08.12. — childhood bsf!Tom Riddle x Reader
wc: 2.5k
You may be the only thing left connecting Tom to his past, but he'll be damned if he ever lets you go.
warnings: orphanage mentions, Tom typical brooding, Tom is very much whipped for you
an: ⌯⌲ Dedicated to @viperify : Ty for being such a well of kindness and inspiration Mar, I'll always be grateful you randomly texted me out of the blue and we bonded over the weirdness of German dirty talk in COD fics.
taglist: @viperify @suprclark @mxxnechos @yuunarii-arii @revesephemeres
Event Masterlist
The Slytherin common room is bathed in tension and the sort of secrecy only someone like Tom Riddle could bring. All students have by now retreated to their dorms or left of their own accord—they know better than to interrupt the meetings of the Knights Of Walpurgis.
They sit by the fireplace, scattered around the seats they've pushed into a closed off arrangement. Tom’s chair is closest to the fire, allowing it to paint sharp shadows across his pretty face while giving him an eerie, cold glow despite the proximity to the fire.
To his left and right sit Abraxas Malfoy and Icarus Lestrange, his second and third in command respectively. Further away are the other members in ranks of importance—Nott, Mulciber, Black, Dolohov and whoever else Tom decided to allow into this week's meeting. It's his own way of bestowing both entertainment upon the original members of the Order while also keeping the newcomers loyal and alert. Who ever would act out of line if they knew there's a chance they might be promoted to sit at the table for the important meetings?
Only those who don't have their loyalties right, that's for sure.
Tom listens attentively as Nott drones on about the status of their most recent mission—sourcing artifacts in hard to reach places and establishing contacts with powerful allies that will prove useful in accomplishing their goals.
It's honestly a little boring and blank—presention has never been Nott's strength—but it's necessary work. He listens and makes mental notes about details he will discuss with his inner circle in the privacy of his own quarters until Nott is done with his report. His eyes flick to Abraxas, giving him an imperceptible nod of approval before he tries to move on to the next item on their agenda.
Though, it's an attempt only in name—the doors to the common room burst open with a dramatic bang that startles everyone in their seat. Everyone but Tom, that is.
You walk in like a hurricane during spring—loud, alive and impossible to ignore. There's not an ounce of care about the fact that you've just interrupted a crucial meeting in a way anyone else would've immediately paid for. You march straight up to the seating arrangement, all the way to where Tom is seated and tower above him with a menacing pout.
He tilts his head up just a bit to have a better look at you and is rewarded with the sight of your silent fury. Your arms are crossed, one foot out tapping on the ground while you glare at him with such intensity, it might actually burn a hole into his skull.
“Good evening,” he greets smoothly when he realizes you will not be making any effort to speak first.
“You,” your arms uncross, only for you to jab a finger into his chest with accusatory force, “are a dirty little liar, Riddle.”
The impact of your words is astonishing to say the least—sharp gasps from all Knights aside for Abraxas and Icarus filling the room while Tom’s expression darkens for only a moment before it turns into confusion.
“Me?” He asks with complete disregard to the audience you've chosen to hold this spectacle around.
“Yes, you!” You straighten up, arms back at your side with balled fists Tom knows itch to participate in some form of violence against him. For the sake of his own safety, he decides that he needs to diffuse the situation and calm you down instantly.
Like any sane person, he tugs you by your hips until you stumble into his lap, uncaring whether someone judges the display or not. He can always just threaten and torture the Knights as a form of discipline, he muses silently to himself.
You struggle against his hold, but he won't have it. His arms wrap around you, grounding and forcing you to still while he keeps you firmly pressed against him.
“What great injustice may I have committed against you this time, my love?” He asks, one of his hands coming up to your face to trace along the line of your jaw just the way he knows makes your defenses melt.
“I-” you’re trying hard to focus, he can see it in the crease between your eyes and the subtle tension in your jaw but you're failing miserably. There's nothing you can do but sit still and pretty while he dismantles your anger from the inside out—what chance do you stand against the boy who's known you all your life?
“You promised to meet me in the library an hour ago,” you finally manage to whisper, your head dropping to his shoulder to rest when he strokes that particular spot on your neck that makes you sigh with delight.
His eyes flick to the grandfather clock by the entrance, surprised to see the time past the meeting you've made. Guilt instantly gnaws on his consciousness, the thought of sitting in the coldest corner of the library you know he prefers for an entire hour on your own opening a pit in his stomach.
His hand cradles your face, manoeuvring it with gentle care no one would've thought him capable of until your ear is level with his mouth.
“My utmost apologies, Love” his voice is low, tinged with quiet care and devotion only you can ever inspire. “The meeting dragged on for longer than I thought, causing me to lose track of time.”
He can feel the offended huff you make more than actually hear it, but he tightens his grip around your waist anyway. When you don't bother responding to him, he knows he messed up big time and promptly goes through fifty different ways to make it up to you.
In the end, he settles on glaring sharply at the attendees of the meeting, scowling at their ogling and slack jaws with which they've been watching you ever since you walked in.
“Dismissed.” He doesn't bother with a full sentence, he knows that one sharply punctuated word is enough to have everyone scrambling to their feet. And just as predicated, the Knights gather their bearings and all rush to leave before he decides to air his frustration with them in a different, far more painful way.
When the last of them has finally disappeared, leaving only silence and the sound of crackling fire behind, Tom feels his own muscles relax and settle into something almost peaceful. He can feel the ways you're melting against him, finally relieved to be alone with him without the preying eyes of strangers invading your space. Yet still, you refuse to talk to him and continue to turn away from him.
“My Love,” he gently coaxes, “I apologize, it was a grave oversight on my end. Won't you look at me and allow me to make proper amends?”
The look you give him could lay waste to lands in mere seconds—a sharp and judgemental glare you've perfected while standing by his side. He knows it too well, has suffered from it all his life really. It's almost enough to make his heart stop beating at the thought of you being actually mad at him.
No, not you. Never you.
The whole world could burn to the ground in an apocalypse he personally brought to life and he knows you wouldn't be mad at him. You've always been the one that stayed, the one that smiled at him when everyone else frowned and betrayed him.
You, the one from the orphanage he’s loved before he even knew what love meant. You, who’s been mocked all your life for being the illegitimate child of two purebloods. You have the lineage and the blood and the skill, yet you still endure scorning looks and whispers about the circumstances of your birth.
You, who still held your chin high when you walked through the halls, unwilling to let anyone get to you.
It had been in his second year when Tom decided he couldn’t let this go on. He would have the wizarding world at his feet, let them pay for the pain they put both of you through. But above all, he would never allow anyone to laugh at you again. Never would he let the world touch again while he stood and watched helplessly.
If the world wouldn’t become soft, then he simply had to become untouchable and carve a space for you by his side.
“Please,” he whispers with so much reverence it could shake the entire universe. Finally, you relent and look at him. You know Tom Riddle—the Dark Lord who commands darkness like it’s second nature.
He doesn’t beg, doesn’t plead and certainly doesn’t revere.
But you break all his rules and trample on them like they never meant a thing.
The day he swore he’d put his past behind, he also swore you’d be the only thing left from it he kept and treasured.
You lean into his space, breathing his scent in—cedar and citrus with the deep notes of leather you so adore—and hum in approval. The necklace you always wear slips out the neckline of your uniform, the silver catching light in the fire. It rests right above Tom’s heart—exactly where he has a matching one.
He remembers the day you both got the locket necklaces. It had been a dreary December evening, just a few days shy of his tenth birthday. Somehow, you managed to sneak past the Matron of the orphanage, the bullies and the children who enjoyed making your lives hell. In retrospect, he thinks you might have been subconsciously cloaking your presence with magic. You dragged him out into the wet London streets, insisting you should go for a day trip to ‘make the most of the holiday season’. You ended up in some hidden away antique store where you browsed the shelves for hours. Tom had been fascinated by the items bearing marks of history and past lives he could only dream of, while you were drawn to the quiet atmosphere the store offered. You’d called it a timecapsule, Tom had to agree.
By the time you both trudged back to the orphanage, night had long since fallen and made the streets a dangerous place to be for two children to roam. How you made it in one piece is still beyond him, but you snuck through the window on the side of the annex where rarely anyone ever wandered and proceeded to drop a little dented box with a crudely wrapped green ribbon into Tom’s lap as soon as you two settled in your shared room. He’d stared at it, widened and wonderful because he recognised the seal of the antique store you visited earlier, only to be encouraged by you to open it.
“A late Christmas present and an early birthday present in one,” you whispered into the night with the kind of tone that made Tom believe you were letting him in on a secret only you both shared.
With trembling hands, he unwrapped the ribbon carefully—like the box might vanish into thin air if he blinks too long. He laid it to the side, his small hands hovering over the lid of the box before he slowly opened it and nearly choked on his own spit. Inside the box were two matching lockets on dainty silver chains. They were both square shaped, with tiny intricate engravings of snakes and vines wrapped around the edge. In the middle of the locket was one singular stone each—a stunning emerald, rich and clear and probably the most gorgeous thing Tom had ever seen aside from you.
”When did you-“
”When you were looking at the snake sculptures,” you answered with a shrug, like you didn’t just give him the first real gift he’s ever received. “It reminded me of you, and I figured it’d be nice if we had something that belongs to just us—a link of sorts.” You took one of the lockets and leaned over to tug it around his neck. It settled heavily on his sternum, with the kind of weight that he knew would become a grounding reminder of you.
In kind, he took the other locket and clasped it around your neck and watched the way your eyes lit up.
”It’s beautiful,” you hummed.
”It is,” he mumbled, though his attention hadn’t been on the locket at all. He had a feeling you knew he meant you instead.
He’s had it ever since, never once taking it off. He slept with it, woke with it and wore it beneath his clothes like a secret that kept him alive. During the nights where life became too much, you often found him asleep with the locket clutched in his fist, a picture of you both taken during your first trip to Hogsmeade inside.
“Don’t do that again,” you mumbled, eyes searching his for an answer. “I know the Order means a lot to you, and I’m not telling you to abandon your mission—I’m just reminding you to not abandon me in its favor.”
The words gut him from the inside out in a way he’s long since learnt only you could do. It’s truly absurd how little he feels unless you are involved. Suddenly, every echo of an emotion becomes an amplified storm raging in both mind and heart.
”I won’t,” he answers firmly in response. His hands leave your waist, cradling your face with the kind of care he only reserves for his utmost prized possessions.
“You stand above everything in this world, do you hear me?” When you don’t answer, he presses his lips to the corner of your mouth—featherlight, like a promise. ”Do you understand?” He asks again, more insistent this time. He feels you nod, drawing a shuddering breath before you finally let go of the dying embers of your anger.
”What would you do if an apocalypse you suddenly happened?” Your question comes out of nowhere, but it isn’t unusual. It reminds Tom of simpler times where you ran around forests as children, shared secrets and waded through lakes and rivers until the water came up to your knees and laughed with no restraints. You asked these questions whenever things got too quiet, too real—like you needed to break the moment to remind yourself it’ll last.
He tilts his head, lips ghosting mere inches away from yours before he flicks his eyes to hold yours. A faint smile curls on the edge of his lips at the sigh of you bathed in the golden glow of fire. He can feel your warmth, your breath fanning across his cheek.
You’re real and so very his.
”I would reach for you and never look back.”
”And what if I died and became a ghost and started haunting you?”
”Then I’d tell you to come on and haunt me, though I’d never let you die first.”
Before you can ask another ridiculous question, he presses his lips to yours to silence you. You taste like freedom and home, like the past, present and future all at once.
You taste like the only thing that’s ever mattered.
Tom would rather burn before he ever lets you go.
