friendly competition ✯ tom riddle
tom riddle x fem!reader
summary: a seven year rivalry driven strong by your final potions competition and a fresh brew of amortentia unravels your need for victory against tom riddle, but he won't hesitate to entertain you.
cw: 18+, mdni, aged up chars, darkish!tom, power imbalance, no explicit consent(implied), neutral house, hints of legilimency, unprotected p in v, fingering, choking, minor overstimulation, mentions of blowjob, teasing, pet names
wc: 8.4k
a/n: i think my obsession with tom riddle comes back stronger every time. first fic i've posted in so long! i started this over 23 months ago and just am now finishing it after lots of revising. this contained 4 different parts at one time lol. jokes on me for making myself navigate the hell scape i wrote!! please enjoy!
The large windows of the Great Hall were coated in layers of frosty snow, crystal flakes falling and painting the forested grounds in a white blanket, surely to become ice the next morning and a detriment to all outside goers. Decorated fireplaces around the castle were kept lit continuously, keeping appendages from freezing as the nights would grow ever colder.
A few days out from Christmas, freshly roasted turkey legs and pot pies coated the table for dinner. Jellies, cookies, puddings, and other assortments lined plates and tables for a savory, nutritious meal.
Wreaths hung from the large wooden doors and garland was strung through the wooden beams of the Great Hall, decorating the dark, starry sky above with rows of green and red. Berries and evergreen leaves were placed above certain doors that were not often traveled, carefully deducting themselves from the mistletoe tradition as a simple adornment. Intricate candles and dimly lit lanterns garnished classroom doorways, dousing them in a golden glow.
"Merlin, this pot pie is probably the tastiest it's ever been," your friend moaned, her mouth full of food.
"Is it?" you laughed, taking a bite of the cherry jelly on your plate, one of your favorites around Christmas. You savored the bite, then placed your fork down on your plate to declare you were finished with dinner.
"What are you doing for the brewing thing?" she asked, swallowing her bite and shoveling yet another spoonful of chicken, peas, and carrots into her mouth.
You had quite honestly forgotten about the brewing competition that Slughorn introduced a few years ago. You hadn't participated up until fourth year, when you understood that this could earn you something advantageous in the future. Although, it seemed he had only introduced such a challenge to prove to his fellow professors that he had competent, skilled students who could brew a decent potion most of the time. Despite what you assumed and claimed about his slight insecurity, he allowed any student to take part in it, whether it was a failing seventh year desperate to repair their grade or a second year who wasn't quite sure what Dittany did if added to a potion.
The prize usually consisted of a small vial of some potion such as Felix Felicis or a Girding Potion, and possibly a slightly larger vial of Blemish Blitzer for acne-prone fourth years.
None of these prizes necessarily came in handy for you, you hadn't used potions very much. The one that you had won in fifth year earned you a Pepperup Potion that now sits in the bottom of your chest collecting dust.
You'd beaten your competitor by a sliver of perfection, as Slughorn claimed. He had chosen your Veritaserum over Tom Riddle's notorious Invigoration Draught that he had practically perfected over the last few years.
His conclusion—as he put it—was that your brew appeared prettier, despite being an ugly, bitter yellow versus the unwavering, glassy look of his potion.
While you often considered your predicament as friendly competition, you began improving your brewing skills in second year, spending more time in the Potions room that you would've liked to admit. You studied ingredients and combinations for hours, hunching yourself over thick books lost to the library.
It wasn't your whole aim, but you were attempting to prove to professors that Riddle was in-fact not a childhood prodigy, but instead a highly accelerated learner. Anyone—if attempting hard enough—could be just as superb as he was.
You'd practically go to war with Riddle in everything you attempted if it meant that you could claim the title as victor. You were playing a one-sided game, though, he wasn't visibly bothered by your name above his. Deep down it had to irritate him just for a fleeting moment.
"I think..." You began, then trailed off. You were unsure of what you were going to do, as you had brewed all of your better potions earlier in the year, it would be incredibly difficult to impress Slughorn with a potion you previously concocted to perfection. But, you wanted to do something fun, something with a practical use that most people couldn't brew very easily.
"I'll do Amortentia," you established, eyeing a piece of a chocolate chip cookie that sat on your plate before taking a bite of it.
"Really? Can't find your soulmate yet?" your friend snickered, continuing to cram fork-fulls of pot pie into her mouth.
"Oh, please! I think we both have trouble with that," you laughed, finishing your bite of cookie before fitting another piece into your mouth.
"What does it smell like?" she inquired, looking at you with a smug smile at the corners of her lips as she tapped her fork on her plate.
"You tell me," you giggled, setting your cookie down and resting your hands beneath your chest, leaning against the edge of the table.
"I think it smells like...old books, like an evergreen forest, I guess? Maybe mint, and parchment."
"Merlin, you have that by memory," you laughed, feeling an odd bubble rising in your chest.
The last time you had smelled Amortentia, which had been sometime around fifth year after a horrific spill in the Great Hall, it had smelled like the same thing.
It was definitely peculiar that—out of everyone in Hogwarts—it was the same. It's possible that it could've changed in two years, perhaps Amortentia would be good for you to make, for research purposes, of course.
You knew exactly who it reminded you of—but now was not the time to admit that to yourself.
An awkward silence washed over the table and you cleared your throat as if it would help.
"I mean, I don't really know who it is, but I think it smells nice," your friend continued, shrugging, now spooning chocolate pudding into her mouth.
You nodded, looking off into the distance at the Slytherin table as you thought.
It wouldn't be the end of the world to have him in your Amortentia, since it truly only reflected what you desired. It didn't tell you your soulmate, though it would bother you just a teensy tiny bit.
You sighed, picking up your canvas bag from the bench beside you, adjusting your skirt over your thighs.
"I'm going to head up by Slughorn to confirm my potion, I'll see you tomorrow," you smiled, giving a small wave to your friend. She returned a mildly confused raise of her eyebrow, but waved anyway, and you turned on your heel and walked out of the large doors of the Great Hall.
The deadline was approaching quickly and you hadn't realized how little time you had. Procrastinating was not a typical trait of yours, normally completing everything in advance to be sure that it was well done.
Slughorn was often in his office until around ten, doing Merlin knows what. He was usually grading papers when you walked in, but usually you only came in right after dinner for a question on homework or about a specific potion ingredient.
You made your way down to the dungeons, passing at least two couples that were far too young to be snogging on the weathered benches at this time of night.
Sneaking off to snog had never interested you, though you were mildly envious of the genuine couples that weren't wholly devoted to grades like yourself.
You raised your arm and knocked lightly on the heavy wood, cracking the door open slightly before entering.
Slughorn sat at his desk under a dimly lit lamp that illuminated his face in an awful yellow glow, scribbling something on parchment in front of him.
"Hello, Professor!" you chirped from the doorway, walking in to stand in front of his desk as you put on your best smile and cheerful attitude.
You honestly treated him like a fragile grandfather, never dissipating from the excessive grins and obnoxious laughter that made him like you.
His casual smile grew on his face as he looked up over his reading glasses, recognizing your face in the low light.
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Good to see you, I was just speaking to Tom about the potion competition! I assume that's what you're here for?"
Only now did you realize that Riddle stood at the back counter cutting an ingredient, likely for his potion. His shoulders moved with perfect precision, fingers deftly lifting and dropping as he moved each piece across the cutting board.
Though you could not see his face, you took in his stature, careful not to observe long enough to raise suspicion.
His less prominent features were still visible in the low light of the lantern beside him. His dark hair fell in perfect waves over his head, the back perfectly cut and gelled. He lacked a green hemmed robe, but his shoulders were covered by a gray sweater vest and white button up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar slightly bent out of shape. His gray slacks fell to his ankles, black dress shoes obviously freshly shined.
He was so incomparable to where he started seven years ago, a muggle-born learning his way in a magical world. In dilapidated shoes with ripped dress pants that barely reached the top of his ankles, his robes were faded and the seams broke every time he moved.
He had grown into an admittedly handsome man, an incredibly intelligent one at that.
"Hello," he said simply, his back still turned.
"Oh! Well, yes," you replied, turning away in silence from the boy across the room. You didn't respond to his greeting, but you mentally berated yourself for taking time to recognize his appearance.
He was simply a distraction in your competition.
Slughorn nodded happily as he pulled a sheet of parchment from under a pile of lost Potions books. It contained the list of names that were planning to participate in the contest, including their year.
A table of student names and competition potions were laid out in thin columns, and what seemed like a prediction of each student's performance was rated one out of five stars next to their name.
You noticed a girl in fifth year had four stars written next to her name, while a third year boy had half of a star next to his.
As Slughorn filled out your name on the paper, you watched as he scribbled four and a half stars next to your name.
The hastily drawn five stars next to Riddle's name caught your eye.
You had figured it would turn out that way. In Slughorn's eyes, Riddle was always one above you and a thousand above everyone else. His favorite student by far, though you followed in a close, heel-stepping second.
From what you could read upside down, a few students you knew decently well had picked easier potions such as a Wiggenweld potion or the Draught of Peace, but Tom had picked something you should have expected, but wished he hadn't.
Amortentia.
A considerably impressive potion as a last hurrah of his participation, you would declare this as your final competition with him, an end to the game you created for yourself.
Your friend would tell you to write a love letter and get over it, your obsession was far too strong. As she believed.
You cursed under your breath, earning a quizzical look from Slughorn as he questioned what you could possibly be throwing a minimal tantrum over right in front of him.
"Sorry!" you laughed lightly, swatting your hand as if it was nothing to worry about.
Slughorn laughed along with you, oblivious as he was, and took a quill from a cup of all different sorts of feathers, dipping it into the ink beside the cup.
"What potion do you plan on doing?" he asked, his hand hovering over your name slot.
Realistically, you could switch your potion right now and drop it, prove your own worth when finally not compared to him. The desire inside of you for first place burned brighter than your genuine reasoning, though.
Damn it.
You tapped your chin for a moment as if you were contemplating. "I was thinking about doing Amortentia."
You heard something drop at the table in the back where Tom was chopping ingredients.
"Are you alright, Tom?" Slughorn's head shot up to the noise, concern flashing over his face before he sloppily wrote 'Amortentia' next to your name.
You followed suit, twisting your head toward the sound.
He turned around, face neutral and without strain. Eyes alert and lips pursed, he spoke.
"I am alright," he said, lips quirking with a small grin. His declaration was loud and punctual, he was unfazed by your decision.
His lackluster reaction made your blood boil, a determining factor that you had to outshine him.
"I must get going now," you stated, clearing your throat and uncomfortably clutching your bag to your side. "It's getting a bit late."
"See you tomorrow!" Slughorn smiled, waving you off as you said goodbye.
Swiftly walking back to your dormitory, you listened to the clack of your heels echo off the walls, a repetitive and monotonous sound that wouldn't interrupt your thoughts. It fueled them.
Tom Riddle was complex—that you were well aware of—he had enough sides to feed a starving family.
Part of you wondered why success was detrimental to him, why first place determined life or death.
Nothing more than the tightening of his jaw showed his issue with struggle, an unrelenting process that left him exhausted, surely. He was a flawless being with everything to lose, yet a cacophonous creation of frailty.
You knew his ego existed, if anything, it was a visible being. He thrived off of it, fed his innate appetite for success, yet underneath it all, he was a simple muggle-born boy attempting to build a name for himself.
He was a diary hidden at the bottom of a chest fastened by combination locks, but opened as easily as the spine on a well-loved book.
His inconsistent personality drew you in against your will, heightened your need to be better than him. It all connected together in an abysmal medley fed by the nature of academic success that wouldn't let up until one of you forfeited.
He was charming, a handsome boy with a sharp smile, a friendly and poised demeanor about him that welcomed conversation. A force to be reckoned with and a scholarly mouth difficult to work with, he was everything and nothing all at once.
You loathed him and his whole being for making you feel inferior, but he never felt troubled by your presence.
You were a mere fly in his house, a bug he could squash with his finger. You buzzed in his ear until he swatted you to the floor, swept you into the trash and forgot about you.
He was unfazed and prideful, hard to decipher and a swell liar.
You sighed to yourself, shoving open the door to your common room, pushing past straggling students as you made your way to the girl's dormitory.
You opened the door to your room, revealing two of your four roommates awake and painting their nails on one of their beds, the other two nowhere to be seen.
"Hey!" one exclaimed, waving at you with her pinky and ring finger, the others occupied by the black cap of the nail polish.
You gave her an exhausted smile, the girl next to her concentrated on painting her ring finger, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth.
You dropped your bag onto your bed, deflating next to it. You kicked off your shoes and removed your stockings, then stood up to shrug your robe off and toss it over your bed post.
You fell into your bed, rolling to your side and propping your head up on your fist.
"Did you find a potion yet?" Your roommate asked, turning around to dangle her freshly purple painted toes off the side of the bed.
"I told Slughorn I was going to do Amortentia," you responded.
Your roommates were well aware of your excessive conflict with Riddle, but they quite often told you to let it rest or write a love letter, whichever came first.
"Oooh! I definitely want a sniff of that once you're done," she giggled. "What's Tom doing?"
You groaned, looking up into the bed frame above you before looking down to face her again.
"He is also doing Amortentia."
A gasp came from the girl still doing her nails as she whipped her head to face you.
"I know! I went to go tell Slughorn, and he was there. He has this sheet where he wrote everyone's potions down, and Tom must've told him earlier," you exclaimed, huffing in exhaustion. "I didn't even plan on doing the same thing!"
Your giggly roommate laughed—sort of a bark—before speaking. "You'll probably do better anyways, don't worry too much about it."
You smiled at her, the girl beside her nodding in agreement before turning back to her nails.
"It's just frustrating," you whined, thinking back to the earlier moment of what your friend had told you about the scent of her Amortentia.
She wasn't in the same house as you, so what did it matter if you told them about it?
"I was talking to this girl earlier at dinner, you know, the tall, blonde one?" you paused, allowing your roommates to put the pieces together before they both whispered a small 'ohh, her' and nodded.
You continued to tell them about what she had told you, the scent and how you had smelled the same thing the last time you'd encountered Amortentia.
Your roommate paused for a moment and twiddled her thumbs in her lap, nodding her head side to side. "It doesn't necessarily mean that it's the same person," she reasoned, "just very similar."
She leaned back onto her hands, taking a deep breath. "It really only suggests your type, but it's pretty specific," she paused. "So... if I'm being entirely realistic with you, it's probably the same person."
You nodded, biting your lip as you thought.
It shouldn't have mattered to you, yet it did. The thought of it would sit in your conscience and nag at you, yanking at the thinning strings of your sanity until it snapped them.
It won't be him, you pleaded with yourself.
Your involuntary desires clouded your mind and disappointed you—an admittance of your weakness that you tried so desperately to omit.
You stood up abruptly, startling your roommates as you stormed toward the door—you should've settled in for the night.
"Where are you—" One began, the slam of the door cutting off her brief interjection.
You walked briskly out of the dormitory, racing down the stairs and barging into the cool, dark corridor outside of your common room.
It was obviously late—you weren't sure how long you had been gossiping for—but the bodiless hallway proved that you likely shouldn't be out, a Prefect had free reign on you if you were caught.
Deciding you needed more time to think, you began a short journey through the corridors that led you to a random portion of the castle you didn't often travel.
You began to slow, the quick pace of your footsteps distracting you instead of aiding your thoughts. More cautious of your loud breathing and heavy footsteps echoing off the thick walls and high ceilings, you took a moment to lean against the stone and take a breath.
Why did you come out here?
You looked to the side to admire a painting when graceful footsteps sounded down the hall from around the corner.
You cursed under your breath, looking around with panic to find a janitor's closet, a dip in the wall, anything.
You hastily tiptoed down the hallway, flattening yourself against the stone adjacent to a glass case full of plaques and ancient looking Quidditch items.
Holding your breath, you listened to the footsteps approach the nearby intersection of the halls. If they turned right, you could avoid a detention—or they could turn toward you—and you hoped to Godric himself that they wouldn't reach you.
The footsteps were paused for what seemed like ages, the dank air filled with the sound of your shallow breathing and a lantern somewhere in the castle.
Not shortly after you caught your breath, the soft scuffling of dress shoes started down the hallway.
You should have known it would go this way.
Through the glass, you could see a glimpse of meddled deep brown hair. The blur of hundreds of fingerprints made it difficult to see, though you could make out a harsh jawline and a sharp nose.
You wished it was just an eerie lookalike that coincidentally had the same idea as you—but that was wishful thinking.
You resisted the urge to let out an obnoxious groan just to spite him, but it would most likely end in you getting some sort of write-up and tarnish your good reputation with your professors.
"We are going to Hogsmeade tomorrow," the voice echoed, an unwavering, concise sentence.
His forceful voice was shocking in the quiet hallway. You could feel his irritation grow as you didn't respond, the equivalent to the eerie silence of a child before they throw a tantrum.
"I suggest you go to bed," he reprimanded, the velvet of his voice overtaken by the vaguely reminiscent sound of nails on a chalkboard when he commanded you.
"You're not one to order me around," you snapped quietly, crossing your arms over your chest as you stepped out from behind the case.
You craned your neck gently to meet his eyes, though unable to fight the urge to take in his appearance, a quick glance skirting across his body before you stared back up.
You noticed the way his hair had fallen more onto his forehead, espresso colored curls resting just above his eyebrows. He had shed the woolen vest, leaving him in the somewhat see-through fabric of his untucked button-up, though not observable enough to be scandalous. He had fastened a button that was previously neglected, the connection of his collarbones and sternum jutting slightly out of the opening. His slacks were tight around his hips, black leather belt centered—whether or not it held his trousers up—they fell perfectly to his shoes, following the curve of his muscled thighs. His Head Boy pin glistened in the moonlight from the end of the hallway, a reminder of his status above you.
His impeccable manner had disappeared into the dead air, along with your self-control.
While you gazed awkwardly into his eyes, you watched the muscles in his jaw twitch out of your peripheral. A piece of you pleaded with him not to oblige to his orders for once, to let you off the hook just this time.
"I suggest you go to bed," he repeated. You could see the way his teeth grit when he spoke, an odd flash in his eyes had turned them darker—a hint of something you could not quite decipher.
"Must you command me?" you retorted, narrowing your eyes at him.
"Now is not the time to argue," he began, clasping his hands around his back, "your failure to comply will be reported to the Headmaster if you do not return to your dormitory."
A suck-up, you thought harshly, no less than a few words and he's already threatened to report you.
You bit your tongue and turned on your heel, shooting him one last glare as his eyes softened, a knowing smirk growing on his lips.
~ ✯ ~
Not long after your hallway encounter, the competition day had arrived on a cold, snowy day.
You were two weeks into January now, the holiday had passed with so much as a visit to Hogsmeade and cheap chocolates from your acquaintances, but the weeks had passed without words from your rival, a time you were ashamed to admit had bothered you.
You hadn't spoken with Riddle since that night. Despite the harsh manner of your exchange, his glances had remained mostly neutral with the exception of a few sneers when your hand brushed his reaching for a mixing spoon.
As much as you disliked it, you reveled in the darkness of his gazes, critical eyes narrowing into a gaze like a fishing hook that reeled you deep into his trance.
They were equivalent to how a snake views its prey, his pupils seeming to shrink the longer he looked at you. They tore holes into your chest, deep brown irises gazing at you with both pity and dissent. They distracted you, consumed you for a fleeting moment as you attempted to ward off the pink flush you felt rushing through your cheeks, and then he let go.
You needed to focus on your potion, though something was in your mind peeling back the layers of your attention span. You closed your eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, and then looking back to the table and into your cauldron.
The concoction was a pearlescent blue, not quite the ideal swirling white you were aiming for.
You reached to the other side of your mixing station, measuring roughly six heads worth of peppermint powder.
The recipe called for six complete bulbs, but you had learned that powder had been more reliable compared to the estimated weight of full bulbs or pieces of ingredients.
Stirring slowly, you watched as the liquid faded to white, the shimmer of the pearl dust billowing with the movement of your mixing spoon.
You let it simmer slowly for a few minutes before putting out the flame underneath your cauldron and wafting a small amount of it into your nose, inhaling the chalky scent of old books, used parchment, and spearmint.
It felt as though a spurt of electricity had hit you, shivering as it reached your fingertips and the tips of your toes.
Part of your heart dislodged in your chest. It smelled so sweet, strongly of your deepest desire, but the overwhelming sensation didn't overcome your realizations.
You turned your head to him, an inconspicuous attempt. His head was angled into his cauldron, pieces of chocolatey hair falling over his forehead as his fingers deftly dropped six uncrushed heads of peppermint into the abyss of his cauldron.
You tore your gaze away from the sight before you could take in his focused appearance.
You picked up a vial from the end of your desk, grabbing a ladle and slowly funneling the cooled potion into the glass. The liquid shimmered with a white glow, scent pungent before you corked it.
You began to tidy your station for a few minutes before Slughorn's voice rang out from in front of you.
"Everyone is finished, yes?" He asked, clasping his hands in front of him as he looked around the dim room.
You were entirely aware that you and Riddle were the center of attention for Slughorn—a couple older students knew that as well—but you couldn't help the embarrassment creeping into your mind for being so dedicated to a one-sided rivalry you had created for yourself.
Victory was your desire—especially against Riddle—though sometimes your obsession seemed overkill.
Slughorn didn't bother to give an introduction, stalking to the back of the room with a clipboard clasped in his small hands.
The aggressive strike of his quill could be heard throughout the room as you watched him make his rounds, a concentrated expression written on his face as he observed the vials, ingredients, and cauldrons at each station.
As he crept closer to you, his judgements became lengthier and the assault on his parchment died down.
You glanced to Riddle.
No eye contact was made, though you could see that his eyes were stoic and unwavering, the light from the lanterns in the room seemed to reflect off of him like repellent as he gazed toward Slughorn. His back was straight, shoulders held high, a powerful stance that diminished your confidence ever-so-slightly.
You looked back to your station as Slughorn turned the corner, soft eyes peering into your vial. He popped the cork and sniffed it harshly, nodding to himself as he scribbled a note on his parchment. He scanned your table for the labeled vials of your ingredients and utensils, leaning his balding head over the cauldron to observe the leftover potion.
He lifted his head and smiled at you—a toothy grin, rather—and walked off toward Riddle's station.
Your gaze followed him, watching from your peripheral as Riddle's posture straightened, jaw turning up as he watched Slughorn carefully.
His judgement wasn't very long compared to yours, his inspections shorter as if he had anticipated him to make minimal mistakes, if any at all.
Slughorn leaned on his desk to write something, then raised his head and cleared his throat.
"I have our winners," he paused, taking a pair of reading glasses off of his head and placing them on the bridge of his nose.
Your heart was practically running a marathon, hot blood pumping through your veins. It didn't take long for him to decide.
You hoped to Godric that you had outdone him once again, perhaps by the color or stronger scent. All that mattered to you was victory.
This could finally be your moment to one-up him, show him that you truly could be at his level without the favoritism of professors.
The suspense was painful, but it was quickly ended as Slughorn began to speak.
"In first, Tom Riddle with Amortentia."
Your heart dropped to your toes, devastation and bile quickly rising in your throat. You inhaled roughly, turning to Riddle.
As much as you resented it, a beautiful grin had taken over his face. His teeth showed through his lips, cheeks taut with pride and hands gently clasped in front of him.
You gathered your things along with everyone else as Slughorn announced the rest of the winners.
You should've known it would turn out this way. He always won by a miraculous sliver that you were never able to achieve.
Perhaps he was a prodigy, perhaps he was procured with perfection in mind. He was an unbeatable force with an aptitude for intelligence led by unwavering confidence and determination.
Whether you liked it or not, Tom Riddle would always beat you. He would always prove himself victorious with an unfaltering place above you when it mattered most.
You had earned second and a girl by the name of Margaret Greengrass had taken third with her Felix Felicis.
You left the classroom, canvas bag slung over your shoulder.
~ ✯ ~
Placing a battered book in your bag, you lifted your things off the chest at the end of your bed and exited the common room, heading towards the library.
You weren't exactly upset, rather thoroughly disappointed in yourself.
His victory was purely another example under his belt for his academic excellence, you knew that. It had nothing to do with you or your one-sided rivalry, it was simply a game you had made up in your head.
It bothered you more than it should've, practically the last opportunity to prove yourself had before graduation had been squandered by a mere ingredient difference.
You pushed open the heavy doors to the library, wood creaking on its hinges as it fell closed behind you.
The large room was still except for the flickering flames of candles and dimly lit lanterns, the only noise echoing throughout the room was the quiet flicking of pages and, briefly, an owl outside of the large windows on the second floor.
You wondered who could possibly be out at this time with no supervision.
You wandered through the shelves looking for the proper denomination, intending to find a book by a rather intelligent author that you enjoyed learning about in your free time.
You began to walk through the section of tables hidden behind the thick walls of shelves, fingers tracing along the spines of dusty books that surely hadn't been touched in centuries.
"Hello," a voice rang out as you passed an opening in the shelves.
You startled, gripping the strap of your bag as you backpedalled to the small section.
You turned to the table, taking in the shadowy figure in front of you.
"Hello, Riddle," you responded, bowing your head slightly at the dark-haired boy.
"What are you looking for?" He inquired pristinely, cocking his head gently to the side.
"Just a book on potions, that's all," you said simply, attempting to push the slight discomfort of his casual attitude away.
"Reading up for next time?" He teased, a small grin growing on his face.
"No, just something I'm interested in," you spat back, growing more irritated by the second.
"I can help you," he offered, "I'm not doing anything intriguing, after all," he gestured to the sprawled pages on the table illuminated by the white candle on the corner of the table, clearly enhanced by some sort of silly spell.
"I figured someone as stale as you would enjoy assignments like these," you jabbed back, leaning forward and pinching a sheet between your fingers.
"The effects of bone meal on essential potions," you read aloud, placing the parchment back on the table. "Very amusing."
He appeared unphased, though his politeness read as greed to you, coming off in waves of spite rather than a genuine offering. You were sick of his arrogance—intentional or not—especially when his attempts were practically effortless.
"You would have half a mind to leave me alone," you continued, venom lacing your words.
"I am only trying to help you," he retorted simply, "what book are you looking for?"
Almost as if it pained him to do, his jaw tightened slightly in the low light. You scanned the rest of his face, proud yet still cautious that you had dug under his skin ever so slightly. His stern eyes appeared black, the dim flickering of the candle beginning to lose its charm.
"I won't say it again, Tom," you paused, your heart suddenly racing aggressively against your chest. "I do not want your help."
From an outsider's perspective, referring to him by his first name versus his last name meant nothing, but you hadn't referred to him as Tom since second year.
Your eyes met his, a bewildered sense of frailty written on your face. His eyes were dark in the low light, appearance still performing yet the illusion was actively ripping at the seams.
Three buttons laid open against his chest, tie loose and robe discarded over the back of the chair adjacent to him. Sleeves pulled up to his elbows, his hands rested softly against the worn wood.
Silence hung in the air between you, your mild breakdown extremely uncalled for and sore like a bruise on your confidence.
"How long will you refuse this?" He asked, pushing himself off of the chair and stalking towards you, cool and collected in contrast to the loaded question he had asked you.
"What?"
You looked at him, jaw slack as you craned your neck towards him, meeting his eyes with a hesitant glare as his bore into you as if you were transparent.
This was something new, something unwritten and untold. Unable to decipher the emotion swirling in his eyes, you realized then that you hadn't considered that perhaps Tom Riddle was playing, too.
Your breaths mixed in the air, the sweet smell of spearmint hitting your nose as he lingered.
"I'm unsure of what you mean, Riddle," you replied, voice too loud and far too uneasy for your proximity.
"Do you give up?"
"There is nothing to give up on," you spat breathlessly, mouth open slightly as if you couldn't get enough air through your nose.
A man of few words, yes, a clash of grace and greed. A man capable of strong desire and determination, stopping at nothing to achieve the greatness he craved.
Somehow, you hadn't noticed that the aggressively perceptive boy might've realized somewhere along the way that you had made up a game for yourself, entertaining himself with the easy victories and achievements, fueling himself with the sick accomplishment of your repetitive losses.
Something loomed between you, a devastating realization that could send you into a state of insanity, yet you craved the unknown of the boy in front of you.
He smelled strongly of mint and dusty books, a scent you had tried to disregard since you became aware of it. The sight of him in front of you was overwhelming, a presence so powerful against you that you weren't sure if you could preserve yourself much longer.
"You are not in control, Tom," you murmured, voice much weaker than intended under the pressure of your interaction.
"Neither are you."
Of course you weren't.
You desperately wanted to be, to have reign over your emotions that you fought to keep away in order to focus on something other than him. He was a mere motivation for you, a light to lead you to your full potential, but you couldn't deny that he was the most alluring thing you had ever encountered.
You searched his eyes as if they held the secret to your irate behavior, but you found nothing except for his unreadable, barricaded mind.
His hand reached out in the darkness, nestling cold fingertips softly against your cheek.
The temperature was shocking, though he spoke silent words as they gently danced down your face and caressed the small curve of your neck.
Letting out a pained and hesitant huff, you pushed your lips against his with such intensity that you weren't sure you'd stay standing, hand reaching out to his shirt in a desperation you were ashamed to have.
His body caught you with ease, one hand tightening ever-so-slightly around your neck and the other resting itself lightly on the high of your hip.
As if his kiss had rid your troubles, you melted into his touch like gallium. You could feel your conscience fighting against your desires, screaming in the back of your mind that this is exactly what he wanted, for you to cave under his pressure and allow his triumph.
Admittedly, you had forgotten all about the game as the warmth of his lips clouded your mind and cradled your malleable body between the pads of his fingers, the hardness of his chest anchoring you to him.
His hand left your throat, dragging down your hips and to your waist as he pushed you gently against the bookcase behind you, fingers sliding underneath the thin fabric of your button-up.
He muttered something unintelligible as he slid his hands across the expanse of your stomach and to your small, lacy bra, beginning to gently knead your breasts through the cups as his lips trailed to your jawline.
You wanted to speak, protest his actions despite the fiendish craving for his touch ravaging your body, though the only thing that you'd managed to form was a gentle moan into the quiet air.
His lips kissed harsher and hungrier as they descended lower, teeth tugging at the sensitive skin on your neck as if he meant to leave his mark for others to see.
Your breath was shaky, processing the excellent feelings overtaking your body as you closed your eyes and allowed your head to fall back against the books with a quiet, relieved sigh.
His hands returned to the front of your shirt, deftly undoing the buttons and kissing along the exposed skin as he undid each one. Goosebumps quickly flooded your skin in response to the delightful mix of cold air and the warmth of his mouth.
"Tom," you pleaded, unsure whether or not it was in protest or desire.
He hummed in response, and you could feel the grin on his face against your skin as he came back up and bit gently at the base of your neck.
You whimpered softly, hands gripping onto his shoulders and migrating around his neck as you pulled him closer.
"T-Tom, I don't want your help—" you stammered, eyes fluttering in the darkness. You should've stopped it, but the pleasure shrouded your reasoning as you looked up to the intricate ceiling, a quiet moan escaping your lips and betraying your objection against him.
"This isn't about help anymore, darling," he cooed quietly against your skin, calm and collected as the words rolled off of his tongue, as if it wasn't the nicest thing he'd called you in seven years.
The name stung in your chest like a paper cut, cutting the surface just deep enough to allow the feeling to flow.
You began to succumb under his touch, knees beginning to give out as you allowed him to touch you in ways you'd only dreamt of—specifically the ones you'd woke up in a cold sweat after.
You placed your chin heavily against the top of his head, his fingers unclasping your bra and allowing it to fall from your shoulders.
Your hand traveled down from his neck, feeling the stringy muscles of his body as you trailed along, landing on the thick leather of his belt.
If you were going to lose this game, you'd lose it in furious pleasure with the person you loathed the most.
You began to undo his belt with one hand, allowing him to continue his mouth's rampage down your body. He grunted as you brushed against the harsh bulge in his pants, his restraint faltering as much as yours was.
Your hand stuttered as his tongue swirled around your nipple, fingers kneading the soft tissue, a surprised high-pitched whine forcing itself out of you at the heat of his mouth.
It was almost like he knew exactly what you were thinking without a signal, uncovering your desires as you thought of them.
You keened forward, the hand around his neck migrating to the thick roots of his hair and tugging harshly as his teeth chastely bit at the supple flesh of your chest.
Just as you'd thought of it, his mouth found yours once more as he began to tug your skirt upwards onto the high bones of your hips. Dragging down at a painfully slow pace, his thin fingers met the heat of your core and brushed gently across the wet fabric of your panties.
"How are you—" you began, gasping as he pressed into your clit through the thin lace.
"Hmm?" he murmured against you, kissing against your jaw and back up to your lips.
Embarrassingly enough, words felt too difficult to form and push out as his mouth tore you apart. You'd managed strictly his name at this point, as if it was the only thing you'd remembered. It felt like he was prying you open with gentle gestures and feather-light touch, something you'd never felt before.
You hadn't experienced much, but when you did, it was half-assed and hardly fun for you. But this was different, fueled by a disgusting desire you had tried to bury for years.
He pulled your panties aside slowly, the coldness of his fingers sending shivers down your spine as he invited himself between your folds, your hands now shaking and struggling to finish undoing his belt.
He pressed into your clit with pressure pleasant enough to make you drool, his pointer finger pressing at the entrance of your dripping cunt.
You quickly became a mumbling, babbling mess of whimpers and moans at his touch, no longer afraid of who might find out about the sinful truth that festered under the surface of your skin.
His fingers left your clit entirely, pressing two slowly into your sopping heat tantalizingly slow. The stretch quickly dissipated into delicious pressure against your walls, your body craving the unfamiliar sensation of something other than your own hands.
"Tom," you pleaded breathlessly, tugging at the nape of his neck. Your hand dropped from his belt entirely, the clasp now undone and hanging open, loose.
"You like how my fingers split you open, pretty girl?" he taunted, voice low and eyes practically slits. Dark and clouded with lust, his eyes followed your body up and down, pausing to watch his fingers disappear into your pretty cunt.
You nodded feverishly, head tipping back into the spines of old books with a small thud.
His fingers worked you open with unfaltering expertise, pushing deeper with each thrust until they disappeared inside of you, pressing into the sweet, mushy spot that worked a whine from you each time he touched it.
"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his free hand reaching up to grab hold of the sensitive skin of your neck and forcing your eyes onto his.
Sharp and narrowed, they bored into your face. His jaw clenched with restraint, his calm demeanor quickly ripping at the seams as you watched him come undone in front of you.
The restriction on your neck and the quickening pace of his fingers left little room for you to think clearly, your vision beginning to turn black at the edges as the coil in your abdomen grew tighter.
"Tom, I'm—" you choked out, your hand reaching up to clench on top of his.
You hadn't felt something this impeccable in your life, the delicious desperation between the both of you grew the tension in your stomach and made you even more eager to feel your release on his fingers.
His pace quickened without a word, pressing harder against your sweet spot as the coil snapped.
Your vision went white, the grip on your neck disappearing as you folded into his body, your face pressing against the thick muscle of his shoulder.
His fingers left your cunt with an obscene noise before he placed them in his mouth and licked them clean, a pleased hum leaving his lips.
"So sweet..." he whispered into your ear, tenderly pushing you back against the bookcases and away from his body once more as he scanned over the wrecked image of you.
You struggled to catch your breath, face turned up at him with a weak smile and flickering eyelids.
His hands traveled down to his trousers, pushing the silver buckle out of the way as he unbuttoned them, the black waistband of his underwear peeking through the top.
He reached down, pulling his cock free from the tight restraint of his uniform.
You couldn't help the slight drop of your jaw as you took in the sight. He was long and thick, the leaking pink tip still vibrant in the minimal light. You hadn't expected him to have such a desirable and appetizing look, though you'd figured he wouldn't walk around with confidence like that if he couldn't own up to it.
He pumped himself once or twice before he grabbed your forearm, pulling you back against his chest and flipping you around, pushing the fronts of your thighs into the table as he bent you over.
The tip pressed lightly into your already ruined cunt, teasing you with the idea of pain and pleasure as he ran his hands up and down the sides of your body, taking in the vision that he'd surely remember the next time he thought of you.
"Tell me you want it," he insisted with a brief slap against your ass, squeezing the soft flesh in his fist as he rubbed away the sting.
"Please," you whimpered against the wood, the mixture of his hands and the weight against your core simply too much.
"Good girl," he muttered before rutting into you with unbridled need.
You practically sucked him in with a scream, the excessive slick was enough lubricant to allow him inside, though not enough to weaken the pain of the stretch.
His fingers dug into your hips as his pace grew faster, the occasional tug of your hair or grope of your ass adding layers of pleasure that you were unaware you'd enjoy.
You were a mess of moans, head resting limply against the table as he pounded into you with the least amount of restraint you'd ever seen in him.
"More, please," you begged, hand reaching back onto his tight grip on your hips to ground yourself.
His pace rapidly became more sloppy as he pushed in and out of you, the sounds of his grunting, your pleasured babbling, and sticky skin slapping against each other was enough to lock the memory of his cock ruining you into your mind forever.
You felt the coil tightening once more, the tip bouncing into your sweet spot every time he pushed himself impossibly deeper, and your eyes closed as they rolled back into your head.
A puddle of drool was surely underneath you by now, your legs going stiff as you came undone and pulsed around him.
He groaned at the tightening of your cunt, aggressive pace becoming inconsistent and needier as he grabbed hold of your hips with a grip that would surely leave marks in the morning.
"Fuck," he groaned, pushing into you one last time with insurmountable force as he came undone inside of you, the sticky ropes of release filling you to the brim.
He pulled out of you with a wet pop, pulling your skirt back down over your thighs as he pulled you up, your back against his chest.
Your breaths mingled in the air as you both processed what you'd just done, bodies sweaty and sticky with sex as you pressed yourself against him.
You definitely weren't thinking clearly, the airiness of your head still present and clouded with enjoyment.
You turned your chin up to him, snaking your hand across the back of his throat and pulling him down for a soft, appreciative kiss.
"What did you just do to me?" you whispered against his mouth, legs still shaking underneath you.
He pulled away slowly with a cheeky grin, fingers brushing against your neck.
"Let me help you now, yeah?" he teased, looking down at you.
His hair was messy from your tugging, lips swollen and coated in a thin layer of saliva. His cheeks were a plushy pink, flushed by heat, and eyes hid a thankful, soft glance beneath pleasured clouds, the lust still evident in his blown pupils.
"Let me help you first, Riddle," you murmured, following his gaze down as you dropped to your knees.
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