, and he thought fuck, I need to taste that.

By the time a few days had passed, he was restless with it.

He spotted you in the library again, leaned over your parchment the faint scent of cherry in the air when you pressed the lipgloss over your lips once more.

"You're going to drive me insane with that" he blurted before he could stop himself.

You looked up, startled. Expecting a smirk to be playing at his lips, only to be met with a more serious look. His voice low, and eyes darker that usual. It made your pulse jump a little.

"It's lipgloss" you said carefully leaning back "You're being insufferably dramatic."

"Dramatic?" He leaned forward, no humor in his grin. "Every time you put that on, all I can think of is how it would taste on my tongue. How it would smear when I kiss you. How it'd feel when you—" He cut himself off, jaw tight.

You blinked, more than a little confused "Mattheo"

He ran a hand through his curls in frustration, like he hadn't meant to say any of that. Then he stood, rounded the table, and before you could decided whether you wanted to push him away or pull him closer, his hand braced either side of your chair, face just inches from yours.

"This is your fault y'know" he muttered shaking his head. "I swear you know what you're doing."

For a moment you thought he'd back away, leave you confused. But then he closed the distance.

The kiss was rough, messy, a crash of pent-up want. He groaned against your mouth when the flavor of your lipgloss hit him. Hands curling into your chair, you tugged at the front of his shirt without thinking. The gloss smeared instantly, sticky and sweet, but he didn't care—it made him rougher, hungrier.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, gloss smeared across his mouth. His grin was wicked, ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat.

"Cherry" he spoke, dropping back into his chair like nothing had happened. Tugging his tie loose, while you were sat trying to catch your breath.

And then—with infuriating arrogance, he smirked. "Go ahead and reapply sweetheart. I'm not finished yet."

[cornishpadfoot]

Remus: (laughing) That's not funny, Sirius.

[ev-rosieposie]

Oh fuck me I hate it here.

[changetheprophecy81]

Voldemort: so tell me about yourself

Snape: my father never loved me-

Voldemort : you're hired

[peckedpolaris]

sirius, running away after peter faked his death, to regulus: you have to help me

regulus: wait wait, let me get this straight. you want me to reveal i'm alive to everyone---even though you were the one who told me to stay dead

sirius: yes

regulus: you want me to openly oppose both dumbledore and the ministry while also making clear that im NOT sympathizing with death eaters

sirius: yup

regulus: you want me to not only oppose but openly go against, prove im not a death eater, ensure you get a trial, ensure we both don't land in azkaban---but try to leave out that remus lupin is a werewolf and you are an animagus

sirius: yeah

regulus: and then figure out the how and what of peter pettigrew's plan, expose it, find him, locate him, capture him, and turn him in

sirius: well id rather find wormtail first but yeah

regulus: and then you want me to help you kidnap the potter child

sirius: wow you got all of it

regulus:

sirius:

regulus: and all preferably within the next few months

sirius: yes :)

regulus:

regulus: ugh fine, but let me change into sexier robes; cant get shit done if i dont look good

sirius: ooh can i do my hair before we make a game plan

regulus: sure

[govnder]

tom riddle x death eater!reader.

cw: set in 1981 during christmas, inaccurate portrayal of the first wizarding war (tom is not physically voldemort), grief, depression.

1981. your first christmas after the end of the first wizarding war. the dark mark burned on your skin like a living worm, and you felt lost. your body felt like a black hole, swallowing and devouring every scrap of light that tried to approach. depression hollowed your bones, leaving your blood so cold you felt as though hypothermia would claim your soul at any moment.

your old friends had vanished into thin air, victims of the darkest magic any wizard had ever wielded. the death eaters had taken absolute, unrestricted power, and even though you stood on the winning side of the war, you felt irreparably defeated. what was the point of walking around with victory branded on your arm if your best friends—former members of the order of the phoenix—were all dead? what was the purpose of christmas if not to spend it beside the ones you loved?

the only one left was tom.

the scent of masculinity and fresh books wrapped around you as riddle’s tall figure settled beside you on the weathered wooden bench, tucked away in a forgotten corner by the edge of the black lake. it was a private place, rarely visited due to the difficult access made worse by the untrimmed, neglected grass. you loved it. it was calm and offered an incredible view of hogwarts and the mountains that isolated it—it was yours. the old bench creaked as tom’s weight settled beside yours. he was the only one you had left, and the reason the war had existed at all. leader of the death eaters, tom had proven himself cruel and merciless, kidnapping and torturing—physically and psychologically—anyone who dared oppose his ideology, and carrying out a “cleansing” of the world, as he coldly called it.

despite all of that, he still seemed to like you, for some reason you couldn't understand.

and you liked him too.

“i’ll admit,” he said without greetings, the british accent precise and clear on his tongue, “the last place i expected to find you on christmas was here.” he paused. “shouldn’t you be in hogsmeade, buying presents?” the question came out... surprisingly gentle.

you didn’t look at him, your feet—hidden inside black boots—swinging anxiously, betraying your unease. “i don’t have anyone to buy for,” you replied quietly.

from the corner of your eye, you saw one dark eyebrow lift. his gray eyes swept over you, taking in your warm clothes that hid the spectacular mark on your arm—unfortunately, he thought—and your elegant scarf. you looked beautiful with your reddened nose and cheeks.

he did not tell you so.

“well,” he began again, “i did.”

one pale, veined hand slipped into his large ebony wool coat, pulling out a small, elegant black velvet box. awkwardly—almost as if he were embarrassed by the gesture and was hesitant—he extended it towards you. “for you.”

you eyed his skeletal fingers warily before taking it, as though a cockroach might leap out at any second and kill you. you never knew what to expect from tom. “for me?”

“yes,” he replied simply.

your fingers brushed against his as you accepted the gift. inside, a silver arm cuff bracelet gleamed against the cloudy winter day, a snake adorning its center. it was beautiful. refined. “i know you’ve been... unwell, lately,” he said. “not that it particularly concerns me. this is just a christmas present mixed with a simple and insignificant gratitude for your contributions during the war." he added coolly. "you may also think of it as my futile and superfluous attempt to pull even the smallest smile from you.”

he succeeded.

a small, fragile but sincere smile spread across your depressed features, cutting the heaviness that has been there for months. you didn’t mind him saying he didn’t care about your feelings—the gesture was enough for you to know that, in his black heart, there might be some gray corner that stood out in that darkness and sheltered you. for a fraction of a second, your blood seemed to warm at tom’s gesture.

finally, your eyes met his. tom’s blue eyes stared back at you without wavering, clearly waiting for you to say something. it was almost as if he were… anxious. you couldn’t recall ever hearing of or seeing anyone receive a gift from tom, and by his slightly restless posture—something your sharp eyes would never miss—you knew your theory was right.

“thank you,” you said, your voice hoarse from disuse. “it’s beautiful. truly.”

tom acknowledged your gratitude with a simple nod, finally looking away, his icy gaze settling on the black lake, now frozen solid. you followed his gaze, watching the snow fall softly in a quiet veil, the bracelet warm in your hand.

he broke the silence, as cold as the weather.

“you know,” he began, “you did the right decision. leaving your friends, i mean.” his voice was composed, any trace of earlier embarrassment gone. “they were on the wrong side of the history. they did wrong choices. you did not." his voice was "you were always on the right side of the conflict. and i imagine this must be difficult for you, but their end was the natural consequence of their recklessness.” he looked at you. “you’ll survive this.”

his attempt at comfort fell short. you didn’t agree with his words, but for now, the idea that he had at least tried to help was somewhat comforting—even if not enough. tom didn’t do feelings. sometimes you even thought he didn’t have any; so the fact that he took what must have been a shot in the dark and tried to comfort you in the middle of a hurricane of grief and sadness was, ironically, sweet by tom riddle’s standards.

“thank you, tom,” you replied softly, offering another wan smile.

another nod.

as the two of you stared at the frozen lake, watching the thin crust of snow slowly form over the water and hide any trace of mystical fishes, tom’s presence was welcome. it wouldn’t be fair to say he treated you the way he treated others. for some reason, there was a less cruel version of him that only you could see—and you were grateful for it.

amid the sorrow of loss, the victory of a war, and a christmas devoid of colorful lights, gingerbreads and music, you whispered, “merry christmas, tom.”

it felt like an absurd joke. you had lost everything—family, friends, colleagues, acquaintances. there was nothing happy about a day that had once been magical.

still, unable to recognize happiness—because it was not a language tom riddle spoke—he replied quietly, “merry christmas, doll.”

[a-small-lemon]

**At a Death Eater meeting**

Bellatrix: Is there a reason you don’t take anything seriously?

Barty: Jokes are a classic defence mechanism for someone with a traumatic childhood

Bellatrix: Would you like a traumatic adulthood?

Barty: I would not