• A lost puppy? No. A lethal predator in silk robes.
tom was never one to show when he liked someone, he liked to feel in control. you however, made it extremely difficult for him. everything you did bothered him. especially when you thought you could just talk and laugh with whoever you wanted to. he didn't understand why you needed someone else in your life, only you should be laughing and talking to him. the others didn’t deserve that. only he did.
its the main reason he hates when your out of his sight and reach for to long, he has no idea what your doing, or who your talking to, and that angers him. thinking about someone looking at you for to long sent a pit of fire in his stomach. so it wasn't his fault that he followed you around everywhere like a lost puppy. you made him like this. it was your fault, he thought.
"sit next to me." tom had pulled you over to the empty seat next to him before anyone else in the class had a chance to sit there. you went to say something, but you couldn't even get your words out before he started pleading with you in that silken, lethal tone of his for you to to just sit there with him.
"please, I don't really understand this lesson." he did tho, he was top of the class.
he wanted to make you feel like you had a choice to sit next to him or not. to make you feel like "its only logical" to sit next to your best friend and give him the help he so desperately needs.
Warnings:: Possessiveness, jealousy,casual sexual relationship, semi-public,18+
Everyone at Hogwarts thought you and Tom Riddle were just best friends.
But best friends didn’t sneak into each other’s beds after curfew, panting against each other’s mouths while he pushed his cock deep inside you, one hand over your mouth so no one heard. Best friends didn’t sit in the library with your skirt draped across his lap while his fingers curled inside you, your head thrown back against his shoulder as you tried not to whimper loud enough for anyone to notice.
And best friends definitely didn’t end parties with you bent over his desk in the Prefect’s office, his teeth sunk into your shoulder.whispering in your ear, “Say you’re mine again. Louder.”
But that was exactly what you and Tom did.
To everyone else, you were too close, but still just friends. They saw the little things. How Tom’s hand always lingered on your lower back, how he tugged you into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, how you two disappeared together more often than not. They teased you both relentlessly, “Just admit it already!”. but you only laughed, brushing it off with a sly smile.
“Tom’s just my best friend.”
And Tom never corrected you.
Because when you said it, you were usually saying it while your thighs were still trembling from him fucking you against the stone walls of the dungeons. Or while your lips were swollen from his kisses, your underwear stuffed into his pocket because he liked keeping little trophies of how messy he could make you.
At Slytherin parties, Tom’s possessiveness became stronger. He always watched you. The way your hips swayed when you danced, the way boys hovered too close when you laughed. His glass of firewhisky was always half-forgotten in his hand because his real focus was you.His dick already hard.
You remember one boy in particular who didn’t take the hint. His hand lingered, his mouth brushing too close to your ear.
And then Tom was there in a second.
His arm circled your waist, yanking you flush against him. His breath was hot against your neck as he spoke. “She’s not interested.”
Hard to guess how it ended, isn't it?
Your muffled moans against his palm only made him thrust harder, chasing the sound of your whimpers, the feel of your cunt tightening around him with every stroke.
When he spilled inside you, his forehead pressed to the back of your neck, Tom didn’t let you move. He stayed buried deep, one hand still tight on your hip.
And later, when you both walked back into the party, your lips swollen, your panties missing, Tom’s smirk said everything no one else knew.
Let them think you were just friends. Let them joke.
Mattheo likes to feel your hands wrapping around his arm at every moment he can. Feeling your hands roaming around, holding into his bicep firmly, sometimes even resting your cheek against it. He liked it when there was fabric in the middle, when there was nothing of the sort –making him want to use slevesless t shirts more often-, and even when you two were laying down on his bed with nothing in between you both.
He just loves it. When you are walking next to him and you hold his arm for support. When you need to adjust your shoes and you hold onto him. When you hug his arm while standing next to each other, seeking confort in him without even realizing. He doesn't shows it, but all those gestures makes him lose his whole mind in seconds.
“Hi Matty” you whisper, locking oyur arm with his, resting against his bicep “I missed you today”
“Hello, my love”
Maybe he just like to feel you close.
Tom Riddle
When you get mad:
To be honest, you didn’t really get mad that much. It was in rare ocassions or something really important because in general you were a chill person that didn’t care much about what others think about you. So it was weird for you to even raise your voice at people.
Except, of course, if they are talking about your boyfriend. Yeah, Tom was a sadistic prick most of the time with those who deserved it. (And with those who don't too) You knew he won’t hesitate to hex someone, specially if they are looking at you for more than two seconds in the wrong way. So, naturally, you were as protective of him as he was of you, normally making people cry with just a few words.
Different to Tom who used his wand, you went straight to the words. And how much he enjoys that. He just think you are the most attractive creature in the whole world –magical and non magical- just for being mean to someone else. Even if they deserved it or no. He just liked hearing your voice, elegantly shutting down someone else.
“That was the most attractive thing my eyes have ever seen… and I see you everday, love”
And he’ve never hesitated to tell you it.
Theodore Nott
When you speak in italian.
Theo was a little surprise when he realice your learnt italian just for him. You were always catching some phrases here and then, and with some books help, you manage to understand more than you will ever imagine. But this time he notice that you weren’t just cassualy learning it, but more like you were really taking your time to translate something else other than his curses.
That’s why he was so surprise when he heard you actually speaking it. The first time he heard you? Oh boy, he was in heaven. Yeah, you have a little accent impossible to avoid, and some words were a bit rusty. But he didn’t mind. He loved it. He even looked at you in silence for a whole moment, making you ask yourself if you said something really bad. Honestly, you woulnd’t be surprise because you’ve been practicing some words with Mattheo and you ended up cursing him withouth him even knowing. But no, your boyfriend’ silence came from the fact that he was shocked. Something he let you know when he smirked like he won the lottery, asking you to say something else in his native language just for him.
You might not be allow to speak english ever again.
“Are you trying to kill me or something, tesoro?” he lean in for a deep kiss “Because it’s working”
It was working better than any curse.
*Tesoro: My treasure”
Regulus Black
When you sleep on his bed.
Regulus knew you have troubles sleeping sometimes, for not saying most of the nights. It was kinda hard for you to close your eyes and relax when there was no one next to you, him to be more specific. There has to be lights on, meaning the plastic stars glued to your ceiling -a gift from him-, so you could rest at night when he wasn’t there.
But even like that sometimes you just couldn’t manage to rest properly. Thats why you sneak around the hallways to get to his dorms, getting under the blankets to lay down next to him, hugging him from behind to feel his presence there with you.
Sometimes, you even go there when he isn’t in the room, covering your body with the blankets and inhaling the perfume on his pillow. One that he didn’t tell you, but it was him who sprayed it with his cologne almost every day for you to be able to feel him there even if he wasn’t physically.
The image he loves the most is when he comes back from quiddicht practice, just to find you hugging said pillow, sleeping like you normally can’t just because you feel him near you with just that smell.
“Reg?”
“I’m here, pretty” he tossed his jumper to the side “Keep sleeping, I’m right here”
He was, indeed, right next to you.
Blaise Zabini.
When you maintain his eye contact.
You weren’t really shy when it came to him. You were confortable around Blaise, enough to do a lot of things you would never do with someone else. And that includes not giving in when he helds eye contact with you.
And he likes that. He likes how you keep looking at him after you caught him staring right at you, offering him a little smile of fake innocence. As if you didn’t just melt him with just that gesture. As if you weren’t aware of what you did to him with just a simple look at your eyes.
“Blaise, are you with us, mate?”
“Not now, Malfoy. I’m having a staring contest”
One he wasn’t planning on loosing.
Draco Malfoy.
When you wear heels.
Draco comes from a family that is used to have elegant parties at least once a month. It’s not something new to anyone, even less for you. But, to tell the truth, it was something you had to get used to when you started dating him. The fancy dishes, the stares, the expensive dresses.
And the heels, of course.
You weren’t used to wear them until he bought you your first pair of heels. He did it because he saw you looking at them at Hogsmade, thinking you would want to have them for the next gala. But in the end, he fooled himself considering he just had to see you, ending up mesmerized by just how good you walk in them. It was like he fall in love all over again the first time he saw you using his gift.
authors note that I’ll update to stay in touch w/ u guys and mainly just to yap bc I don’t like filling up my feed/blog w/ posts that aren’t fics💋: I UPDATED THIS HOE FINALLY!! also I know I've taken a break from writing for Spencer I have sooo many fics for him im debating on structuring my master list differently but idk ugh. I’m so in love with all my readers I love u what would I do without yall. I LOVE ALL YOUR REQUESTS IM GETTING TO THEM AFAP.
Note: All of my fics that have Hotch’s daughter!reader are not connected unless specified. They all are the same reader idea but not connected in a storyline💋
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⭑ summary: You spent six years at Hogwarts perfecting the art of invisibility. No friends. No enemies. No one ever looked close enough to notice you, to question you. To see you. You learned to embrace the arms of loneliness in the hallways of Hogwarts, and now, in your final year, you thought it would be no different. You would focus on your studies, drown in your quietness, and make it out of the hellhole you called home. Get a job as a healer apprentice. Get a place of your own. You had it all planned out. But once you catch the eyes of the infamous Tom Riddle, everything changes. Catching the eyes of the devil leaves you tangled in webs of dirty little secrets, ambition, and now that you've unlocked the monster's cage, he won't stop until he's corrupted you. Now it's only a matter of time before you'll give in to the darkness or let it swallow you to your destruction. MINORS DNI PLEASE. please remember to reblog and leave a comment if you can, it helps a lot. thank you ♡
⭑ pairing: tom riddle x reader
⭑ genre: series, eventual smut, angst, dark, 18+
⭑ warnings: ominous tom riddle, reader is a loner and some dark shenanigans, a lot of potion talking (i tried my best to be accurate).
⭑ word count: 9k
⭑ links: series masterlist 𝜗ৎ my masterlist 𝜗ৎ inbox 𝜗ৎ part one
⭑ author's note: hey, loves! i'm sooo sorry for taking so long to update, life has been crazy :') hopefully i'll be able to pop out more frequent updates, love you all ♡ ps this is not beta read and english is not my first language, so forgive for any mistakes <3
⭑ if you would like to recieve formal updates, i have it cross-posted on wattpad and ao3 ♡
Tom scanned you in a way that sent shivers plucking each bone of your spine. You’ve never been so thoroughly looked at before, as if he were picking apart every part of you on a cellular level, seeking to understand the enigma that built you.
It was the way you looked at him in the courtyard.
“I’ve been watching you,” Tom says in a dry tone. Blood left your chapped lips at that brief moment, your brain scrambling for answers. For a reaction.
You knew it already—the heaviness of his gaze lately was impossible to ignore. But saying it out loud let all speculation burst into the air of reality, one that hit your chest so hard, breathing seemed like a faraway concept.
“Why?” That was all you could formulate. Your brain was still mush, still not comprehending reality as it formed around you, and Tom only blinked in response. He noticed your confusion, your daze—now that you were standing right in front of him, he did not need to make an effort to seek your reactions out in the darkness.
“A personal….interest of mine.”
You couldn’t fathom it. It was like an alien concept—interest. In you. Tom Riddle had a personal interest in you. Was this another dream? Or perhaps a nightmare? And yet, it all seemed too real to be your mind playing tricks on you again.
You blinked, red painting the skin of your ears as your eyes shook. You physically couldn’t form words, but Tom didn’t need them. It was like he looked right through you, or tried to, for a purpose. Your curiosity now burned inside you to understand. And for the first time, you let it create arson inside you.
Tom, then, made a swift move to grab the idling potions book in your hand, “Too advanced. You have no skillset like this yet.” He made a movement with his wand and put the book back, and you followed it with shaken eyes. You were about to open your mouth when, “You follow everything by the book, don’t you? Breakfast, lunch, classes, and even curfew. You never did step out, did you?”
Your lips moved, but it seemed your voice was held in a tight knot at the depths of your throat. You couldn’t fathom how he could gather so much information about you, observe you, within two days of school. It shouldn’t be—
Your eyes grew wide then, when realization dawned upon you like an ice-cold bucket. Tom paid no attention to you anymore, his gaze now diverted to the infinite wall of books behind you, his fingertips caressing each spine with a delicate caution.
“You—how long have you been watching me?” Your voice came out faint, but Tom didn’t flinch. Paid no mind to it, really, and continued searching.
“Since last year.” He said it with uneasy neutrality as he continued to focus on searching for whatever book he needed to. An invisible fist punched the air out from inside your lungs at his response.
Since last year.
Tom Riddle had been watching you since last year. The concept was so absurd, you almost chuckled. Almost.
But the sound died before it reached your lips, because Tom’s tone had not been one of jest. And it wasn’t laced with strings of unnoticed cruelty, either. It had been factual, precise. Denoting an incident like a desensitized surgeon.
You hadn’t felt his gaze on you for almost a year. You always observed him like you would stars, tried to place him as you did with constellations, and yet you hadn’t solved the one right in front of you: his eyes on you. Burning you. For almost a year.
A goddamn year.
You hadn’t felt it. His gaze certainly didn’t prickle your skin as the sun did. It was far away, you concluded, like a quiet satellite observing your world from light-years away.
Had your mind been playing tricks on you for seven years? Were you not apt for the art of observation? Was your body not made of the shadow you were certain plagued you?
“A—a year?” The question tore itself out of you again. Tom paid no mind to you, treating you like a spirit roaming behind him, as everyone did. But he knew you—now you definitely knew he did.
Your lips parted—was this how he tricked you into thinking you were a ghost in his life? A light breeze not worth the attention? Perfecting the art of ignoring you? You thought his ignorance of your existence was natural, like every other student, not a Shakespearean-worthy theatrical performance you had just witnessed.
“You cannot—it can’t be possible! I would have felt you gazing at me for a year—“
“Ah, here it is.” He ignored your chatter and grabbed a purple book at the corner.
You licked your lips, dry as parchment. “You can’t mean—”
Tom finally turned, the purple book balanced easily in his hand, and fixed you with that same impenetrable stare. It couldn’t be possible to not feel such a gaze like his. It was a magnet, it pulled you into the abyss of dark oblivion of his pupils. It just—it wasn’t possible.
“Do you believe observation requires permission?” His tone was soft, steady, but sharp enough to carve into your nerves.
You blinked, his words holding a place inside your head. “Well, certainly not, but people feel gazes on them—“
“You’ve observed people intensely, but they never felt your gaze, now did they?” He stepped forward. The creak of wood, his impenetrable stare, his mere presence thickened the air with that familiar green poison that choked any oxygen inside you. Tom tilted his head, “Why should you ever be an exception to another’s stare?”
Every word from his lips wormed into your mind, eating every memory of your observations, unraveling the careful vines you had wound around it.
How many hours had you spent staring at people, dissecting their ticks, their subtle tells—the way Darya’s lips twitched when she was jealous, the way Ophelia’s eyes twinkled in insecurity, or the way Slughorn’s eyes flickered toward his favorites like fireflies to honey? And none of them had ever noticed. They lived on, unaware, as you quietly stole pieces of them and placed them carefully into your collection of details.
But you would have never thought you would ever be a muse.
You were the quiet artist who painted other people's lives with your soul closed and lonely hands. Never the muse.
It seemed you were so convinced of your invisibility that you let it crack right under your nose, and the dark eyes before you were the only ones who heard it. Saw it. Investigated shards that led to you.
“Shit.” You mumbled under your breath. But still, what curiosity could ever spark an interest in you of all people? Your life was quiet. It was boring. Not even poets could ever romanticize the mundane out of your grey days.
And so, the question came out again, “Why?”
“You certainly ask many questions for someone who thinks of themselves as quiet.” A faint curl tiggen on his lips, questioning you like he knew you.
Without another word, he extended the purple book toward you, his fingers still loosely gripping the spine. “Here,” he said, voice quiet. “Have it. Study it. Thank me later.”
Your breath caught as the book pressed into your palms. Its leather was worn, edges frayed, but when your fingertips brushed the cover it thrummed faintly, like something alive lurked within the ink. You looked down at it, then up again—only to find his cloak already swaying, his back turned as he began to walk away.
For a heartbeat, you stayed frozen, trapped between disbelief and the lingering venom of his gaze. The world blurred, soundless, as if he’d dragged you into his orbit and then left you stranded in the stillness he carried with him.
Then it hit you.
“Hey!” Your voice cut through the hush of the library, louder than you intended. You bolted after him, clutching the book to your chest, your shoes echoing on the stone floor. “I watch you, too, you know.”
Tom stopped suddenly and looked back. His eyes froze your veins, and with a willpower pulled from the devil underground, you forced out the words stuck inside you, “You don't follow rules, do you? I mean, to others it may be that you do—you're good at hiding.” Words came out smoothly before you could cut them with a knife, “Today, in potions. You didn't follow the rules on the potions book. You grabbed other ingredients.
Tom smirked. There was a twinkle of intrigue in the way he looked at you, one dark enough to dismantle souls. You preferred when he was ignorant to your existence—or at least pretended to be. His attention created knots in anyone’s existence, and in yours, he would be a hazard for your uncomplicated goal.
“Ah, quite observant of you. Perhaps you are less daft than I give you credit for.” He said your name in the end, and the way it sounded on his tongue was now etched on every wall of your brain, stitched into the fibres of your memories.
It sounded wrong and right at the same time, dressed in silk and knives.
Your grip tightened around the book. “You’re avoiding the point. You didn’t follow the instructions in Potions.”
“Oh?” he asked, almost lazily. “Didn’t I?”
“You didn’t,” you insisted, before your courage slipped away. “The roses—you didn't grab them as everyone else did. Instead, you grabbed moonstones. And the—” you inhaled, “—the Jobberknoll feathers. You didn’t stir them clockwise. You waited.”
Silence stretched for a heartbeat. Then another.
Tom liften one eyebrow. He looked almost intrigued, and perhaps, for the first time, surprised by actions of another. “My, my, you do watch,” he murmured.
You swallowed. “So how? You can’t just guess with Veritaserum. One wrong step and it’s useless—or worse.”
Tom tilted his head slightly, as if considering how much rope to hand you. “You’re making a mistake,” he said at last.
You bristled. “Excuse me?”
“Do you really think a textbook provided by a school that censors certain types of spells is reliable?” he took a step forward, and you gulped thickly, your lips going dry once more.
Tom’s shadow stretched over you like something sentient—calculated, patient, waiting. His voice dropped into something softer, yet still sharp enough for goosebumps to appear all over your delicate skin.
“Do you truly believe,” he murmured, “that Hogwarts of all places would ever allow students access to the real method of brewing a potion the Ministry itself fears?”
Your breath stilled.
“Slughorn’s class was merely a performance of sorts. To make passive students not dare to think they are being choked by limitations.” Tom’s eyes narrow and his voice gets thicker, almost….venomous. “The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping—“
“Is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison.” You murmur, and Tom raises an eyebrow once more.
“Hm, so you know Dostoyevsky?”
You fight the urge to squirm under his intense gaze, your mind still under the hazy effect of his voice and his dark yet magnetic eyes. You stare at the bookshelf behind him, avoiding the heaviness of his pupils on you, “Yes.”
“One of the few muggles that ever piqued my interest. A shame he was cursed for a life so….ordinary, really.”
A quiet breath escaped you, barely audible. “Why are you telling me all this?”
His head tilted like a cat regarding something newly alive under its paw.
“You wouldn’t…” your voice faltered, tightening around the truth you feared, “say these things to just anyone. Would you?”
A slow smirk tugged at his mouth. “Smart girl,” he said softly, the praise somehow feeling like a hand closing around your throat. “No. I certainly wouldn’t waste my breath on just anyone.”
Your fingers tightened around the book again. “Then—what is it you want?”
He stepped closer.
The air changed.
It thickened. Burned. As if every book behind you was aflame and you were choking on its carbon monoxide.
Tom leaned in with the deliberate grace of a predator who never rushed for his kill. The proximity pushed the breath from your lungs, leaving your ribs tight and trembling.
You weren’t used to this. To such proximity by another human being. The most you’ve gotten were slaps from your insufferable aunt, while she screamed how much she hated you. And when you kissed your crush in a Muggle school when you were ten, and he screamed to the teacher that the witch had tried to kidnap him.
Another so close to you should have repulsed you. Should have triggered your instinct to take flight and never look back.
And yet not a bone in your body moved because it felt…exhilarating. New. Alien.
“What do I want?” he echoed, voice dropping into something dangerously intimate.
“I want to tutor you.”
He leaned back, expression as neutral as always. You didn’t catch a smirk, not even an eyebrow twitch. It was as if the moment never happened. And perhaps it was all in your head, your touch-starved hormones sending false signals to your body.
You blinked. Once. Twice. As if the floor had just tilted under you.
“Tutor—me?”
A faint curl touched his lips. “You certainly need it. If you continue on your current path, you won’t receive more than an Acceptable in Potions. If that.” His gaze dipped briefly to the book pressed to your chest. “And you want to pass with at least an Exceed Expectations in your N.E.W.T’s, or am I wrong?”
“You are not wrong, but…..” Heat rushed uninvited to your ears. “What’s in it for you? You never tutored anyone, not that anyone knows of.”
Tom’s eyes sharpened, darkening like ink poured into water.
He didn’t smile this time.
“A favour,” he said simply.
Your stomach dropped. “What kind of favour?”
Tom blinked, his face as impassive as ever, stone cold. No smirk, no eyebrow lift.
“I will tell you when I need it.”
You gulped thickly, heat spreading through your neck. You’ve heard of this—men taking advantage of vulnerable women like you for sexual favours. Just last week, you heard your roommate saying a Gryffindor man tried bargaining a Quidditch favour for nights with her.
Men were becoming too audacious, and you couldn’t submit yourself to such a nightmare. You were quiet, but you had self-respect.
“I am not a whore.”
The words tumbled out louder than you meant, sharp enough to slice the silence between the shelves.
Tom Riddle’s expression shifted.
A flicker of surprise cracked through that perfect composure—the faintest widening of his eyes, a subtle stutter in the set of his jaw.
“A whore?” he repeated, as though tasting the word on his tongue.
Heat flooded your cheeks. “I do not want your help for you to use me for sexual favours—”
Tom cut you off with a soundless exhale, something halfway between disbelief and irritation.
“Do you truly think I need to bargain for sex?”
The contempt in his tone was so understated, so cleanly delivered, that it made your shame burn hotter.
He stepped forward—slowly, deliberately—until the distance between you felt perilously thin.
“If I wanted a warm body,” he said, voice low with an edge of ice, “Hogwarts is full of desperate, shallow-minded girls who would throw themselves at me with no hesitation.”
Your throat tightened.
“I do not barter for things I can acquire without cost,” he continued. “And certainly not for something as… trivial… as sex.”
Your heart hammered so violently you wondered if he could hear it.
Tom leaned back, his face impassive as he looked at you up and down, eyes heavy with judgment and something almost like…disgust.
“And you,” he added, eyes sweeping over your unnervingly precise features, “are certainly not someone I would approach for that.”
You weren’t sure whether the sting that followed was relief or an unexpected bruise.
You wanted to ask what he meant by that, but you shut your throat before the words could tumble out. Questions lead to answers your ears didn’t want, and you certainly learned your lesson with the ones that spilled out from you today.
You stood quietly, ignoring the embarrassment from moments ago, and pondered on Tom’s proposition. You needed a good grade on your N.E.W.T’s; that was one fact you could not deny. To reach your destiny as a healer, you needed a chunk of good grades, and potions were a necessary one.
On the other hand, help from Tom Riddle was like bargaining with the devil himself. Tempting, and perhaps could lead to your success, but at any time, he could pull the strings to your own doom and watch you fall with a smirk on his face.
And yet…
Your mind flickered back to Slughorn’s voice announcing the upcoming evaluation, to your cauldron stained with failure, to the roadmap of your future splintering if you couldn’t pass the one subject that mattered most.
It wouldn’t be forever. And once this tumultuous time in your life passed, even if your invisibility could be tarnished for a second, the road would turn straight again, with no distractions. As if this sidetrack never existed in the first place.
And finally, you made up your mind.
“I accept your offer, then.”
Tom smirked and shook your hand. You felt it burning under his palm and your chest felt hollow, as if you’d temporarily sold your soul to him. To the devil.
His grip was deliberate, controlled, and far too steady for the chaos erupting in your chest. A chill climbed your spine, then heat flushed in its wake, blooming under your skin like ink spreading through water.
It felt wrong.
It felt dangerous.
It felt… inevitable.
“Wise decision,” he murmured. “We start tomorrow straight after class. Meet me in the astronomy tower.”
You opened your mouth—perhaps to agree, perhaps to protest—but Tom had already turned, cloak brushing the stone floor with surgical precision as he moved deeper into the library’s shadows.
He didn’t look back.
You swallowed thickly and clutched the book in your hand to your chest, as if it could save your fast-beating heart.
Your mind then wandered—had you sealed your doom or opened your fate?
You couldn’t decide which was worse.
The ground shook under you. You could feel the pathway you so intricately planned for your future cracking right underneath your nose. The sphere of what you deemed reality shattered, and you were now vulnerable to the whispers of questioning.
No, you couldn't let his silky voice worm inside your head. Tom Riddle was solely a parasite that you could easily cure within a week. You certainly weren't interested in keeping his eyes on you for longer than that, and so, you would get over with his tutoring and swiftly do his favour—just get it over with so your paths can never cross again.
You shook your head, running away from your thoughts and walked to the table where your bag resided. You were about put the book Tom gave to you inside, but you hesitated for a second. You traced the beat-up cover with your fingers, your thoughts running wild, dissecting every word, every second of your interaction.
You weren't daft, you knew this was a part of some bigger plan inside his head. Observing Tom the way you did, for as long as you did, you knew everything he did was deliberate. Every move, every smile, every word that came out of his sultry lips was a chess move in a bigger game inside his head.
But you just couldn't figure out what he wanted with someone like you. The no-face, the invisible background character that served as a void in important people's lives.
You sighed and placed the book inside the bag—there was no way you would be able to focus on studying potions after the day you had. You knew your brain would be distracted dissecting your interaction with Tom Riddle to pay attention to instructions on how to brew a potion.
That night, sleep became a foe once more, and when it came time for amends, you dreamt of sultry lips and fangs.
The next morning bled grey through the dungeon windows. A bitter light shone on you, determined to remind you of the hollow in your eyes. Your body moved on autopilot, pulling on robes, knotting your tie, brushing your hair back into a disguise of normalcy.
Acid pooled inside your stomach as a new feeling submerged—uncertainty.
Before, your day was predictable. Every step was the same, every interaction could be molded into a short and boring script no writer would ever bother to read.
But now it was a blank page.
Your hands twitched at the thought. You hated it. Blank pages meant risk; it meant anything, and everything could happen. And the fact that a dark ink called Tom Riddle would stain those same pages made you uneasy. Weary of your surroundings.
The corridors hummed with the morning rush, but their rhythm felt different. You kept your eyes low, watching polished shoes click against the flagstones and chatter pollute the hallway. You usually slipped into that current unnoticed, but today it was as if the tide threatened to pull you under.
You entered the dining hall swiftly as you always did, but the air felt heavier. Your eyes immediately found a certain Slytherin, who sat at the far end corner with other ambitious and pure-blooded peers. He ate quietly, but you saw his gaze—he was observing his surroundings. Like a hawk. Like you.
You went to your regular seat at the sidelines and grabbed the bread you always did. The hall buzzed with noise, yet every sound rang muted—too far, too hollow. You pretended to study the surface of your plate, but your peripheral vision was traitorous. It kept flicking toward him.
His presence was always a heavy one, but now it called your eyes like a siren whisper, one you could not resist. You just had to look at him. Perhaps you were waiting for something to happen, now that it was revealed he knew you. Observed you.
Your mind whispered reminders of yesterday, of his voice wrapping around your name like a clandestine spell. Tom Riddle had carved his presence into your bones—every step you took, you would scan if his eyes were watching you. Breathing your invisible presence in.
Tom sat at the far end, surrounded by the same orbit of polished, ambitious Slytherins that always trailed behind him like obedient shadows. Lestrange, Rosier, Avery—they filled the air with laughter, but Tom sat in his usual ominous silence.
He lifted his cup with deliberate grace, lips brushing its rim, eyes scanning the hall. For one terrible heartbeat, you thought his eyes would find yours. A flicker for more than a second perhaps, an evidence that the events of yesterday were not a figment of your imagination.
But he didn't look your way.
You looked back at your bread and straightened your posture, trying not to seem like you were waiting. Your hands trembled against your lap as you rehearsed a neutral expression.
You understood. Your presence was quiet. Invisible. It wasn't heavy like Tom Riddle's; it didn't call attention. Perhaps he needed to put in an effort to find you in the crowd, one he wasn't interested in doing at 7 in the morning.
Time passed, students strolled through the halls back and forth, when, finally, through your peripheral vision, Tom stood.
He moved through the hall, and the air seemed to thicken whenever his steps were near. His robes brushed the edge of your table. You could smell that faint, sterile scent of parchment and clove.
Your chest tightened. He was close enough now—close enough that one word could reach him.
Your lips parted, a breath catching before sound could form.
But he didn’t look.
Not once.
You stared down at your untouched plate, the weight of the bread still heavy in your hand. Something cold and ugly twisted in your chest—a mix of humiliation and relief.
You cursed yourself for thinking he would ever acknowledge your presence—for wanting it.
You had forgotten what his attention meant, the poison it would bring to your peaceful life, corrupting every thread you've built over the years. Tom Riddle's eyes on you meant you would be seen by everyone else, and there was nothing more dangerous than being acknowledged.
You were dragged out of your pit of thoughts by an annoying, high-pitched voice you unfortunately came to know.
“You look quite desperate, you know.” Ophelia sat beside you and quickly grabbed the bread from your plate.
Your jaw tightened. “Good morning to you too,” you muttered.
Ophelia hummed and continued to take a bite from your bread. “Indeed a very good morning. I mean, it was a boring morning, so I came here to see some…entertainment. And my, my, you certainly delivered.” Her eyes glinted with vicious amusement as she turned fully toward you.
“You came to me for entertainment?” You raised one eyebrow and Ophelia chuckled.
“My boredom was just too great this morning.” Ophelia yawned and grabbed a cup of water from the table, “You know, you really should stop letting your eyes wander off to Tom Riddle, or one might think you might have a…crush on him.” Ophelia sipped on her drink and you scoff.
You took a rather rough bite of your bread as you replied , “I already told you, I do not have a crush on him.”
“Everyone has a crush on Tom Riddle, darling, so, forgive me for not believing you.” Ophelia snorted and sipped her water, “Well, even if you don't, here's some friendly advice: stay away from him.” She leaned her head, her lips touching your ear, as if she were to conspire a coup against an empire. “He is bad news and dangerous. I wouldn't want to have you tangled in his…business.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, but before questions could blurt out of your mouth, Ophelia placed her drink on the table and smiled, as the moment before had just been a figment of your wild imagination. You stared at her, bewildered, but most of all…curious.
“I'm going to be late for my first lesson. I'll see you….around.” She didn’t wait for a response—she never did. Her heels clicked against the stone floor as she melted back into the crowd, leaving behind the faint scent of something floral.
You remained seated for a moment longer, staring at the space she’d occupied.
Bad news and dangerous.
The words echoed, aiding the vines of curiosity to grow even deeper into your mind. They were poisonous for your future, for your dreams of tranquility, but their glimmer was too hard to ignore. You couldn't help but wonder what Ophelia could possibly have meant. Did she know Tom so personally that she was in her right to give warnings? Or was she basing herself on rumours?
But what rumours?
You were a ghost through Hogwarts halls, and could hear the whispers through its walls. You knew almost every rumour—you heard every sneer, every gossip when students thought they were away from prying eyes, because well, you were a wall to them.
And you had never heard of such a rumour. Tom was regarded with rose-coloured eyes by every student, save for those who spat his name in envy of his natural talents and charm. Most were men, of course, who eyed him like competition for their fragile egos.
You pushed yourself to stand and forced the lingering thoughts out of your head. Now was not the time to enter the maze your curiosity trapped you in, and perhaps it never would be the time. As Ophelia said, you couldn't et entangled within Tom Riddle's web. Deeper than you already were anyway. If you had any hope of escaping and continuing down the path you were always meant to tread.
The bench scraped softly against the stone floor. The Great Hall felt too open now, too full of eyes, even if none of them truly saw you. You slipped away with practiced ease, letting louder presences swallow the space you left behind.
Classes passed in a haze.
Charms dissolved into murmurs and wand movements you copied by muscle memory alone. Even Herbology, the class that always seemed to pique your interest, failed to anchor you. Your quill moved when it was meant to, ink forming neat lines you barely remembered writing. You nodded at the right moments, turned pages when others did, and laughed when laughter was expected.
But your thoughts were elsewhere.
They lingered on the way Ophelia’s voice had dipped when she warned you. On the word she used—dangerous. You figured she must have passed some time with Tom and his circle since she was related to one of them, but how deep into their circle was she?
During potions, your eyes couldn't help but shift toward the enigmatic figure that haunted your daydreams, the seed of the very vines that corrupted your thoughts. He was watching Slughorn as he entered one of his lectures on how potions were vital for every witch and wizard's life on the future, and you could see there was no flicker inside his pupils. No darknes. Just…boredom.
You sighed as your hand struggled to register the words of your professor. It was as if your mind had detached from your body, going rogue so it could run into the forbidden cavern of thoughts that, in which a shadow awaited for you with enigmatic eyes and a smirk from the devil himself.
Your eyes, though, were a servant to your rogue brain, and found the shadow hidden in the dark caverns of your mind once again.
Tom Riddle stood perfectly, as he always did, and listened to Slughorn the way a king might entertain a jester.
You forced your gaze back to your notes.
“Potions are the backbone of practical magic” Slughorn boomed, voice warm and round. “They teach discipline, intuition—”
Your eyes moved again, and you noticed how Tom’s quill didn’t move.
Yours, and everyone else's, did in an automatic way. Almost robotic. You wrote what was expected, even as a strange tension coiled in your chest. You stared back at your notebook, and decided to force your eyes to stay fixed where it were safe, even if your mind wasn't.
You thought of the night before, and an uneasy feeling crept its way into your stomach. You couldn't fathom what favour he would ask of you when the time came, but if the feeling inside you were to be right, it was not going to be any good. You unconsciously bit the feather of your quill—had you just made a deal with the devil? How were you supposed to know, when he had a face of an angel and the voice of a siren?
Well, no way to back down now. Besides, you needed good grades on your NEWTS, and perhaps you could learn to make your potion skills be as half as good as Tom's. It would certainly already be a great advantage.
After classes went by, you would usually take your free time to continue your book in your dorm, drowning yourself in the comfort of solitude and lost in the words of Dostoyevsky.
But that day, by the time the sun began its slow descent, staining the windows with amber and gold, you turned away from the familiar paths.
It was a subtle, and you were sure no one would notice, because who would? Everyone preferred to read about their worlds than take their eyes off their own book and read another's. Especially one as boring as yours. But still, your pulse quickened as your feet carried you up narrow staircases you rarely used.
You counted your steps without meaning to. Not because of where you were going, but who you were going to.
Every step was one closer inside the dangerous cavern. To Tom Riddle.
The higher you climbed, the quieter it became. The murmurs of students dissolved into echoes, then into nothing at all.
When you reached the Astronomy Tower, the door was already ajar.
You hesitated only a second before pushing it open, the hinges whispering rather than creaking. The tower greeted you with open sky and wind sharp enough to bite.
A dark figure stood near the edge, back turned to you. You turned to his side, and caught the presence of two cauldrons sitting on the floor, as well as ingredients for whatever potion he might teach you today.
Tom Riddle’s figure looked carved from the night itself, like a shadow waiting ominously for its meal. He was crushing something on the wood with a knife, and you flinched when his voice boomed through the room.
“You’re late,” he said sharply without turning.
“I’m not,” you replied quietly, closing the door behind you. “You’re just early.”
A pause choked the air before he turned, slow and precise, dark eyes settling on you with unnerving focus. The corner of his mouth lifted—not into a smile, but something close enough to unsettle you.
“Fair,” he said.
He gestured toward the space beside him before going back his ministrations. You moved there without thinking, your bag resting at your feet as the wind tugged at your robes.
“Won’t we get caught?” You gulp as you tread slowly toward Tom, “I remember headmaster Dippet explicitly saying the astronomy tower was off limits this season. With…Grindelwald and all.”
Tom didn’t look away from the ingredients as you spoke. His hands continued their precise work, blade rising and falling in a smooth rhythm.
He was calm. Too calm. As if the prospect of getting caught never crossed his mind.
“Dippet says many things,” he replied coolly. “Most of them are meant to soothe fear, not prevent danger.”
“Is that so? What about the dementors, then? I'm sure they're not roaming around Hogwarts trying to soothe fear.”
Tom stopped his movements for a brief moment, and once his head turned, your breath hitched for the faintest moment. You had forgotted how alluring, how dangerous his gaze on you was.
“Dementors,” he said at last, tasting the word with quiet disdain, “are not here to protect anyone. Do you really think a powerful wizard like Grindelwald wouldn't find his way through some meek dementors?” He turned back to the table, resuming his work as if the interruption had been no more than a passing thought.
You furrowed your eyebrows, gulping down the acid that formed in your throat, “Then why…?”
Tom talked once more, and his words held a viciousness that cut through the whispering wind. “I am not here to give you a lesson in how the ministry works. I am here to make you a master in potions.”
You opened your mouth–once, twice, but nothing came out of your throat. You couldn't form words, you couldn't form a question. You cleared your throat, and finally, your voice found its place. “Just...I'll ask again, and you need to answer me—what if we are caught? What will you do, then, Tom? What’s your grand plan to not get us in detention?” You crossed your arms, feeling your erratic heartbeat inside your chest. “Or worse, expelled.”
He finally set the knife down and turned to face you fully. Up close.
The night sharpened his features—hollowing his cheeks, darkening his eyes until they looked almost endless. An infinite pool one could easily drown in.
“No one will come,” Tom said. “And even if they do, I am head boy. I’m certain I could think of something…convincing that would get us out of trouble.”
Your stomach tightened at the ease with which he said it. Head boy. He was supposed to be righteous in his position; only the best of the best students ever achieved such a high-ranking status within the school. Some students sought their whole academic lives to be where he is. And yet, here Tom was, talking of lying and utilizing his power as a means to escape as if it were…nothing.
“And if that doesn’t work?” you pressed on, hating the way your voice wavered despite your effort to keep it steady.
Tom studied you for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then—slowly—he smiled.
Not kindly. Not reassuringly, but….Confidently.
“Oh, it will. You can trust me.”
You scoff lightly, a small amount of courage sparking the words outside of your throat, “I don't know you, Tom.” You take a step towards him. Slowly, cautiously. “I mean…I know what everyone else sees, but…something tells me you're much more than what you let people see of you. It's like asking me to trust a stranger.”
“Now that's a smart observation, little witch,” Tom said softly. “Indeed, you don’t know me. But you can analyze the facts. I would be faced with consequences just like you—if not more—if we were caught inside this tower. If you go down, I go down. And do you really think I would put my position in jeopardy?” Tom raised one eyebrow, and you sighed.
He made sense, damn it.
“Fine. You make sense.” You squinted your eyes, “But I do not trust you.”
“Ah, you do well in not doing so,” Tom smirked, and it was as if his eyes opened their grey fog and made way for a small spark of amusement. “You do impress me a bit more as time goes on, little witch.”
Your breath hitched, “What does that even mea–”
“Now,” Tom interrupted you by swiftly turning around, his robe following him as he walked toward the part of the wooden floor where two empty cauldrons stood. He turned toward you once more. “Tonight, you will brew Amortentia. But not the Hogwarts version, full of its restraints to make meek students fail.”
You furrowed your eyebrows. “Amortentia? Isn't that a 6th-year potion?”
“Do you observe everything but class?” Tom groaned as he rolled his eyes, “If you were to put your observation skills where they really mattered, instead of worthless students’ lives, you would know that Slughorn has tells whenever he is explaining a quiz.” Tom grumbled, “Since NEWTS are about everything we have learned, he is trying to surprise us with a potion he knows most people have forgotten the first ingredient it takes to make it.”
You bristled. “Learning about others is not worthless.”
Tom paused mid-step. Just for a fraction of a second, but you caught it. His shoulders stilled, the air around him tightening like a held breath.
“Most are,” he corrected coolly, turning back to you. “You just have to pick the right ones to dissect. Most of our peers live in ignorance—they drift through Hogwarts believing that their effort alone will make them exceptional. It won’t. I mean, do you see every student with O's or EE's on their tests?” Tom chuckles slowly, “Well, awareness gets them there. Observing the right things, you start to notice patterns, and just how…deceiving tradition really is. But everyone is too busy looking over their own lives to observe the reality around them.” His eyes flicked to you pointedly. “You have that gift, you know. But you squander it.”
Your jaw tightened, irritation bleeding into something uncomfortably close to the truth. But then, a moment of thinking, of digesting his words, your eyebrows furrowed as a crippling sensation traveled down your spine. “And how do you even know what I observe?”
Tom’s face never changed. No twitch. No confident, eerie smirk. He simply stared sinisterly. “It is logical, really. Were you to observe classes, you would have noticed Slughorn’s pauses. The way his voice dipped when he mentioned Amortentia, as he was listing the possible potions for the pop quiz. The way he overexplains so no one questions what he does.”
He stepped closer—not abruptly, never abruptly. You stared at him back, “And you never follow his explanations, do you?”
Tom grinned, and seeing his eerie smile sent an ominous feeling down your spine. “Correct, little witch. I don’t live by the confinements dictated by Hogwarts books. I make my own, and everyone one day shall know it.” You were about to ask what he meant when he then gestured toward the cauldron on the left. “Come. I shall teach you to do the same. It is my part of the deal, after all.”
You hesitated only a moment before stepping forward. The stone beneath your shoes was cold, the wind licking at your ankles as you stopped beside him. Tom pointed at the cauldron, then at the ingredients laid out with meticulous care.
“Tell me what you see,” he said.
“The ingredients for Amortentia, I suppose?” You raised one eyebrow, and Tom nodded stoically.
“Correct. And what do you know about this potion?”
You licked your lips before clearing your throat, “It's the most powerful love potion there is. It makes the person who drinks it fall in love with—“
“Ah, you’re already wrong, little witch.”
Blood went up your cheeks as you frowned, “What? But that’s the description—“
“Of the 6th year potions book?” Tom sighed in disappointment, and you looked down. Somehow, even though you barely knew him, his approval sparked something inside you. And his disappointment led to a slight fog of shame sinking into your stomach.
“You’re thinking inside the box, just like every other sheep inside this herd.” Tom walked from side to side, his hand tied behind his back. His deep voice boomed through the tower, “Amortentia isn’t really a love potion, now is it? It makes the person obsessed. There is a keen difference that not many people can decipher. The potion isn’t meant to create love, but obsession.” Tom’s eyes flicked to you, sharp and assessing. “Desire, passion, lust—but not love.” He said emotionlessly, “Love is a slow, irrational surrender built over time that makes you weak. Amortentia is nothing more than an illusion of that weakness. No potion could ever imitate that raw, pathetic human feeling.”
You raised an eyebrow, “You seem awfully well-read in love.” You smirked, “Have you ever been in love?”
Tom’s posture immediately went rigid, and he looked at you with the eyes of a snake, puncturing every inch of your soul with its fangs. “Love?” Tom repeated slowly, as if testing the shape of the words on his tongue, finding it distasteful.
“I have read about it. Not because I was fascinated by it, but because people, when under its influence, had me curious.” He said, his tone almost eerily calm. “They grow so weak and predictable it's almost laughable. And they make that choice. They choose to be vulnerable for the whole world to stab a knife into their back.”
Tom chuckled, but no humour was laced in his voice. It was dark, so foreboding that it made your pulse want to scream. “So, no. I have not been in love. And do not want to be in love. I am better than to let myself surrender to such pointless attachments.”
The words hung between you like frost.
“That sounds… awfully lonely,” you said before you could stop yourself.
“Loneliness,” Tom huffed, “is a word invented by those who are scared of their own presence when licked by silence.” He stepped closer to the cauldron again, “Now, shall we continue, or do you want to waste our time even more with pointless questions?”
You stayed silent for a few moments and sighed. It was best not to waste your time asking questions about him, as it would only lead to dangerous paths. You had to find a way to keep your mouth shut and curiosity at bay if you wanted to come out of this deal unscathed.
Learning about the devil would only get you burned, after all.
Your gaze dropped to the ingredients laid before you: crushed rose petals, moonstone dust, and a curl of Jobberknoll feather resting beside a slender knife.
“So…about the potion. Were all the books—all the potions we made in class wrong?” you asked.
“Not wrong,” Tom corrected. “Just incomplete. You really think they would let the ingredients for one of the most dangerous love potions out in the open for reckless teenagers to abuse them? And so, a watered-down potion creates nothing dangerous.” His mouth curved faintly. “But I prefer accurate results, even if it means a little danger is sprinkled inside.”
The wind shifted, sweeping strands of your hair across your face. You brushed them back, stepping closer to the cauldron.
Tom moved behind you—close enough that you felt the warmth of his presence at your back. His touch never came, instead what you felt was a ghost of skin that sent goosebumps up your spine. His hand reached past your shoulder and whispered, “Incendio”, making a small fire start.
“First, you will forget what the book taught you,” he said, voice low near your ear, “Now…look at the ingredients. Tell me what you see.”
You frowned, scanning the cauldron. “Moonstone shavings. Crushed rose—not petals, the stem too. Peppermint, but dried longer than usual. Powdered pearl. Ashwinder egg.” You glanced at him. “That’s not the standard—”
“No,” he cut in sharply. “It isn’t.”
You gulped thickly, his presence behind you overbearing to your nerves, “I…how did you even get your hands on such ingredients?”
“Let’s just say I have my ways.”
“In other words, you stole them.” You turned to him and crossed your arms. Tom immediately took a step back, as if standing too close to you for too long was poison to his skin. You frowned slightly, but masked it with the same impassive face he mastered.
“I can't understand where this false sense of morality came from, but may I remind you that I caught you sneaking around the castle past curfew? You are not innocent, and I can't fathom why you are pretending to be so right now.”
“I….” You hesitated, a small blush forming on your face, ““I had my reasons for that, Riddle.” You sneered, and he ignored the spines of your words and walked toward the other side of the cauldrons.
“I don't doubt that.” Tom hummed, “But don't go preaching about rules on a moral high ground you clearly do not have.”
“I…” You couldn't answer. Words caught in the back of your throat, and Tom simply sat down on the floor, looking up at you with the most neutral face you've ever seen.
Ah, his impassive look was back.
“Now,” he continued,“ You see this?” He picked up a small jar of crushed rose stems.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Rose stem,” you answered cautiously. “And…thorns, I think.”
“Good.” Tom set it down, then lifted the powdered pearl. “And this?”
“Powdered pearl. It's used as a buffer,” you said. You’d read once in a footnote, but your confidence faltered for a second. “For…consistency?”
“Not bad.” Tom’s eyes narrowed, approving in the smallest way, and for a reason unknown to you, a foggy yet fuzzy feeling brewed in the depths of your stomach.
He then reached for the Ashwinder egg. “Now, pay close attention, little witch. This,” he said, “is where most students ruin it.”
You blinked. “Why? It’s just a heat component.”
“That,” Tom corrected softly, “is what the book tells you.”
He stepped closer to the cauldron and drew his wand with smoothness. It was like him, and his wand was one. Just another part of his fingers.
The tip hovered above the fire, and the fire obeyed him, lowering its flame, as if it were his servant.
“Heat is not the point, see?” he murmured. “It’s timing.”
He set the egg beside the cauldron but didn’t add it.
You frowned. “Then when do you—”
“When the potion asks for it,” Tom cut in, and his eyes met yours. “Not when the book does.”
“What? How the hell are you supposed to know that?” You snorted, “Does the potion talk now?”
“Oh, you'll know, I assure you.” Tom's dark eyes fixated on you, and he tapped the space beside him. “Come on, sit. Put your observation skills to the test. This is where you'll need it most.”
You eyed the space suspiciously, your brain recoiling at the mere thought of his suffocating company so close to yours, yet your body followed his words, addicted to their allure.
You sat right beside him, your eyes never leaving the inside of the cauldron, ignoring the presence beside you that felt like a blade against your throat.
“Look inside,” he said simply.
You did exactly that.
The potion was still, not a flciker of movement inside. You furrowed your eyebrows, trying your best
“What do you see?” Tom asked.
“A potion,” you replied flatly.
His gaze slid to yours. “Try again.”
You swallowed. Your eyes returned to the surface. You forced yourself to find an anomaly. Observe the potion the way you did people—any flicker, any small tell that would serve as a clue to deciphering this riddle.
“The…consistency is changing,” you murmured after a moment. “It’s…thicker than it should be.”
Tom nodded, and you continued to watch as the potion continued to change, but it was so minimal that only an observant eye could spot it. You then see a faint bubble burst, almost in slow-motion, as if the potion were asking you to feed it, and then you exclaimed, “Now. Add…the ashwinder eggs?”
Tom smirked and added three ashwinder eggs to the cauldron, and the potion changed its colour to a faint purple, almost turning pink. You bit your lip, watching every change, every minimal tell, as if the potion was just another Hogwarts student you always deciphered.
You cleared your throat, “Rose thorns…? To make it pink?”
Tom hummed and poured the rose thorns into the cauldron, and the potion turned a strong pink, but still not the faint colour it required. “Your hesitation is pulling you back. You need to trust your words, even if you are not sure they are correct. When you have confidence, a mistake isn't an error, because no one doubts you.”
You gulped, your eyes never leaving the brewing. It shimmered again, the pink deepening, the surface tightening into something almost glass-like.
Observe.
Your eyes narrowed slightly, tracking every shift, every subtle movement, then, finally, it started turning a light pink as he stirred and stirred.
“There. You can stop stirring.” You let out a breath you were holding and turned to a stone-faced Tom Riddle. “Did it work?”
“Only one way to find out.” He gestured to the smoke coming out of the cauldron, “Smell it. If it smells awful, it didn't work. If it smells pleasant, well—you have your answer.”
You swallowed.
Then, slowly, you leaned forward.
You closed your eyes and inhaled. The smell was a breeze of curious scents, and your mouth spoke before you could even decipher what was coming out of it, “I-I…smell a quill’s ink and….the smell of stones after a night of rain and….. something metallic?”
You blinked your eyes open and stared at the potion, “That's weird…I thought it was supposed to smell what attracts you? Isn't it supposed to smell like flowers or something?”
Tom glanced at your face with an eyebrow raised, “Flowers?” he repeated, voice smooth, almost amused. “Is that what you expected?”
You frowned slightly, shifting your weight. “Well…yes. Something like that. Something…normal.”
Tom hummed under his breath, turning his attention briefly to the cauldron. The pink glow reflected faintly against his features, softening nothing, only making him look more unreal.
“Amortentia does not concern itself with what is normal,” he said coolly. “It reveals what you are drawn to. Whether you understand it…or not.”
“Maybe I failed?”
Tom blinked, his eyes moving to stare at the smoke, “No. You got it right. I've done it before.”
“Huh.” You hummed, “Well, what do you smell?”
Tom stays silent for a moment, tension thickening the air and almost grabbing your throat. You almost started overthinking, that maybe you shouldn’t have asked him, but then he broke what he created.
“Nothing.” He said cooly, his eyes fixated on the cauldron, “I smelled…nothing.”
“Huh? How can you not smell anything? Maybe I did do it wrong—“
Tom got up abruptly, causing you to follow suit. “Our lesson had finished, little witch. I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time.” He muttered something under his breath, and the cauldron and ingredients disappeared. And before you could open your mouth, Tom walked out so fast, you would think he apparated away.
You shook your head, startled, but those venomous vines of curiosity only grew more. It was a parasite in your brain, digging its thorns into your skin, begging you to relieve the pain by indulging in it. But you couldn’t. You already watered it too much today by asking too many questions for your liking, and if you were to make it rain, a storm would pour into your life.
So, you did what you did best: you ignored it and walked toward your bedroom, ignoring intrusive thoughts that wanted to get louder for your attention.
You did your nightly routine, ignoring the chatters of your roommates, and instead of reading before sleep, you let your thoughts drift. You replicated the events of the evening—of Tom’s dark yet alluring eyes, his instructions, his eerily curious lessons.
Until one specific memory came to mind, of Tom making the ingredients disappear….
Tom Riddle never had much. The orphanage didn't exactly offered much possesions. So he was claiming his trophys one by one: A yo-yo, a thimble, a silver button, a handkerchief, stolen keepsakes from other children. And then one day there was you. You, who could make a fire without touching a matchstick. You, who could speak to snakes. You, who could wield rare ancient magic. And you, who walked beside him all those years. Tom Riddle never had much, but he'll surely burn the world to keep you.
Experience the Story yourself (gender-neutral, f!reader, m!reader option):
Tom Riddle never had much. The orphanage didn't exactly offered much possesions. So he was claiming his trophys one by one: A yo-yo, a thimb
Chapter 1: The boy with the cold eyes
Yandere!Tom Riddle x f!reader
Words: 11129
Part 2 here
The rain follows you all the way to the gate. It streaks down the black bars, cold against your fingers as you clutch them and stare at the building beyond, Wool’s Orphanage, Mrs. Cole called it. The place looks tired, as if it’s been holding its breath for years.
Her lantern swings ahead of you, scattering light over cracked steps and puddles that mirror the yellow glow. You follow because that’s what you’ve been told to do, and because you have nowhere else to go.
Inside, the air tastes of dust and old cabbage. The corridors hum with quiet noises, footsteps too light to belong to grown-ups, the soft rustle of sheets, someone sobbing where they think no one can hear. You feel the pain of the children before you ever see them; it hums under your skin, heavy and familiar, though you don’t know why.
Mrs. Cole walks briskly, her shoes clicking against the stone floor. When she glances back at you, her face is sharp and tired, but her eyes hold something gentler. “You’ll sleep here,” she says, opening a door to a narrow room lined with iron beds and shivering shadows.
You nod, though your throat is tight. You don’t know how to thank her. You don’t know what else to say.
All you know, all you remember, is your name.
Everything before this moment is gone. The faces, the laughter, the warmth, all burned away, leaving only a flash of green light behind your eyes and a hollow ache where a life used to be. Seven whole years you can’t remember.
Mrs. Cole’s hand rests briefly on your shoulder. “It’ll get easier,” she says, as if the words might make it true.
When she leaves, the candlelight flickers. You whisper your name into the darkness, soft and certain, as if holding onto it will keep the rest of you from disappearing.
“Y/N L/N“
You take a slow breath and look around the room. Three iron beds stand against the walls, each with a thin mattress and a single gray blanket folded at the foot. The floorboards are bare and worn smooth in places, and a small, grimy window looks out onto a brick wall and a slice of rainy sky. There’s a wooden chest at the foot of each bed, and a cracked mirror hangs on the wall between two of them, reflecting the flickering candlelight in distorted shards.
A child with mousy brown hair sits on the bed closest to the door, watching you with wide, curious eyes. She’s maybe your age, maybe a little older, clutching a worn rag doll to their chest.
“You’re the new one,” they say, not unkindly. “I’m Amy. That’s Denis’s bed over there, but he’s outside playing in the puddles until Mrs. Cole catches him.”
They pat the space beside them. “You can sit if you want. What’s your name?”
“Y/N,” you say, your voice softer than you meant it to be.
Amy nods as if filing the name away. “That’s nice. Sounds like it belongs in a story.” She glances toward the doorway, her expression tightening slightly.
You follow her gaze.
A boy stands in the hall, just outside the room. He’s pale, with dark hair neatly combed, watching you with an intensity that makes the back of your neck prickle. His eyes are dark, almost black, and they don’t blink. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t move, just stares, as if he’s trying to memorize you.
Before you can say anything, Mrs. Cole’s sharp voice cuts through the quiet.
“Tom Riddle! What are you doing lurking about? Get away from there this instant!”
The boy, Tom, turns his head slowly, as if pulled from a trance. He gives Mrs. Cole a look that is neither frightened nor apologetic, just blank. Then he slips away down the corridor without a sound.
Mrs. Cole huffs, shaking her head. “Wicked boy,” she mutters, more to herself than to you. Then she raises her voice. “Dinner in five minutes! Everyone to the kitchen!”
Amy leans closer to you, her voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s Tom. Best stay away from him. He’s… strange.”
You can't shake the image of Tom's dark, unblinking stare. "What do you mean, strange?" you ask Amy, keeping your voice low.
Amy shifts on the bed, her fingers worrying at her doll's yarn hair. "He does things," she whispers. "Bad things. Animals get hurt when he's around. Billy Stubbs's rabbit… its neck was broken, and Tom was just standing there, looking at it. He didn't even cry. And he talks to himself sometimes, in a hissy sort of voice. No one likes him. Mrs. Cole calls him wicked all the time."
She glances toward the empty doorway again, as if afraid he might still be listening. "He steals things, too. Little things that go missing, and then they turn up in his drawer. He never gets in trouble for it, though. He's clever like that."
Footsteps echo in the hall, the clatter of many children heading toward the kitchen. Amy stands up, smoothing her worn dress. "Come on. We should go before all the bread's gone."
She offers you a small, sympathetic smile. "Just... don't be alone with him, okay?"
You follow Amy out of the room and down the dim corridor toward the smell of boiled potatoes and weak gravy. The kitchen is a large, steamy room with a long wooden table crowded with children of all ages. Their voices blend into a low, anxious hum.
Amy leads you to two empty spots on a bench. A boy with freckles and tousled hair is already sitting there, Denis, you assume. He gives you a quick, curious glance before turning his attention back to the slice of bread he's buttering.
You take your seat, and your eyes drift across the table almost against your will.
Tom sits alone at the far end. He's not eating; he's just staring at his plate, his expression perfectly blank. The children around him leave a noticeable gap, as if his very presence pushes them away. He looks up, and his dark eyes find yours immediately. There's no smile, no nod, just that same unnerving, focused stare.
Mrs. Cole claps her hands. „Eat, children!"
A bowl of thin stew is placed in front of you. As you pick up your spoon, you feel the weight of Tom's gaze still fixed on you, steady and unblinking, from across the room.
You force yourself to look away from Tom and study the other children instead. There’s a girl with a crooked braid who won’t meet anyone’s eyes, a boy who keeps kicking the table leg, a pair of twins whispering fiercely to each other. Their faces are pinched with hunger or worry or both.
Your gaze drops to your bowl. The stew is watery, with a few pale chunks of potato and carrot floating in it. The bread beside it is hard at the edges. A sudden, sharp wave of loneliness washes over you, so strong it makes your throat ache.
Why are you even here?
You don’t know. You don’t remember anything before the green light and the empty feeling. You don’t remember your parents’ faces, or a home, or a reason.
You pick up your spoon, but you don’t eat. You just stare into the thin broth, wondering if you’ll ever feel like you belong anywhere again.
Then you lift the spoon to your lips and take a small, reluctant bite. The stew tastes of salt and something faintly bitter, like old vegetables. It’s warm, at least, and the warmth spreads through your chest, easing the tightness there just a little.
Across the table, Tom is still watching you. But now, as you swallow, you see something shift in his expression, not a smile, but a subtle tilt of his head, as if he’s pleased you’ve decided to eat. It’s a strange, quiet approval that makes your skin prickle.
Amy nudges you with her elbow. “It’s not so bad once you get used to it,” she murmurs. “Better than nothing.”
Denis, on your other side, finally speaks up. “Sometimes we get jam on Sundays,” he says, as if offering a piece of valuable intelligence. “If you’re good.”
You nod, taking another spoonful. The act of eating feels like a small rebellion against the emptiness inside you. You’re here. You’re eating. You’re surviving.
Tom’s gaze doesn’t waver. It feels less like a threat now and more like… interest. Like you’re a book he’s decided to read, and he’s waiting to see what happens on the next page.
You lean closer to Amy, your voice dropping to a whisper that barely carries over the clatter of spoons and benches. "Why does he keep staring?"
Amy follows your gaze to Tom, then quickly looks down at her bowl. "I told you," she murmurs back. "He's not right. He does that to new people sometimes. Watches them. Like he's figuring out how to... I don't know. How to get to them."
Her expression grows earnest. "Just don't give him anything. Don't talk to him. He'll lose interest eventually."
But as you look back at Tom, you're not so sure. His dark eyes are still fixed on you, and there's a curious intensity in them now, not malice, but something like recognition, as if he sees something in you that no one else does.
You're caught in that silent exchange, a thread of connection stretching across the noisy room. Tom tilts his head slightly, studying you as if you're a complex spell he's trying to decipher.
Mrs. Cole claps her hands again. "All right, plates down! Everyone to wash up and then straight to bed. No dawdling!"
The spell breaks. Tom stands up smoothly, his bowl empty, and walks out of the kitchen without a backward glance. You're left sitting there, your heart beating a little too fast, wondering what you've just started.
You follow Amy back through the dim corridors, your mind still caught on that silent exchange with Tom. The orphanage feels different at night, the shadows longer, the quiet more profound, as if the building itself is holding its breath.
In your room, Amy changes into a nightdress without speaking. Denis is already in his bed, facing the wall.
"You should get ready," Amy says softly. "Lights out soon."
You change quickly and climb into your narrow bed. The sheets are rough and smell of soap and damp. Amy blows out the candle on the small table between your beds, plunging the room into darkness broken only by the faint gray light from the window.
You lie there, listening to Denis's steady breathing and the distant sound of a train passing somewhere in the city. Your thoughts drift, and exhaustion pulls you under.
In your dream, you're standing in a sunlit room you've never seen before. Books float gently through the air, turning their own pages. A quill writes by itself on a parchment that hovers mid-air. You reach out, and a small, carved wooden bird on a shelf trembles, then lifts into the air, circling your head before settling softly into your open palm.
You wake with a start, your heart pounding. The room is still dark. The wooden bird isn't real, but for a moment, the feeling of weight in your palm was.
The dream of floating objects lingers in your mind for days, a secret warmth tucked behind your ribs.
One rainy afternoon, when the other children are playing a noisy game in the common room, you slip away down a narrow hallway you haven't explored before. At the end is a door, slightly ajar.
You push it open.
The room is small and ugly, with peeling green paint and a single grimy window. A few shelves hold a sad collection of tattered books. Tom is sitting on the floor in a patch of weak gray light, a book open in his lap.
He looks up, and for once, he doesn't seem surprised to see you. His dark eyes study you carefully.
"This is the library," he says, his voice calm and clear. "Not that there's much to read."
"Hello," you say, and step inside.
The room feels smaller with both of you in it. Tom watches you, his expression unreadable. He doesn't smile, but he doesn't look angry either. Just... observing.
"You're the new girl," he says. It's not a question.
You nod, surprised he knows your name. "Yes."
He closes his book, setting it aside with careful precision. "Most of the others don't come in here. They think it's boring." He pauses, his dark eyes studying your face. "But you're different."
The words hang in the air between you. Different how? You think of your dream, of the quill floating above the desk. You think of the blue light that sometimes flickers at the edges of your vision when no one is looking.
Tom leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. "Sometimes," he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "I can do things. Strange things. Things that shouldn't be possible."
He watches you closely, as if testing your reaction. "The other children call me wicked for it. Mrs. Cole too, when she thinks I can't hear."
You take a small step into the room, the floorboards creaking under your weight. "What kind of strange things can you do?" you ask, your curiosity outweighing Amy's warnings.
Tom's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes, a spark of interest, or maybe satisfaction. He sets his book aside carefully.
"I can make things happen," he says, his voice low and even. "Without touching them. I can make animals do what I want. I can find things that are hidden. I can hurt people if they bother me, and no one ever knows it was me."
Your eyes widen, and a strange mix of awe and recognition blooms in your chest. "Do you really mean it?" you whisper, taking another step into the room. "Could you... show me?"
For the first time, Tom's lips curve into something that almost resembles a smile. It's small and sharp, but it's there. He looks pleased, not in a warm way, but in the way someone looks when they've solved a difficult puzzle.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he glances toward the door you left ajar, then back at you. "If I show you," he says quietly, "you can't tell anyone. Not ever. They wouldn't understand."
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, smooth stone, gray and ordinary. He places it on the floor between you.
"Watch," he says.
He doesn't touch it. He doesn't say any words. He just stares at the stone, his dark eyes fixed and intense. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, slowly, the stone begins to tremble. It rolls once, twice, then lifts an inch off the floorboards, hovering in the air as if held by invisible strings.
It stays there, suspended, for three heartbeats before dropping back with a soft tap.
Tom looks at you, his expression calm but expectant. "See?" he says. "I can do things they can't."
You stare at the spot where the stone hovered, your breath catching in your throat. "I've dreamed about things like that," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "Moving on their own. Books... and a little bird..."
Tom's eyes sharpen. He leans forward, his gaze intense. "Tell me," he says, his voice low but urgent.
You swallow, the memory of the dream vivid behind your eyes. "There was a room, full of sunlight. Books were floating, turning pages by themselves. A quill was writing in the air. And there was this wooden bird... it flew to me. It landed right in my hand."
You look down at your palm, half-expecting to see the ghost of its weight still there. "It felt real. More real than this."
Tom is silent for a long moment, studying you with a new, deeper interest. "Dreams can be memories," he says finally. "Or warnings. Or... possibilities."
He picks up the stone again, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. "You're like me," he says, and there's a strange note in his voice, not quite warmth, but something close to recognition. "We're not like them. We're special."
He looks at you, his dark eyes holding yours. "We should keep this between us. They wouldn't understand. They'd call you wicked too."
You nod slowly, the weight of the promise settling in your chest like a second heartbeat. "I won't tell anyone”, you say, your voice firm despite the whisper. „Not ever."
Tom watches you for another moment, then gives a single, satisfied nod. He slips the stone back into his pocket. "Good," he says. "It's better this way. Just us."
He stands up, brushing dust from his trousers. The gray light from the window catches the sharp angles of his face, making him look older than seven, like a statue carved from something cold and permanent.
"We should go back before they notice we're gone," he says, but he doesn't move toward the door right away. He looks at you one more time, his dark eyes lingering on your face as if memorizing it. "You can come here again. If you want."
He turns and walks out, leaving you alone in the ugly little room with its peeling paint and sad collection of books. The air feels different now, charged, as if something invisible has shifted between you.
You stand there for a moment longer, listening to the distant sounds of children playing down the hall. Then you follow him out, closing the door softly behind you.
Days pass in a blur of routine meals and quiet observations. You find yourself watching Tom more often, noticing how he moves through the orphanage like a shadow, present but separate. Sometimes you catch him looking back, and that silent understanding passes between you again.
Then comes the storm.
It builds all afternoon, the sky darkening to a bruised purple. By nightfall, rain lashes against the windows, and thunder rumbles deep in the distance. You lie awake in your narrow bed, listening to the wind howl around the old building.
That's when you feel it, a strange, warm tingling in your fingertips, like static electricity but stronger. You sit up, holding your hands out in the dark. A faint, silvery glow begins to pulse around your skin, growing brighter with each heartbeat.
You stare at the silvery light dancing around your fingers, your breath catching. Instead of pulling away, you focus all your attention on it, willing the glow to grow brighter. You think of the floating stone, of Tom's calm intensity, of the wooden bird from your dream.
The light responds. It pulses, then spreads, wrapping around your hands like delicate lace made of moonlight. The tingling sensation grows warmer, almost pleasant, humming through your veins. You can feel it, a current of something alive and waiting, just beneath your skin.
Across the room, the candle on the small table flickers, though there's no draft. The flame stretches toward you, bending as if drawn by an invisible force.
You remember Tom's words: We're special.
This is what he meant. This is the difference.
The thunder cracks again, closer this time, and the whole room seems to vibrate with the sound. You look from your glowing hands to the storm raging outside the window, and a sudden, fierce certainty fills you.
You look around the dark room. On the small table between your beds sits a chipped cup. You fix your gaze on the cup, willing it to move.
At first, nothing happens. The cup stays stubbornly still. You bite your lip, frustration mixing with the warm hum in your veins. You think of the stone hovering, of Tom's calm certainty. You don't just want it to move, you know it can.
The cup trembles.
It's a tiny, almost invisible shudder at first. Then it rocks once, twice, and lifts an inch off the table. It hovers there, wobbling slightly, as if held by an unsteady hand. Your heart leaps into your throat.
You're doing it. You're really doing it.
The cup drifts toward you, slow and unsteady, before dropping back onto the table with a soft clink. The sound seems loud in the quiet room. Amy stirs in her sleep but doesn't wake.
You stare at the cup, your hands still glowing faintly. There's no doubt now. It's real. And Tom was right… you’re like him.
You need to find him.
You slip out of bed, your bare feet silent on the cold floorboards. The silvery glow has faded from your hands, but the warmth lingers in your veins, a secret fire. You pause by Amy's bed, listening to her steady breathing, then ease the door open and slip into the dark corridor.
The orphanage is different at night, all shadows and creaking wood, the storm still muttering outside. You know where Tom sleeps, in a small room at the end of the boys' wing. You've never been there, but you've seen him come and go.
Your heart beats fast as you pad down the hallway, past closed doors and the faint smell of damp wool. When you reach his door, you hesitate, your hand hovering. What if he's angry? What if he doesn't believe you?
But you remember the floating stone, his dark eyes watching you with that strange recognition. You knock softly, three quick taps.
For a moment, there's only silence. Then the door opens a crack. Tom stands there, already fully dressed despite the hour, his dark hair neat, his expression alert. He doesn't look surprised to see you.
His eyes drop to your hands, then back to your face. "You did it, didn't you?" he says, his voice low.
You nod, your voice dropping to a whisper that barely carries over the sound of the storm. "I made a cup float," you tell him, holding out your hands. They're not glowing now, but you can still feel the warmth humming just beneath your skin. "Can you teach me more?"
Tom's eyes gleam in the dim light. He doesn't smile, but there's a new intensity in his expression, something hungry and focused. "Yes," he says simply. „There’s a place," he says. "Under the roof. No one goes there. We can practice there."
He watches you, waiting for your reaction. "But you have to promise to do exactly as I say. Magic can be dangerous if you don't control it."
You nod eagerly, your eyes wide and bright in the dim room. "Is it really magic?" you whisper, the word feeling strange and wonderful on your tongue.
Tom's expression softens just a fraction, not into a smile, but into something like approval. "Yes," he says. "It's magic."
He moves to the door, opening it just enough to peer into the hallway. "Follow me. Stay close."
You trail him through the dark corridors, your heart beating fast with excitement and nerves. He leads you up a narrow, winding staircase you've never noticed before, its steps worn smooth by time. The air grows colder as you climb, and the sound of the storm grows louder overhead.
At the top, Tom pushes open a heavy wooden door. The room beyond is small and dusty, tucked under the sloping eaves of the roof. Moonlight filters through a grimy circular window, illuminating floating dust motes and a few forgotten trunks stacked against the walls. The space feels secret, separate from the rest of the orphanage, a world of its own.
Tom turns to you, his face pale in the moonlight. "This is where we'll practice," he says. "No one comes here. We'll be safe."
He gestures to the center of the room, where the floorboards are clear. "Show me what you did with the cup."
You take a deep breath, your eyes scanning the moonlit room until you spot a single, large dust mote drifting slowly through the air. You focus on it, hard, remembering the warm hum in your veins, the certainty you felt when the cup lifted.
At first, nothing happens. The dust continues its lazy descent. You bite your lip, frustration bubbling up. Then you think of Tom's stone hovering, steady and controlled. You don't just want it to float, you will it to.
The dust mote stops falling. It hangs in the air, suspended, as if caught in an invisible web. You hold your breath, keeping your gaze locked on it. Slowly, you guide it upward, making it drift in a small, deliberate circle.
It's not much, just a speck of dust, but it's yours. You did it.
You look at Tom, your eyes wide with wonder. He's watching the dust mote, his expression unreadable. Then his gaze shifts to you, and something in his dark eyes changes. It's not just approval anymore, it's something sharper, hungrier. Like he's found something precious that belongs to him.
"Good," he says, his voice quiet but intense. "Very good."
He takes a step closer, his shadow falling across you. "Now try something heavier. That book, over there." He points to a small, leather-bound volume resting on one of the trunks. "Don't just lift it. Bring it to me."
You turn your attention to the small leather book on the trunk. It looks heavier than dust, more solid. You take another deep breath, focusing all your will on it. You imagine it lifting, floating through the air toward Tom's waiting hand.
For a long moment, nothing happens. The book sits there, stubborn and still. You feel a flicker of doubt, but then you remember the cup, the dust mote. The warmth in your veins pulses, stronger this time.
The book trembles. Its cover shifts slightly, then it rises an inch off the trunk, wobbling unsteadily. You hold your breath, keeping your gaze locked on it. Slowly, painstakingly, you guide it through the air. It drifts toward Tom, moving like a leaf on a gentle current.
When it reaches him, it hovers before his chest for a heartbeat before dropping into his outstretched hand.
Tom catches it, his fingers closing around the worn leather. He looks from the book to you, and something in his expression shifts again. There's pride there, sharp and possessive, and something else, a kind of hunger that makes your skin prickle.
"Perfect," he says softly, his dark eyes holding yours. "You learn fast."
He sets the book aside and takes a step closer. The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face. "We're going to practice every night," he tells you, his voice low and certain. "Just you and me. No one else can know what we can do."
He reaches out, his hand hovering near your arm as if he wants to touch you but isn't quite sure how. "You belong here," he says. "With me."
The nights that follow become a secret rhythm, you and Tom meeting under the roof, practicing until your hands tremble and your mind feels stretched thin. He teaches you control, precision, how to make objects dance through the air with just a thought. Each success makes his eyes gleam with that same hungry pride.
Then, one bright afternoon, you slip into the orphanage's small, neglected garden, seeking a moment alone. That's when you find her: a little, dark snake coiled beneath the rose bushes, her scales glistening with what looks like fresh blood. She's hurt, her breathing shallow.
You kneel without thinking, your heart pounding. "Are you alright?" you whisper.
The snake lifts her head, her golden eyes fixing on you. To your surprise, you understand her hissing reply as clearly as if she'd spoken English. "The two-legs with the stick hurt me. I cannot move."
You kneel closer, your hands trembling slightly as you reach out. "Let me see," you whisper, not sure if you're speaking English or the strange, hissing language that feels so natural.
You gently touch the scales near the wound. A deep gash runs along her side, oozing dark blood. She flinches, a soft hiss escaping her.
"It hurts," she says, her voice a pained whisper in your mind.
Your throat tightens. "I know," you murmur. „What is your name? I'm going to get help. Stay here.“ You hear her whisper: „Nagini“, before you move.
Tom. You need Tom. He'll know what to do, he always knows.
You run back into the orphanage, your feet flying over the worn floors. You don't stop until you reach his door, knocking frantically. When he opens it, his expression shifts from mild annoyance to sharp curiosity as he takes in your panicked face.
"There's a snake," you gasp, breathless. "In the garden. She's hurt. She talked to me, Tom. I understood her."
Tom's dark eyes widen, just for a fraction of a second. Then his face goes still, unreadable. "You understood her?" he asks, his voice low.
"She said the two-legs with the stick hurt her," you tell him, the words tumbling out in a rush. "She can't move. She's bleeding, Tom. We have to help her."
Tom stares at you, his expression utterly still. For a long moment, he doesn't speak. You can see something shifting behind his dark eyes, confusion, then calculation, then something sharper. Hunger.
"You understood her," he repeats, his voice quiet. "Word for word."
He steps out into the hallway, closing his door behind him. "Show me."
You lead him back to the garden, your heart pounding. Nagini is still coiled beneath the rose bushes, her golden eyes watching you approach. When Tom sees her, he stops a few feet away, his gaze fixed on the snake.
"Another two-legs," Nagini hisses, her voice weak. "Is he a friend?"
Tom's jaw tightens. He doesn't answer the snake. Instead, he looks at you, his expression unreadable. "I can't help her," he says flatly. "I don't know how to heal animals."
He kneels down, studying the wound with clinical detachment. "The cut is deep. She'll die without help."
You kneel beside Nagini again, your hand hovering over her wounded side. "I'm going to try to help you," you whisper, the hissing words feeling both strange and right.
Nagini's golden eyes fix on you. "You speak the old tongue," she says, her voice a pained whisper. "The two-legs who hurt me did not."
You nod, though you don't fully understand. You look up at Tom, who's watching you with that intense, hungry expression.
You turn back to Nagini, placing your hands gently on either side of the gash. You close your eyes, trying to push away the fear and the racing of your heart. You think of warmth, of light, of things being put back together. You remember the silvery glow that wrapped around your hands that first night, the hum of magic in your veins.
At first, nothing happens. Then you feel it, a different kind of warmth, deeper and brighter, starting in your chest and flowing down your arms. A soft, blue-white light begins to glow beneath your palms, spilling over Nagini's dark scales.
The light pulses, growing stronger. You can feel the magic working, knitting flesh and scale back together. Nagini lets out a soft hiss, but this time it sounds more like relief than pain.
Tom is utterly still, his dark eyes fixed on your hands and the healing light. His expression is no longer just hungry, it's awed, possessive, triumphant. Like he's found something even more precious than he imagined.
You push everything else away, Tom's intense gaze, the garden around you, even your own fear. All that matters is the warmth flowing from your hands into Nagini's wounded side. You focus all your energy on it, willing the light to grow brighter, stronger.
The blue-white glow intensifies, wrapping around Nagini like a gentle cocoon. You can feel the magic working, deeper than before, not just healing the surface wound, but mending muscle and scale, soothing pain, restoring strength. It feels right, like this is what the magic was meant to do.
Beneath your hands, the gash closes completely. The torn scales knit back together, leaving only a faint silvery scar. Nagini lets out a long, relieved hiss and uncoils herself, testing her movement. She slithers forward, her body whole and strong again.
"Thank you," she says, her golden eyes fixed on you with something like reverence. "You have the old magic. The true magic."
She coils around your ankles, her scales cool and smooth against your skin. "I will stay with you," she declares. "You are my speaker."
You look up, your hands still tingling with fading warmth. Tom hasn't moved. He's staring at you with an expression you've never seen before, awe, hunger, and something darker, more possessive. His dark eyes are wide, his face pale in the afternoon light.
For a long moment, he doesn't speak. Then he takes a step closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "What was that?" he asks. "That light... that wasn't normal magic."
You look up at Tom, your hands still tingling with the fading warmth. "I don't know what it was," you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. "But it felt right. Like... like it was supposed to happen."
As you speak, a sudden wave of exhaustion washes over you. Your legs feel weak, your head spins. You stumble forward, your vision blurring at the edges. Tom catches you before you can fall, his hands firm on your arms.
"Whoa," he says, his voice closer than you expected. He steadies you, his grip surprisingly gentle. "Easy."
You lean against him, your eyes heavy. The world seems to tilt and sway. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and calm, a contrast to your own racing pulse.
"You used too much magic," Tom murmurs, his breath warm against your hair. "Healing takes energy. More than floating books."
He doesn't let go of you. Instead, he guides you to sit on the ground, his arm still around your shoulders for support. Nagini slithers closer, coiling protectively around your ankles.
Tom looks from the snake to your pale face, his dark eyes thoughtful. "You spoke to her," he says quietly. "You healed her with magic I've never seen before. Blue light."
He says the last two words like they're something precious and dangerous. His gaze holds yours, intense and searching. "Do you understand what that means?"
You shake your head weakly, the motion making the world swim again. You're too tired to think about what it means, too tired to think about anything except how heavy your eyelids feel, how your whole body aches with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
Tom watches you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighs, a soft sound that's almost gentle. "You need to rest," he says. "Come on."
He helps you to your feet, his arm around your waist to steady you. Nagini follows, slithering close to your ankles as if she's afraid to let you out of her sight.
Tom leads you back inside, supporting most of your weight. The orphanage corridors feel longer than usual, the stairs steeper. When you reach your room, he pauses at the door, glancing down at Nagini.
"She can't come in here," he says quietly. "Amy will scream."
Nagini hisses softly, but you murmur to her in Parseltongue, "Wait for me outside. I'll come find you soon."
The snake reluctantly coils by the doorframe, her golden eyes watching you as Tom helps you to your bed. You collapse onto the thin mattress, your limbs feeling like lead.
Tom stands over you for a moment, his dark eyes studying your face. "Sleep," he says, his voice low. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."
He turns to leave, but pauses at the door, looking back at you one last time. His expression is that same mix of awe and hunger you saw in the garden. "You're full of surprises," he murmurs, almost to himself.
Then he's gone, closing the door softly behind him.
The days blur together after that, secret practices under the roof, whispered conversations with Nagini in the garden, Tom watching you with that same hungry awe every time your hands glow blue. Before you know it, it’s the week before Christmas.
You're sitting beside Tom at dinner, the usual watery stew steaming in your bowls. Around you, the other children point and whisper, their eyes darting between you and Tom. You've become a pair in their minds, the strange, quiet boy and the girl that follows him everywhere.
Your stomach growls loudly, a hollow ache that's become familiar. The portions are small here.
Without a word, Tom pushes half of his bread roll onto your plate. He doesn't look at you when he does it, his expression carefully neutral, but the gesture is unmistakable.
You look at the bread roll on your plate, then up at Tom. Your eyes go wide, touched by the gesture. Without a word, you break the piece in half and push one piece back toward him.
Tom glances at the bread, then at your face. For a moment, he looks almost surprised, as if he didn't expect you to share it back. Then his expression softens, just a fraction. He takes the piece and eats it slowly, his dark eyes watching you over the rim of his bowl.
Around you, the whispers grow louder. "They're sharing," someone mutters. "Like they're a proper family or something."
You ignore them, focusing on your stew. The bread helps, but your stomach still feels hollow. You think about Christmas, which is only a week away.
You glance at Tom. He's staring at his bowl, his expression closed off and cold.
You lean closer to Tom, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Are you excited for Christmas?"
Tom's spoon stills in his bowl. He doesn't look at you at first, his gaze fixed on the watery stew. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and flat. "I don't like Christmas."
He glances at you then, his dark eyes sharp. "Do you know why?"
You shake your head, waiting.
"Because it's a lie," he says, his voice barely audible over the clatter of spoons and chatter around you. "All those families outside, laughing and giving presents. They pretend everything is perfect. But it's not. Nothing is perfect. They're just better at hiding the ugly parts."
He pushes his bowl away, half-finished. "I hate watching them. I hate knowing they have something I'll never have."
His words hang between you, heavy and cold. You think of your own memories, or lack of them. The green flash, the hollow ache where a family should be. You understand his bitterness, but something in you rebels against it.
You want to tell him that Christmas doesn't have to be about perfect families. It could be about something else, something just for the two of you. But before you can speak, Mrs. Cole claps her hands, signaling the end of dinner.
Tom stands up, his expression closed off again. "Come on," he says, not looking at you. "Let's go."
You follow Tom out of the dining hall, your heart beating a little faster. When you reach the quieter corridor, you reach out and touch his sleeve, stopping him.
"Tom," you say, your voice firm despite the nervous flutter in your chest. "I want to make this Christmas special for us."
He turns to look at you, his dark eyes unreadable. "Special how?" he asks, his tone flat. "We're in an orphanage. There's no money for presents. No tree worth having. No family."
"I know," you say, holding his gaze. "But we have each other. And we have magic. We could make our own Christmas. Something just for us."
For a long moment, Tom doesn't speak. He studies your face, his expression shifting from skepticism to something more thoughtful. You can see him considering it, turning the idea over in his mind.
"You want to use magic for Christmas?" he asks, his voice quieter now.
You nod. "We could make decorations that float. Or warm the room without a fire. Or... I don't know. Something beautiful."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches Tom's lips. "You're determined," he says.
"I am," you tell him, your voice steady. "We deserve something good, Tom. Even if we have to make it ourselves."
You look up at Tom, your determination softening into curiosity. "If you could have one wish for Christmas," you ask quietly, "what would it be?"
Tom goes still, his dark eyes searching your face as if looking for a trick. The corridor around you is quiet now, the sounds of dinner fading behind closed doors. For a long moment, he doesn't answer. You can see him thinking, weighing whether to be honest or to give you the cold, dismissive answer he usually gives everyone else.
Finally, he speaks, his voice so soft you have to lean closer to hear. "To never be hungry again," he says. "To never have to share half a bread roll because there isn't enough. To have a room that's warm in winter. To have... things that are mine. Truly mine."
He looks away, his jaw tightening. "Not presents. Not toys. Just... enough. And no one to take it away."
His words settle in your chest, heavy and real. You understand, suddenly, that his bitterness about Christmas isn't just about families, it's about lack. About never having enough of anything: food, warmth, security, love.
You reach out without thinking, your fingers brushing his wrist. "We'll make it warm," you promise. "However we can. And we'll make sure there's enough, even if it's just for one day."
Tom looks down at your hand on his wrist, then back up at your face. His expression is unreadable again, but his eyes hold yours for a long moment. "You mean that," he says, not quite a question.
"I do," you tell him.
The days pass, cold and gray, and Christmas draws closer. You spend your time planning, whispering ideas to Tom under the roof, gathering what little you can for decorations. But one evening, as you're returning from the garden after checking on Nagini, you find yourself alone in a dimly lit hallway.
The shadows seem to stretch longer than usual. You're about to turn the corner when three figures step out, blocking your path. Billy Stubbs stands in front, his face set in a mean, pinched expression. Two older boys flank him, their eyes hard.
"Well, well," Billy says, his voice dripping with mockery. "Look who's all alone for once. No Tom to protect you."
He takes a step closer, and the other boys move to either side of you, cutting off your escape. "We're tired of you following him around like his little pet," Billy sneers. "Think you're special because he talks to you? You're just as pathetic as the rest of us."
Your heart hammers against your ribs, but you force yourself to stand still. "What do you want from me?" you ask, your voice steadier than you feel.
Billy's smirk widens. "We want you to understand your place," he says, taking another step closer. The hallway feels smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. "You think you're better than us because Tom Riddle talks to you? Because you whisper to each other like you've got secrets?"
One of the other boys, a tall, thin one with sharp elbows, reaches out and shoves your shoulder. "We're tired of watching you follow him around," he says. "It's pathetic."
Billy nods, his eyes cold. "We're going to teach you a lesson. So you remember you're just another orphan. Just like the rest of us."
He grabs your arm, his fingers digging in painfully. The other two move in, blocking any chance of escape. They start dragging you down the hallway, away from the main rooms, toward one of the empty storage closets that no one uses anymore.
You struggle, but there are three of them and only one of you. Your mind races, searching for a way out. You think of Tom, of Nagini, of the magic you've been practicing, but right now, none of it seems to help.
Panic surges through you as they drag you toward the empty room. You can feel their hands gripping your arms too tightly, see the cruel satisfaction in Billy's eyes. You think of Tom's lessons under the roof, focus, will, intention. You think of the blue-white light that healed Nagini.
You stop struggling and close your eyes, just for a second. You focus on the magic humming in your veins, on the warmth that's always there, waiting. You don't think about floating objects or healing wounds. You think about pushing them away. About creating space.
A soft, shimmering glow begins to pulse around your hands. It's faint at first, then brighter, a pale blue light that spills into the dim hallway.
Billy and the others freeze, their eyes widening. "What's that?" one of them whispers, his voice shaky.
You open your eyes and push with your mind, not with your hands. The magic responds, flowing out from you in a gentle wave. It doesn't hurt them, it just pushes, like an invisible wall of air. Billy stumbles back, his grip on your arm loosening. The other two boys let go, stepping away with confused, frightened expressions.
For a moment, you're free. You stand there, breathing hard, the blue light still flickering around your fingers. Billy recovers first, his face twisting with anger and something else, fear.
"You're a freak," he spits, but he doesn't come closer. "Just like him."
He glances at the other boys, who look uncertain now. Then he takes a step forward again, his fists clenched. "That little trick won't save you," he says, his voice low and mean.
You don't wait to see if they'll overcome their fear. The moment Billy hesitates, you turn and run, your feet pounding against the stone floor. You can hear them shouting behind you, their footsteps giving chase.
You make it only a few yards before a hand grabs the back of your dress, yanking you backward. You stumble, losing your balance, and crash to the floor. The impact knocks the air from your lungs.
Before you can get up, Billy is on top of you, pinning you down. The other two boys grab your arms, holding you still. "Thought you could run?" Billy sneers, his face close to yours. "Thought your little light show would scare us?"
He raises his fist, and you brace yourself. But before he can strike, a cold voice cuts through the hallway.
"Let her go."
You look past Billy's shoulder. Tom stands at the end of the corridor, his expression utterly still and cold. His dark eyes are fixed on Billy, and there's something in them that makes your breath catch, a quiet, dangerous fury.
Billy freezes, his fist still raised. He glances at Tom, then back at you, his confidence wavering. "This doesn't concern you, Riddle," he says, but his voice lacks its earlier conviction.
Tom takes a step forward. "It does," he says, his voice soft but carrying. "Now let her go."
Billy hesitates for a moment longer, then his face hardens with stubborn anger. "Or what?" he challenges.
Tom doesn't answer with words. He raises his hand, his fingers curling slightly. Billy's body goes rigid, his eyes widening in shock and pain. He makes a choked sound, his hands flying to his throat as if something invisible is squeezing him.
The other two boys let go of you, backing away with terrified expressions. Billy drops to his knees, gasping for air, his face turning pale.
You stay where you are, frozen on the floor, watching in shock as Billy gasps and chokes under Tom's invisible grip. Billy's face is pale, his eyes wide with terror. He claws at his throat, making horrible, wet sounds.
The other two boys have backed all the way against the wall, their faces white with fear. They don't try to help Billy, they just stare, trembling.
Tom's expression doesn't change. His dark eyes are fixed on Billy, cold and focused. His hand remains raised, fingers curled as if holding something delicate. There's no anger on his face, no rage, just a calm, terrible control.
Then footsteps echo down the hallway, sharp and quick. Mrs. Cole appears around the corner, her face tight with alarm. "What in heaven's name-" she begins, then stops, taking in the scene: you on the floor, Billy choking, Tom with his hand raised.
Her eyes widen in horror. "Thomas Riddle!" she shouts, her voice sharp. "Stop that this instant!"
Tom's hand drops. Billy collapses to the floor, coughing and gasping for air. Mrs. Cole rushes forward, kneeling beside Billy, then turns her furious gaze on Tom.
"What have you done?" she demands, her voice trembling with anger. "Using your... your wickedness on other children!"
Tom doesn't answer. He just looks at her, his expression blank.
Mrs. Cole stands up, her face pale. "Two weeks," she says, her voice cold and final. "Two weeks without dinner. And you'll spend them in solitude. No Christmas celebrations. No contact with anyone."
She turns to you, her expression softening slightly. "Are you hurt, child?"
Before you can answer, she shakes her head. "Never mind. Get up. Both of you, to your rooms. Now."
Tom doesn't look at you as he turns and walks away. You watch him go, your chest tight with guilt. Because of you, he won't have Christmas at all.
A week passes, cold and quiet. Christmas Eve settles over Wool's Orphanage like a heavy frost. You walk through the dimly lit hallway, your footsteps soft on the stone floor. The usual sounds of children are muted tonight, everyone is in the common room, gathered around the sad little tree Mrs. Cole put up.
Then you hear it, a voice from the isolation room at the end of the hall. Tom's voice, but different. Thinner. Desperate.
"Please," he's saying, the word strained. "Mrs. Cole, it's so cold. Just another blanket. Or something to eat. Please."
You stand there in the dim hallway, your heart pounding. Tom never begs. He never shows weakness. But he's cold and hungry and alone on Christmas Eve, and it's because he defended you.
Anger flares hot and sudden in your chest. How can Mrs. Cole do that? How can she leave him cold and hungry on Christmas Eve? It's cruel. It's wrong.
The anger doesn't just stay inside you, it spills out. A soft blue glow flickers around your hands, pulsing with your heartbeat. You feel your magic lashing out without meaning to, making the nearby sconce flicker wildly. Shadows dance across the walls, stretching and twisting.
You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down. The glow fades, but the determination remains, sharp and clear. You need to help Tom. You need to make this right.
You turn away from the isolation room and head toward the kitchen, your footsteps quick and quiet. The orphanage is mostly empty now, everyone gathered in the common room for what little Christmas cheer Mrs. Cole allows. The kitchen door is unlocked, and you slip inside.
The room is dark and cold, the stove unlit. You find a kettle and fill it with water. While it warms, you search the pantry. There, on a high shelf, you find a tin with two gingerbread cookies inside, probably meant for Mrs. Cole's own Christmas treat.
You take them, your hands trembling slightly. The kettle begins to whistle softly. You pour the hot water into a cup, add a tea bag you find in a tin, and stir in a spoonful of sugar. Tom's favorite.
You grab the tea and cookies, then pause. Tom said he was cold. You need more than tea.
You slip out of the kitchen and hurry to your room. The other girls are still downstairs, so the room is empty and quiet. You pull your thin blanket from your bed, it's not much, but it's something. You fold it carefully, tucking it under your arm with the tea and cookies balanced in your other hand.
The hallway is dark and silent as you make your way back toward the isolation room. Your heart beats fast, each step feeling too loud. You listen for any sound, Mrs. Cole's footsteps, other children moving about, but there's only the quiet hum of the orphanage at night.
When you reach Tom's door, you pause. You can't hear anything from inside now. He might be sleeping, or just too exhausted to make noise. You set the tea and cookies down carefully on the floor, then place your hands against the cold wood of the door.
You close your eyes, thinking of the lock. You've never tried to open a door with magic before, but you've moved smaller things. You focus on the mechanism inside, on the tumblers and the bolt. You imagine them shifting, turning, releasing.
A soft blue glow spreads from your hands across the wood. There's a quiet click. The door swings open just a crack.
Inside, the room is dark and bitterly cold. You can see Tom curled on a narrow cot, shivering even in his sleep. His face looks pale in the faint light from the hallway, his lips indeed tinged with blue.
You almost drop the tea and cookies in shock at how cold he looks. Setting them down carefully on the floor, you kneel beside the cot and take Tom's hands in yours. They're ice-cold, his fingers stiff. You close your eyes and focus, letting the warmth of your magic flow from your palms into his skin.
A soft blue glow surrounds your joined hands, gentle and steady. You think of warmth, of comfort, of the heat from a fireplace on a winter night. The glow spreads up his arms, chasing away the chill. Tom stirs, his eyelids fluttering open.
He blinks at you, confusion in his dark eyes. "What..." he begins, his voice hoarse.
"You were so cold," you whisper. "I brought tea. And cookies. And my blanket."
Tom sits up slowly, still holding your hands. The blue glow fades as you release the magic, but his hands feel warmer now. He looks from your face to the tea and cookies on the floor, then back to you. His expression is unreadable for a moment, then something softens in his eyes.
"You shouldn't be here," he says, but his voice lacks its usual edge. "If Mrs. Cole finds you..."
"I don't care," you tell him firmly. "It's Christmas Eve. You shouldn't be alone and cold."
You let go of his hands to pick up the tea. It's still warm from your magic. You hand it to him, then unwrap one of the gingerbread cookies. The sweet, spicy scent fills the small, cold room.
Tom takes the tea, his fingers curling around the warm cup. He doesn't drink right away, just holds it, letting the heat seep into his hands. He looks at you over the rim of the cup, his dark eyes thoughtful.
You look at him, and suddenly tears well in your eyes. "I'm sorry," you whisper, the words tumbling out. "I didn't want you to get in trouble for saving me. I didn't want you to suffer. And now... now Christmas isn't special at all. It's just cold and lonely for you."
Tom watches you, his expression unreadable. He sets the tea down carefully on the floor, then reaches out. His fingers brush your cheek, wiping away a tear. The gesture is so unexpected, so gentle, that you freeze.
"Don't cry," he says quietly. "It's not your fault."
"But it is," you insist, your voice trembling. "If I hadn't been there, if I hadn't used magic-"
"You were defending yourself," Tom interrupts. His hand drops from your cheek, but his eyes hold yours. "Billy and the others would have hurt you. I did what I had to do."
He picks up the tea again and takes a sip. The warmth seems to ease some of the tension in his shoulders. Then he looks at the gingerbread cookie in your hand.
"Is that for me?" he asks, a faint hint of something like amusement in his voice.
You nod, holding it out. He takes it, breaking it in half. He offers one piece back to you. "We'll share," he says. "That's what you do on Christmas, isn't it? Share?"
You take the half-cookie, your fingers brushing his. The gingerbread is sweet and spicy, a small burst of warmth in the cold room. You eat it slowly, savoring it. Tom does the same, his eyes never leaving your face.
When the cookie is gone, he finishes his tea. The color has returned to his lips, and he doesn't look quite so cold anymore. He sets the empty cup aside.
"You should go back to your room," he says, but his voice lacks conviction. "Mrs. Cole will check on me eventually."
You pout, looking down at your hands. "I don't want to go," you admit quietly. "I missed you all week."
Tom goes still. He watches you for a long moment, his dark eyes thoughtful. The silence stretches between you, filled only with the distant sounds of the orphanage settling for the night.
"You missed me," he repeats, his voice soft. It's not a question, but there's something in his tone, surprise, maybe, or something warmer.
You nod, not looking up. "It was quiet without you. And... lonely."
Tom lets out a slow breath. He looks around the small, cold room, then back at you. "If you stay and Mrs. Cole finds you," he says, "you'll be punished too. No Christmas for either of us."
He says it matter-of-factly, but there's an edge to his words, a warning, but also something else. A test, maybe. To see if you mean what you say.
You finally look up, meeting his gaze. "I don't care," you tell him, your voice firm. "Christmas isn't Christmas if you're alone in here."
Tom's expression softens, just a little. The hard edges around his eyes ease. He looks at the blanket you brought, then back at you. "Fine," he says. "But you sleep on the floor. And if you get cold, don't complain."
He says it like he's doing you a favor, but you can see the way his shoulders relax slightly. The way he doesn't look quite so alone anymore.
You nod eagerly, relieved he's letting you stay. You take your blanket and try to make a comfortable spot on the stone floor. The floor is hard and cold, even through the thin wool. You spread the blanket out, then lie down, pulling the edges around you.
The cold seeps through immediately. You try to curl into a ball, to conserve warmth, but you can't stop shivering. Your teeth chatter softly, and you press your hands between your knees, trying to warm them.
From the cot above you, Tom lets out a quiet sigh. "Stop that," he says, his voice tired.
"I'm trying," you whisper through chattering teeth.
There's a moment of silence. Then you hear the cot creak as Tom sits up. He looks down at you, his face shadowed in the dark room. "You're shivering," he says, sounding annoyed.
"It's cold," you admit, your voice small.
Tom sighs again, louder this time. He shifts on the cot, making room. "Come here," he says, his tone begrudging. "Before you freeze to death."
You hesitate for just a second, then scramble up from the floor, bringing your blanket with you. The cot is narrow, but Tom moves over, making space. You climb in beside him, pulling your blanket over both of you.
The warmth from his body is immediate and welcome. You curl against him, still shivering slightly. Tom doesn't put his arm around you, but he doesn't move away either. He just lies there, stiff at first, then gradually relaxing.
The room is still cold, but here, under the blankets, pressed close together, it's warmer. Safer. You can feel your shivering slowly subsiding, replaced by a drowsy warmth.
You cuddle unconsciously closer to him, chasing his warmth. A soft sigh escapes you as you finally feel safe, truly warm for the first time all night. The tension leaves your body, and you relax fully against him, your head resting near his shoulder.
In the quiet darkness, you whisper, "Merry Christmas, Tom."
For a moment, he doesn't respond. Then you feel his arm shift. It doesn't go around you, but his hand comes to rest lightly on your back, a tentative touch. His fingers are warm through your nightdress.
"Merry Christmas," he murmurs back, his voice low and close to your ear.
You can feel his breathing slow and deepen as he settles into sleep. The cold room doesn't seem so threatening anymore, not with him here. Not with this small, shared warmth between you.
You close your eyes, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing. The orphanage is silent around you, the world outside dark and still. But here, in this narrow cot, with Tom's steady presence beside you, Christmas feels like something real. Something yours.
You drift toward sleep, wrapped in warmth and the unfamiliar comfort of not being alone. Tom's breathing has evened out beside you, his body relaxed in a way you've rarely seen. The hard edges he keeps up during the day have softened in sleep.
For Tom, this silent, stolen hour in the dark is better than any Christmas he can remember. No presents, no songs, no feast, just this: someone who came for him. Someone who saw him cold and hungry and said no. Someone who broke a lock with magic they shouldn't have, just to sit with him in the dark.
He doesn't know how to name what he feels. It isn't gratitude. It's something sharper, hungrier. It's the certainty that you are his now, in a way no one else has ever been. Your magic is his. Your loyalty is his. Your warmth beside him is his.
Outside, midnight passes. Christmas Day arrives quietly, without fanfare. But in a small, cold room in Wool's Orphanage, two children sleep curled together under a thin blanket, and a bond is forged that will shape everything that comes after.
For Tom Riddle, it is the beginning of an obsession.
pov ~ thinking of tom fucking you when he’s pissed off, hot and bothered so he takes his rage out on his sweet little swan…
warnings ~ smut, hate sex, bondage, blindfolding, handcuffing, vibrator, voyeurism, sensory deprivation, voice kink, masturbation, references of blood, tights, hosiery
The black cloth alone that captured her eyes was enough to have her stomach churning and her mind numbing. It pressed down on her eyelids: the only thing left to see were the swirls of colour that coated her imagination. Blair didn’t know where to look, her head leaning up to listen for him but only met by the deafening sounds of shuffling feet and promised nightmares. Tom’s hands captured her wrists, harshly yanking up and earning a gasp from her throat before tying them in a soft cotton fabric to the headboard above her.
Blair’s day had started as normal, occasionally plagued by Tom’s foreboding words and light mumbling. She was sitting in Potions, with him on her right before the class had started when a gaggle of Gryffindor boys came sauntering in. Their lips curved and moved in tandem, infecting the classroom with a cacophony of laughter and unfunny jokes. That was, until, their eyes fell upon Tom.
She had not heard what they whispered to him and, quite frankly, did not care. She knew Tom could handle himself and as the leader of the group looked down to mumble their woes to him, Tom had merely looked ahead - ignoring them as a Lion to a Flea. Much to her dismay, whatever they had said to him had left Tom a conceited mess: only exposed when the two returned to his dorm that evening.
Tom was a jack of all trades yet claimed the throne as the greatest enigma she had met. His eyes bathed in murky waters, while his words tested the depths of social constructs. He was much like a lone shadow on a heath and reminded her of the biting cold that comes and goes when a bird flies across the sun.
His face kept supercilious and numb when he pushed her onto the bed, submerging her sight into perpetual sins. Before allowing Blair to reorientate to her new reliability on the rest of her sensed, he had revoked her touch too while her chest was still panting and her legs squirming to sit up. He didn’t say a word as he stepped back, watching as panic invaded her body.
“Tom,” She called out to him, hoping for some explanation to his sudden reaction, trying to deny the obvious heat that was rushing to her face and stomach. He only dismissed her voice, his eyes trailing down to her legs - she wore her fitted school shirt, along with her slightly rolled skirt (for the original reached below her knees) and tights that covered the rest of her during this rainy season.
He watched in awe as her chest continued to rise and fall rapidly, but didn’t fail to notice how her leg had crossed over the other - the timid movements catching his senses. What was before him was all for him to use - all to obey him. And he was going to take advantage of that.
Blair had long given up in trying to earn a response from him, only straining her ears to check that he was still there - unmoving like a deer in headlights. No, she was the deer in headlights in this analogy. After endless ticking of the watch he wore being the only noise that entranced the room, she heard his footsteps drag closer.
His lean finger ran down her face as she moved her head in a feeble attempt to find the outline of his figure above him only to be stopped by his firm and sudden grip of her jaw - violently pulling her head back to where it was.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Swan,” His sturdy, jaded voice sent her to extraterrestrial universes, mewling at his bruising grip. “You are going to lie there, in silence, while I use you. Make a sound, and I stop. Understand, Swan?”. The name for her sent her into orbit, as she breathed out a ‘Yes’.
“Did I fucking tell you, you could speak?” He spat at her, as her thighs clenched at his response. She didn’t realise her mistake til it was too late and although she was deprived of her ability to see him, Blair could feel the heat that glazed over his eyes. “Well, you ought to receive some sort of punishment, don’t you think, Swan?” He tutted, “So early, we’ve only just started.”
Painstakingly slow, his fingers ran down to the collar of her shirt - like knives cutting through to her heart. The blood was pouring out, bubbling and spurting only to disappear, leaving cuts in their wake. Blair felt the buttons of her blouse come undone, the icy air of Tom’s room sinking into her pores. He spread open the two sides of the shirt - exposing the bra he had bought her.
She sucked in a sharp breath as his fingertips grazed the valley of her chest - barely allowing her any relief before dipping his fingers under the wire to push the bra off her breasts. Her nippled perked at the rough nature of the removal and she attempted to twist her body away from him. The cloth that bound her wrists dug into her skin, resulting in the area become raw and flushed at her attempts.
As quickly as they were there, his fingers were gone and her senses were plunged into darkness again - no real way to know what was occurring around her or what Tom planned next. The wait was long, she daren’t shift her thighs anymore in fear that he would notice and take that pleasure away from her too. Instead, she lay there, suffocating in ignorance to the room behind her eyes. Tick, tock, Swan.
Her legs jolted as they were ripped apart, air hitting the middle of her thin hosiery which was partially drenched in anticipation. Her teeth drew blood from her lips as she willed the moan that threatened to escape to dissipate but her attempt was futile. It departed from her lips like a train on a lonely platform.
“What have you done, Swan? I told you to keep quiet - now I must make you wait even longer.” He preened at her and she could hear the smirk in his lips as his touch left her. Tom’s touch ignited fire when he willed it to, only to leave blistered skin and cracked souls when he had finished. She heard his steps retreat and the armchair that sat at the foot of the bed creaked as he sat.
His view was comparable to the one of the heavens: her torso stretched and arched as it was pulled up by the headboard and her short skirt doing minimal to cover her wet panties and tights. He felt his dick twitch at the thought of peeling them off of her and stretching her still her hole was fitted to him. He watched with a twisted look on her face as her face contorted - she was trying not to move her legs together again, he loved how she knew Tom would only make this hurt more if she dared to do such a thing.
After what those fucking Gryffindor boys said, he was so worked up for the rest of the day: the only thing he wanted was to torture his pretty Swan and watch her inner turmoil as she dripped in arousal. If he wanted to, he could sit there for hours, not allowing her any relief just so he could watch her break.
Seconds stretched to minutes as the dread of what was to come plagued her mind. Time was the worst in this, she had lost all sense of it the moment she was in his presence and it took more from her as she lay: imperceptibly still. Waiting was her biggest enemy, the fiend festered into her mind and took lodging there as body ached to hear a sound from Tom to tell her it was over, that she could finally have what she needs.
After winding minutes of anticipation, she heard him stand. He had picked something up from inside of a drawer and as she heard it roll to a shut, she shuddered at the thought of what it was. “You know, Swan. Now that I’ve had some time to think, I’ve come up with the perfect punishment for you.” He threatened, whispering down at her. Blair had thought the wait without knowing how time passed was her fate, but it was yet to be written.
A faint buzzing caught her ears. No. She knew exactly what he had picked up but before she could process what that meant for her, her suspicions were deemed true. The vibrator pressed deep into her core, pushing her silky, thin panties and rough hosiery into her - the sensation jerked her back to arch away from the sheets, tasting metal as she swallowed back a series of lewd moans and cusses.
She had never felt such opposing feelings before - her underwear was soft and damp but the tights that covered them made the sensitive areas around her pussy erupt in rash, red-hot to touch. She tried to slam her thighs shut, her head lulling as she tried to escape him but Tom’s long fingers left bruises as he pressed her legs into the mattress, wide and exposed.
He slowly began to move the vibrator in leisured circles along her heat, finding her clit as she fought against his hands in response to the device. “Shh, Swan. You wouldn’t want me to stop now, would you?” He cooed and teased, knowing how hard she was battling to keep quiet. He knew she was teetering on the edge of coming as he continued to run the vibrator over her clit when he saw her jaw slacken and her breathing deepen - Tom swiftly retracted his hands from her, looking at the vibrator as it dripped in her wetness that had seeped through the material.
A chuckle escaped him, ”Did you think I was going to let you come so easily for me? You should know better, Blair.” The way he said her name was enough to forgive him from the heinous act he had committed. Her eyebrows were screwed as she willed her legs from closing, feeling her slick seep into the tights that covered her thighs. Blair knew her body was an aching, desperate mess and the thought of him seeing her like this without her seeing it too made her cheeks flush in embarrassment.
The knot that was so close to breaking had eventually, disappeared and the wait suspended all thoughts in her mind. She found that it happened often when she was alone with Tom: she could no longer think for herself, or with any logic - it was as if her mind itself had been injected with a sleeping drug, loopy and fragile.
Pleasure gushed out of her again, and without warning as he began his slow torture once more. Her skirt had ridden up so much, it was practically useless, only covering the top of her hips. Blair couldn’t even feel the pain that engulfed her wrists from the constant friction for the conflicting materials that dipped into her ever so slightly had garnered all her attention. His movements quickened, flicking and rubbing her pussy through her soaked clothing - she could feel herself reaching her orgasm once more when, once more, it was stripped from her.
The fourth time, she felt tears spill from her clenched eyes onto the blindfold and blood drip from her wrists down her arms. Her back ached from trying to hold herself up and what felt like shards of glass had embedded into the skin of her back. Tom had decided to torment her in silence, all she heard were a few soft laughs when he noticed how she tensed and flexed under him.
He hadn’t even touched her and his Swan was already ruined.
Measuredly, his arm removed from between her thighs once more, which shook and jolted - no longer attempting to close on his hand. The cycle had left her hopeless and delusional - all parts of her body weak and sweaty with Tom’s abuse. The buzzing finally stopped and she relaxed in relief: he would finally let her come. “Look at you,” he mewled down at her, not even able to lift her head from the exhaustion, “you took it like such a good girl, Swan. Not even making a sound.”
His hand rested on her thigh, creeping up to her sore, overworked pussy. Her breathing picked up again as he reached the part of her pantyhose that lay, wet, over her core. His fingers sharply pulled at the material, her tights ripping and leaving a hole with just her silky panties covering her arousal. From nave to chops, she was quivering. Shivering at his touch: at the feeling of the binding around her hands above her as it dug into her skin; at the ache that resonated in her shoulders from the pull of the headboard; at the fact that she couldn’t see anything. Her senses were wearing thin and the blindfold was driving her to insanity with the uncertainty that it presented. She never knew what was next, what Tom was to do and it made her shiver with fear. She could feel herself on the edge of an orgasm, begging Tom silently for release.
His fingertips deliberately missed her core, trailing up to her stomach and tracing patterns over the parts he knew made her breathing curl. His rough fingertips and bruising grip finally sent her over the edge, he wasn’t even touching her pussy - hell it wasn’t even exposed - but the overwhelming emotions alone made her cry out.
A train of pornographic moans and whines erupted from her throat as soon as Tom traced her torso, cum spilling out of her and onto the sheets. Her silk panties did little to keep it at bay as it continued to seep out of her. She was too worn and overstimulated to try and find some friction to ride out the orgasm - Tom only watching in amusement at how she came undone without him.
The high slowed, leaving her throat itchy and raw at the sounds she made. Her body couldn’t move, her mind unable to form any words as she felt Tom slowly untie her wrists and blindfold. Her eyes didn’t even need to adjust for the room was bathed in candlelight only and her arms fell limp on the pillow above her as she gazed into Tom’s eyes - her own glassy and glossed over.
She continued to watch him in silence as he helped her clean up, picking her up and placing her on the edge of the bathtub to clean her legs and core. Blair could barely hold herself up but she hadn’t even noticed as Tom took care of her - dressing her in new panties and one of his t-shirts before taking her back into the bedroom.
Tom had grown used to Blair’s silence - she was always like this after he made her finish. Sometimes, Tom overworks her just so he can experience her when she was this way: all clingy and shy. It made him feel powerful; he could control exactly how she felt, illicit the reaction he wanted from her.
He placed her back down onto the bed after changing the sheets with a flick of his wand and watched as she curled up, drowning in his clothes. He smirked at the sight, lying next to her as she nuzzled her head into his shoulder, sleep taking over.
