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It Begins With Silence

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Soft!Reader

Summary: A series of interactions. Subtle realizations. Unacknowledged feelings. Your existence to Draco Malfoy was inconsequential, at first. Yet wonders never cease when he decides to acknowledge you.

You were the silent type.

He's never talked to you before but he knew of your existence. Like a ghost that lingered at the walls, ever present yet elusive. He knew you from your claimed seat in the Slytherin common room, right by the fireplace. Close enough to his friends' lounging spot yet far enough to be unnoticed.

He knew you were always there with a book in your hand and a stoic expression on your face. He knew that younger Slytherins would sometimes come up to you and ask for help. He knew you from when you would pass his friends when you grab or return a book to the bookshelves.

Other than that, you were just there. Irrelevant. Like a buzz in the air you eventually grew accustomed to. That was your existence: nonconsequential to his life in Hogwarts.

Draco Malfoy didn't give a knut about you until you were partnered up in Potions. After Theo Nott had bolted away from him the moment he heard his partner, he felt the quiet shift of your presence settle beside him on the table. You gave him a small nod as you sat which he deemed not to reciprocate. Chin rested in one hand, he glanced at you once–upright posture, folded hands, neutral expression–then brought his attention back to the board.

#draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy #hp fandom #hp fanfic #draco malfoy x soft!reader #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy fic #hp fluff #draco malfoy fluff #draco malfoy x reader fluff #soft!reader #hogwarts era

"Rem, go the fuck to sleep"

-A tired and grumpy sirius, in the middle of the night, who wakes up, looks across the dorm room, and sees Remus Lupin hunched over a book beside candle light, unable to put it down because "it's the best part"

#marauders incorrect quotes #incorrect marauders quotes #marauders #wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #hogwarts era

Sirius Black, upon mastering his Animagus transformation, did not think of Remus Lupin, nor of James Potter. No, the very first thought that raced through his reckless, scheming mind was, naturally, "Severus Bloody Snape."

It started innocently enough. Sirius, in his massive black dog form, began shadowing Severus Snape during his usual reclusive wanderings, whether foraging for potion ingredients or seeking the solitude of the Forbidden Forest's edges.

Severus, always wary of people, found himself surprisingly unguarded around the towering black dog that trailed him. The creature neither barked nor growled, merely observing with those sharp, intelligent eyes. Severus would glance at him briefly, then allow the dog its space, tolerating its silent company.

Each day, the dog inched closer.

From sitting at a cautious distance, to lounging a few feet away, to daring to settle right beside him. Soon, it was nosing at his satchel or pressing its head against his arm.

Perhaps it was pity or merely an acknowledgement of the peculiar stray that led Severus to begin packing extra food on these outings. Nothing extravagant; a crust of bread, perhaps a chicken drum, discreetly wrapped and tucked away.

But Sirius, ever Sirius even in his canine guise, was infamously particular.

One iconic afternoon, Severus offered him a meagre scrap, something hardly worthy of a meal. The black dog sniffed it, sat back with a disdainful huff, and fixed Severus with a deadpan stare of pure judgment.

Severus, caught between disbelief and exhaustion, sighed heavily. Begrudgingly, he tore a soft piece of bread or selected the best portion of meat, offering it up with an air of grim resignation.

The dog accepted it with grace, tail flicking once in clear approval, as if satisfied with the service.

But nothing compared to the afternoon that would forever haunt Severus' pride.

It was cool and quiet, the grass soft underfoot. Severus, drained and weary, sat down beneath the shade of a tree, intending only to rest his eyes.

The dog approached slowly, as he always did now. No longer a stranger, but an expected companion.

Without ceremony, it eased itself beside him, then boldly pressed its thick, warm body against Severus' side. Its head, large and plush, nudged against his lap until it settled there, heavy and comfortably warm.

Severus' brow twitched. He could easily have pushed it away.

But he didn't.

Too tired to care, too comfortable to bother, he let the dog stay.

And before long, he drifted into sleep, his fingers curled unconsciously into the dog's thick fur, using it as both pillow and blanket.

Meanwhile, Sirius—still very much awake—lay smugly beneath him.

His eyes glinted with quiet triumph.

He hadn't just gained Severus' trust.

He had become his favourite pillow.

And Severus had no idea.

#snirius #severus snape #sirius black #starprince #sirius black x severus snape #hogwarts era #animagus #marauders #marauders era #pre mutt era diaries #he fed the dog the dog fed the delusion #this dog has an exit plan and it’s smug #when your worst enemy is also your best pillow #sirius black’s new life goal: lap privileges #fanned and flawless

As Above, So Below - M.R

Masterlist | Nav

⚠︎ all characters 18+ | MDNI ⚠︎

summary: It was supposed to be simple—just sex, no strings, no expectations. Mattheo didn’t do attachments, and you weren’t looking to fix him. But the lines are starting to blur, and neither of you are willing to admit it.

wordcount: 4.2k

warnings: fem!reader, smidge of alcohol use, suggestive content, slight emotional manipulation, toxic fwb relationship, slowburn angst.

If you haven't already, you can find part one here

a/n: Thank you for all the love on part one! I've toyed with this for a few days and decided to make it a three-part series. The final chapter will be up soon <3

As always, all likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ✯

“Nott!” You grinned, arms spreading wide in mock surprise as he approached. “Do my eyes deceive me, or are you actually gracing us with your presence for once?”

#mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle fanfic #hogwarts era #my writing #draco x pansy #lorenzo berkshire #theodore nott #slytherin boys #blaise zabini #pansy parkinson

Her Heartbeat is a Prayer That Belongs To Me

(Part 3 in the “Her Heartbeat is a Prayer” series).

💌Tom Riddle x Reader 💭MDNI. Explicit smut. Canon-accurate Tom Riddle. Manipulation, gaslighting, possessiveness. Dub con themes. Horcrux soul‑bond. Power imbalance. Obsessive behavior. Spanking. Light choking. Dark romance / psychological horror elements (a lot of gaslighting and emotional manipulation)

A/N: I poured my heart and soul into this, and I'm really proud of how it came out. NOT proofread im like laying in bed posting this on my phone.

—

You hadn’t meant to make him angry.

You never meant to make him angry.

But you’d been avoiding him. Dodging his eyes across the Great Hall, sitting in study alcoves you knew he never passed, ducking out of corridors when you caught a glimpse of his unmistakable silhouette. You’d even started skipping Slughorn’s advanced seminars, knowing he’d be there. Watching you.

You couldn’t face him—you didn’t know how to. Not after that night, where you’d woken up and realized what Tom had done to you, what he had put inside of the very fibers of your being.

So you avoided him like the plague.

He hated it.

So when he caught your wrist today—cold fingers curling around delicate skin—you knew you’d pushed too far.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” Tom said softly, dangerously. His tone was that terrifying calm he only used when something was about to snap.

You tried to wrench your wrist away, heart lurching, but he only gripped tighter. His touch was never bruising—but it was final. Like you’d already lost.

“I told you,” you snapped, summoning some feigned boldness, “I don’t want anything to do with you anymore.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “We never agreed to anything.”

The Room of Requirement’s door appeared before you even noticed he’d dragged you half a hallway down. He opened it without looking. The inside flickered to life.

Velvet drapes. Candlelight. A roaring fire. Shadows moving like dancers across the walls.

Your heart dropped.

The door sealed shut behind you.

The door disapeared behind you with a slow, deliberate click. Final. There would be no one else coming in—or out—unless he willed it. The Room of Requirement bowed to him, much like everything else.

The air inside was warm, cloying, scented faintly of sandalwood and smoke. Curtains drawn over arched windows shimmered with candlelight. An armchair by the fire, a velvet-lined chaise, shelves of old, worn books lining the walls. The kind of place meant for secrets.

You swallowed hard. “You can’t keep doing this—”

“I can,” Tom interrupted smoothly. “And I will.”

He let go of your wrist at last, and you stumbled back a step, the heat of his touch lingering like a brand. You thought—hoped—he might turn away, give you space to breathe, but instead?

He only stepped closer.

Tom Riddle had always been beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. High cheekbones. Dark curls. Sharp jaw and sharper eyes—eyes that burned too cold to be made of fire, and yet they scorched.

“You’ve been cruel to me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, as if he were confiding something vulnerable. “Avoiding me. Pretending I don’t exist. Was that meant to wound me?”

“I wasn’t—” you faltered. “I needed space.”

“From me?” He sounded insulted. His expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze twisted. “You didn’t used to need space. You used to beg for more time.”

You hated that he wasn’t wrong.

The silence stretched. He tilted his head, watching you carefully—as if searching for something.

And then, suddenly: “Did I do something to deserve this?” His tone softened into something deceptively kind, the audacity to sound hurt. “You looked at me like I was a monster. You ran from me.”

You turned away. That was the problem. You had seen him for what he was. Behind the charm. Behind the perfect Head Boy exterior. Behind the smirk and eloquence and academic brilliance.

And what he had done to you.

Tom had made you a Horcrux.

Slipped a powerful sleeping draught into your pumpkin juice and violated your very soul and being.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the crackling fire.

Tom didn’t move. “That’s unfortunate. I’ve been… aching to talk to you.”

Your heart kicked up again. You could feel it, now—the way the room changed with his mood. The shadows growing longer, the flames flickering higher. There was no running here. No escape.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate.

“I missed you, you know.”

You closed your eyes.

“I missed the sound of your voice,” he murmured. “Your laugh. Your thoughts. I missed the way your hands used to tremble when I got too close.”

He was too close now.

“Did you think you could run from me forever?”

“I tried,” you whispered, chest tight.

“And look where it brought you,” Tom breathed, his hand reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Right back to me.”

You flinched, but he didn’t stop. His knuckles brushed your cheek, almost reverent.

“I would never hurt you,” he said. “Not unless you made me.”

That’s what scared you. Not the threat in his voice—but the tenderness.

Because part of you missed him too.

Even though you knew better.

Even though you shouldn’t.

Even though you swore you wouldn’t come back.

But you had. And you were alone. And the Room of Requirement had given him everything he wanted.

Including you.

You made for the door.

Stupid. You knew it was pointless—but you had to try. You couldn’t just stand there and let the Room swallow you whole. Let him do this again.

But the door wouldn’t open.

Of course it wouldn’t. The handle didn’t even budge. Like it had melted into the wall. Like it had never existed at all.

Tom’s voice was calm. “You’re not leaving.”

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, fast breaths. “Tom—”

“You don’t get to run.” His footsteps echoed behind you. Slow, steady. “Not anymore.”

You turned, heart hammering. “You can’t keep me here.”

One brow arched, maddeningly slow. “You think I can’t?”

He looked insulted by the very idea. As if your resistance was not only naive, but somehow disrespectful.

“It’s not fair,” you said, because the words came spilling out before you could think better. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to carry a piece of your soul inside me!”

“And yet here you are,” he murmured. “Not by accident. Not by fate. Because you were meant to be.”

Dumbledore’s words come to mind now, when he had noticed Tom watching you far too carefully. “Tom Riddle is a brilliant young man. And I suspect you feel it as well. Tom’s darkness is like a black hole, even light, once sucked in, cannot escape. It will stay there, forever.”

“Tom,” you snapped, trembling, almost wishing you had listened to Dumbledore. “You are not well.”

He laughed. Just once. A soft, amused exhale.

“I’m brilliant,” he said. “And powerful. And so very tired of pretending to be anything else.”

There was a flick of something dangerous in his eyes now. That shine. That edge. You’d seen it before—in the way he looked at his enemies. Cold, dissecting. Fascinated by their fear.

But when he looked at you?

That edge softened. Not gone—never gone—but restrained. Cloaked in something heavier. Something messier.

Something he didn’t know how to name.

Love, maybe. Or his twisted version of it.

“You were mine the moment you looked at me like you saw me,” he said, voice low. “You remember, don’t you? You looked at me like I was real. Not the mask. Not the name. Me.”

“I didn’t know what I was seeing.”

“No,” he agreed, “but you still wanted it. You wanted me. Even when it scared you.”

He was closer again. How had he gotten so close?

You could smell his cologne—rich and clean, tinged with parchment and pine. He always smelled like the library, like quiet danger, like something ancient buried under layers of control.

His hand came up to your jaw, tilting your chin just slightly. It wasn’t harsh—but it wasn’t gentle, either.

“You’ve always belonged to me,” he whispered. “This little rebellion of yours? Running, hiding, avoiding me in corridors? It was… cute. But we both know how this ends.”

He leaned in, voice brushing your lips.

Your breath caught.

You were furious. You hated how much your body betrayed you, how even now you ached for him, remembered the way he touched you like you were precious, rare, untouchable by anyone but him. How he made obsession feel like worship.

“You were always meant to be mine,” he murmured.

You swallowed hard. “This isn’t love.”

“No,” Tom agreed, without hesitation. “It’s more.”

His mouth found yours without warning—not rushed, but decisive, like a king claiming what’s his. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It didn’t ask. It took. Like he needed to taste your defiance just to prove it would melt against his tongue.

His hands were already on your waist, drawing you flush to him. You could feel the tension coiled in his frame, tightly wound magic humming just beneath his skin. Not rage, not quite—but something wilder. A hunger only you seemed capable of feeding.

His kiss deepened, slow and devastating—like he had all the time in the world to unmake you one breath at a time. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, his other hand steady on your waist, fingers flexing like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

When he pulled back, his mouth glistened with your kiss.

“You melt so beautifully for someone who claims she doesn’t want this,” he murmured, voice like warm velvet over a blade.

Your answer caught in your throat. “I—I don’t—”

He smiled.

Not a kind smile.

A knowing one.

“Lie better.”

Heat curled between your legs, humiliating and undeniable. Tom’s eyes lowered to your lips as if he could taste the way your breath faltered.

Then he kissed you again—hungrier, greedier, swallowing every protest you tried to form. Your back hit the velvet chaise before you realized he’d walked you backward. His hands explored—slow, deliberate, cruel in how gentle they were. His thumb slid under the hem of your shirt, tracing the warm skin beneath.

You shivered.

He felt it.

Tom hummed softly, pleased. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, lips trailing along your jaw, “and yet your body remembers me better than your mind does.”

“Stop—” you whispered, breathless.

“Say it like you mean it,” he murmured against your throat.

His teeth grazed your pulse. Your hips jerked. Mortifying.

He stilled for only a heartbeat.

Then—

“Take your shirt off.”

Your eyes widened. “Tom—”

“You’re not leaving,” he said softly. “You’re not running. You’re not pretending anymore.” His fingers slipped to the first button of your shirt, ghosting over it. “Take it off, or I’ll do it for you.”

Your breath hitched.

You should say no.

You should push him away.

But when his eyes pinned yours—dark, devout, dangerous—you found your fingers trembling toward the buttons anyway. Shame heated your face. One button. Two. Three. The fabric slipped open just enough for the candlelight to kiss your skin.

Tom exhaled.

It was almost reverent.

“My beautiful girl,” he murmured, thumb brushing the space just above your bra, “look at you.”

You swallowed hard, chest rising and falling too quickly. “This is wrong.”

“Everything worthwhile is,” he said quietly. “The high road is… overrated.”

Then he touched you.

Not harshly.

Not forcefully.

Just… intimately. His fingertips traced the dip between your breasts, the soft skin of your stomach, the trembling line of your ribs. Slow. Methodical. Like he was studying you the way he studied forbidden texts. He slipped the rest of your shirt off, letting it fall without paying any mind to it. Then unclipped your bra with a lazy flick of his wrist.

“Tom…” you whispered, helpless.

He leaned down and kissed just beneath your collarbone, lips warm and possessive. “Say it again.”

“Tom…”

He smiled against your skin.

“I’ve missed that.”

His hand slid lower, stopping at the waistband of your skirt. He looked into your eyes, and something in you cracked open—fear, longing, fury, desire—all knotted into one impossible, intoxicating pull.

His thumb stroked your hipbone.

“Lift your hips.”

You didn’t move.

He tilted his head. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he said softly. “You want me to ruin you for anyone else. You may hate yourself for it, but you do.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” he breathed, brushing his mouth over yours again, stealing the air from your lungs. “And I’m going to show you.”

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric.

And you obeyed.

Your hips lifted without your permission.

Tom’s smile was slow. Victorious. Beautiful in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Good girl.”

Tom’s fingers were warm against the skin of your thighs as he pulled your uniform skirt down.

Tom didn’t rush. He never did.

He peeled the skirt down inch by inch, as if each reveal was a gift meant only for him. When it pooled at your ankles, his gaze dragged upward—slow and unblinking—until it landed on the damp spot soaking through your panties. His eyes darkened.

“Still pretending you don’t want this?” he murmured, brushing a single knuckle over the lace. You flinched, breath catching. He hummed—almost pleased. “Tell me, was this for me? Or do you get like this for anyone who looks at you the wrong way?”

Your cheeks burned hot with embarassment. You wanted to say something, anything, yet words failed you.

His fingers ghosted along the waistband, a cruel tease. “No answer?” he drawled. “Then I’ll assume it was for me.”

With a practiced grace, he slipped the fabric down, exposing you entirely. Cool air kissed your skin. You couldn’t breathe.

Tom’s eyes didn’t move from between your legs.

“You’re soaked,” he said softly, like it was something sacred. His thumb brushed your inner thigh. “And you want me to believe this is reluctance?”

His fingers hovered over your slit, maddeningly light. Barely touching. Barely anything. Just the faintest brush that made your hips twitch.

Tom’s mouth curved. “So eager,” he murmured, voice like silk pulled taut over a blade.

He traced lazy, featherlight circles, his fingertip slipping just a breath above your clit—never quite where you needed.

“Tell me,” he whispered, leaning in close, his breath hot against your jaw. “Is this the part you hate the most? That your body betrays you? That you drip for me?”

You gasped as his fingers dipped lower, grazing your entrance, slick and aching. Gathering your slick against his fingers as he rubbed teasing circles against your aching hole yet never pushing in.

Tom chuckled, low and pleased. “So wet for me,” he murmured, eyes glued to the mess between your thighs. “You do love this, don’t you? Even when you’re angry. Especially when you’re angry.”

His fingertip teased your entrance again, still refusing to give you what you wanted. “This little cunt remembers me,” he said, like he was talking to it directly. “Knows who it belongs to.”

He pressed the lightest kiss to your temple, mockingly sweet.

“You may lie to yourself,” he breathed, “but this?” His fingers slid between your folds, slow, wicked. “This never lies.”

He slid two fingers into your wet heat with ease, the slick sound was the only noise in the room.

Your eyes fluttered as he curled his fingers into that spot that made your thighs twitch. Tom watched your every expression.

You hated how well he knew your body, how well his fingers rubbed that spot until you were whimpering.

“Your surrender is so sweet,” Tom murmurs, thumb swiping at your clit. You were so close it hurt, he knew it. “Tell me. Tell me you’re mine.”

Except the words didn’t come.

“I won’t repeat myself,” his voice was soft, deceptively so, you knew better.

The only thing to come out of your parted lips was a soft moan, not the words he wanted to hear.

And with a wet pop, he slid his fingers out of you, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing.

“I ask so little of you,” Tom murmurs, “How disappointing.”

You hated how he did that— made it sound like you were the one who wounded him. You knew better and yet your heart still ached.

His fingers still glistened with you when he grabbed your jaw, not roughly, but with cold precision—tilting your face to look at him.

“On your stomach,” he said.

You hesitated. Just for a breath. Just long enough for him to notice.

His jaw ticked. “Now.”

A pause. Just long enough to make your stomach twist as you did what he asked

“I asked for one thing. And you failed to give it to me.” His tone was level, but beneath it simmered something coiled and dangerous. “You don’t want to speak? Fine.“

His hand was warm down your back, fingers trailing down your spine. Tom didn’t speak, he just lingered.

His hand smoothed over the palm of your ass, and you opened your mouth to say something but the words were immediately lost on you when his hand came down in a firm spank.

You yelped, pain blooming against your skin. It hurt, and for some twisted reason, you liked it.

“Who do you belong to?” Tom asked, fingers kneading the sensitive skin with care. “Tell me, and I’ll make it stop.”

When you hesitated too long for his liking, he spanked you again, harder. The sound was harsh, and your hips jumped away from him as if you could run.

“You wound me,” He breathed.

His hand lingered, soothing the sting with a mocking softness, like he hadn’t just hurt you—like he hadn’t wanted to. His breath kissed the shell of your ear, warm and low and lethal.

“You want to make this harder than it needs to be?” he murmured, voice dipped in quiet menace. “Then I’ll make it memorable.”

His palm slid down, slow and deliberate, between your thighs—forcing them apart with nothing but the pressure of his knee. Not a request. A demand. The velvet cushion beneath you felt suddenly too soft, too indulgent, as if the room itself conspired to make your surrender easier.

“Arch your back,” Tom said. Not loud. Not cruel. Just inevitable.

When you hesitated again—just a breath, just a twitch of doubt—his fingers wrapped gripped your hip, pulling you into position himself. You gasped, and he laughed, low and dark.

Tom’s grip eased, not out of mercy, but calculation. His fingers slid slowly across your hips like he was dusting off something that already belonged to him.

“Is this how you show your devotion?” he murmured, voice soft enough to be mistaken for concern. “By denying me what is mine?”

You didn’t answer—couldn’t. Your pulse thundered. And he leaned closer.

“You tremble,” he whispered. “You think that means weakness. But I see it for what it is.”

His mouth brushed your ear.

“Longing.”

The word hit you like a curse.

He nuzzled just behind your jaw—so gentle, so devastatingly careful—and said, “You forget I know you. I know what you sound like when you’re trying not to beg.”

You bit your lip. He smiled.

“I could be cruel,” he said, thumb brushing your spine. “But I’d rather you give yourself to me. Say it. Say you belong to me, and I’ll reward your obedience.”

The silence lingered too long.

Tom exhaled softly through his nose, like he was trying to stay patient. Like you were the one testing his restraint.

“I gave you a part of my soul,” he said. Quiet. Not angry. Worse—wounded. “Do you have any idea what that means? What I sacrificed?”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He moved around you, slow and deliberate, so you had to look at him — had to see the calm fury behind those eyes.

“I could’ve chosen anything. Anyone. But I chose you.” His voice sharpened. “You think I violated you? I exalted you.”

He leaned closer.

“That piece of me—you carry it everywhere. In your blood. Your bones. You will never be alone again. You’ll never belong to anyone else, because you’re already mine.”

His hand came up again—light fingers brushing your jaw. Not rough. Not even possessive. Just coldly sure of himself.

“And still,” he murmured, voice like cracked glass, “you hide from me. You turn away. As if I haven’t done everything to prove what you mean to me.”

His smile was bitter now. Soft. Ironic.

“I gave you the only piece of me that has ever felt anything. And this is how you repay me?”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out—because what could you possibly say? That you didn’t ask for this? That you never wanted the weight of his soul clawing behind your ribs like something sentient? That it felt more like a haunting than a gift?

But he was looking at you like he’d carved open his chest and handed you the most vital part of him—and you’d spat in his face.

And somehow… that was worse.

“I didn’t know,” you whispered, the words torn from you like confession. “I didn’t know that’s what it meant to you.”

Tom’s expression didn’t soften, but something in him eased. His hand slipped to the back of your neck, the touch oddly gentle, reverent again—like you were some ancient artifact only he knew how to wield.

“You do now,” he murmured. “And still, you’re here.”

Tom’s hand never left the nape of your neck. His thumb brushed softly against your skin, grounding, anchoring—but there was nothing gentle in the way his body moved behind you. You were still on your stomach, sprawled over velvet cushions like something ceremonial, bared and offered. His presence at your back was a steady heat, looming, possessive, inevitable.

And then he shifted.

His hand finally slipped from the nape of your neck, dragging slowly down your spine, lingering at your waist.

Then he sat back on his heels, and for the first time, you saw restraint flicker in him—not hesitation, but ceremony.

Tom began to undress.

Not hurriedly. Not messily. He peeled back his robes like they were armor, shedding layers with quiet, terrifying purpose. Buttons undone with precise fingers, one after another. You watched the slow reveal of pale skin, the lean, unholy grace of him, carved like a statue and twice as cold.

By the time he was bare, your breath was gone. He was so pretty.

And he looked at you like you were something sacred.

With a hand on your shoulder, Tom urged you onto your side—half-turned, just enough for him to watch your face as you caved.

“You fight me,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to your jaw. “But you never win.”

His mouth claimed yours again—slow and consuming. Not tender. Not violent. But laced with something darker. Possession disguised as passion. Reverence sharpened to a point. He kissed you like you were a question he already knew the answer to—like he was proving it. And when you kissed him back? He smiled into it, triumphant.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he breathed, lips grazing your cheek as his hips pressed against yours. “The way your heartbeats quickens when I’m near. The way your breath hitches when I speak your name.”

His fingers found your thigh again, dragging it up around his hip. You were bare, slick, trembling, and he hadn’t even fucked you yet. That fact alone made him groan—low and guttural and dangerously close to reverent.

“You’re not going to stop me,” Tom whispered. “You want this too much.”

The head of his cock brushed against your entrance, and he grinned when you flinched—not from fear, but from the aching anticipation.

“You’ll take it, love,” he said, voice roughened with restraint. “Be a good girl for me.”

You whimpered—pathetic—and he adored it.

“You deny me like I didn’t give you everything,” he breathed. “A piece of my soul, and you run from me? No. No more of that.”

He slid in—slow, unforgiving.

Your nails dug into his arm, your gasp sharp, overwhelmed by the stretch and heat of him. It hurt so good.

“There,” he whispered, almost cruel with how softly he said it. “There you are. No more lies. No more hiding.”

He leaned in, nose brushing yours.

“This was always how it was meant to be.”

Tom laughed—not a sound of joy, but something low and dark and knowing.

“Oh, you poor thing,” he murmured, thrusting deep enough to knock breath from your lungs. “You think silence protects you?”

His hand slid to your throat—not squeezing, just holding. Just reminding.

His hips snapped forward, the tenderness he had shown you dying quickly.

You choked on a moan.

Tom’s gaze sharpened. A predator scenting blood.

“There it is,” he whispered. “The truth your lips won’t give me.”

He pulled out slowly—agonizingly—until only the tip remained. Your body clenched around nothing, begging without permission.

He watched it. Saw it.

“Look at you,” he breathed, a cruel smile tugging at his mouth. “Gripping at nothing like a starved little thing.”

You whimpered, and he cupped your cheek almost tenderly.

“We both know you’ll take every inch,” he said, voice soft as a blade sliding between ribs. “Don’t insult us both by pretending you can’t.”

Then he slammed back into you.

You cried out, fingernails clawing the velvet, your body arching to take him deeper because there was nowhere else to go—nothing else you wanted.

Tom groaned against your ear, savoring the sound you made.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s honesty. Not your pretty lies. Not your little protests.”

Another hard thrust.

“This. The way you melt. The way you open for me.”

His fingers tightened around your hip, pulling you back onto him with obscene precision.

“You’ve been avoiding me for a week,” he said, breath ghosting your cheek, “but your pretty little cunt remembers who it belongs to.”

You whined, face burning, and he laughed again—quiet, cruel, smug.

“Say it,” he murmured, rolling his hips until you shook. “Say you’re mine.”

You still didn’t.

Tom’s smile vanished.

His grip tightened.

“That’s all right,” he whispered. “Your body already gave me the answer.”

Your thoughts were a blur—nothing existed but him. The stretch, the weight, the heat. The way he filled you like he was built for it. Like your body had been waiting for him all along.

“Do you feel that?” Tom whispered, voice harsh against your skin. “That’s where I belong.”

He set a punishing rhythm—deep, deliberate thrusts that made your body sing and tremble and break in tandem. The kind of rhythm that didn’t ask, didn’t beg, only claimed.

“You can run all you like,” he gritted, driving into you. “But this—this is the truth. This is what brings you back.”

You whimpered—whether in agreement or desperation, even you didn’t know.

His hand came back to your throat, not squeezing, just holding. Possession without pressure. His other slid under your thigh again, lifting, angling, until every drag of his cock had your eyes rolling back.

“Tell me you hate it,” Tom’s voice was almost a hiss. “Tell me you don’t love how it feels when I split you open.”

You didn’t answer—couldn’t. Your mouth was open but no words came, only pathetic moans from how good he felt.

He chuckled, bitter and low. “Better”

Another brutal thrust.

Another cry wrenched from your throat.

“You’ll never be clean of me,” he murmured darkly, the edge of his voice unraveling. “I put my soul in you. There’s no undoing that.”

His pace faltered, then deepened. Rougher. Desperate.

“And if I have to remind you again and again—every day for the rest of your life—I will. Until you beg for it.”

His hand slipped lower, finding your clit, fingers ruthless.

You came with a choked sob—sharp, wrecked, drowning in the very thing you swore you didn’t want. Your whole body trembled. Tightened. Then broke.

Tom followed with a low groan, burying himself deep one final time, spilling into you like a man laying claim. His grip on you never loosened, even as the tremors subsided.

He kissed your shoulder once. Soft. Reverent. Then he pulled back just enough to whisper—

“Mine.”

Tom didn’t pull away. Not fully. He stayed inside you, holding your hips with quiet finality, as if letting go would undo something sacred. His breath was hot against your neck. His lips brushed your temple.

“You’ll never forget this,” he murmured, voice low and full of something too dark to be love. “Not what you felt. Not what I made you feel.”

His arms wrapped around you like a shroud, anchoring you to him—utterly, completely. His heartbeat thundered against your back, too steady, too calm.

“You won’t run again,” he whispered. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

A kiss to your shoulder. A brush of fingers over your stomach, where his release was still seeping from you. A brand in every place he’d touched.

“You’re mine,” he breathed, almost gently now. “And I always take care of what’s mine.”

 In the Dark Lord’s Orbit

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.

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.

Ask Me Again After Class

Hogwarts’ unapologetic Slytherin royal couple get paired for a Veritaserum exercise. What should be a harmless class turns into seductive mind games, sharp confessions, and tension thick enough to cut with a wand.

WORDS: 2,750–2,900 word

MASTERLIST

Percy entering Hogwarts wearing a Hufflepuff quidditch jacket: Oh Marcus, Oli! There you both are. Shall we go to lunch now?

Marcus: The fuck are you wearing?

Oliver: Get that off your body right now.

Percy: What are you… oh this? Boys, Cedric let me use it cause it’s pouring out there! Calm down.

Boys: FIRST NAME BASIS?

Marcus: alright Oli let’s go we have to kill someone

Percy: Wait no!!!

#harry potter #harry potter headcanon #headcanon #prompts #oliver wood #marcus flint #percy weasley #quidditch #they need some help #Percy’s jealous boys #perciverus #marcus x percy x oliver #percy x oliver #percy x marcus #flintwood #perciver #hogwarts era #cedric diggory #he’s about to get BEAT