In the Dark Lord’s Orbit
Author's note: "Here's the thing: I love writing. I love Harry Potter lore. And I know exactly who's reading this — the same kind of unwell that I am. You want the dark, obsessive, ink-and-winter-air boy to win? Me too. That's why we're here. That's why Beth is tired. Welcome to the club. We have butterbeer and terrible decision-making skills.
Hogwarts is quieter than usual, like the castle itself is holding its breath. Laughter echoes down the corridors, and the floating candles spill gold across the old stones, soft and warm. My arms were overloaded with potion supplies, the scent of asphodel and brimstone clinging to my robes, stubborn as ever. The portraits whispered, eyes following me, judging or maybe just bored. Overhead, the ceiling glimmered with a half-hearted starlight. My friends wanted to drag me to Hogsmeade after this week’s exam marathon, and honestly, I needed it. I needed to clear my mind and forget about exams and Slytherin scheming, even for a little while. All I wanted was a simple afternoon with friends, a chance to feel normal again, far away from watchful eyes and endless pressure. I could have disappeared in a swirl of Floo Powder, but after so many hours buried in the dungeons, I was desperate for sunlight and air that didn’t taste like old cauldrons. I dumped my books in my room, dodged a few enchanted scrolls and potion bottles that glowed like sleepy fireflies, and finally headed for the castle doors. Freedom was just a few steps away.
Leaving the common room, I catch the familiar scene: Tom Riddle surrounded by eager admirers, first-years desperate for his guidance, though everyone knows his help always comes at a cost. They seem more than willing to pay. As I pass, I spot a jittery first-year gripping a parchment. Tom leans in, his voice smooth but edged with something cold. “One vial of Gillyweed, and I’ll show you the answer charm for your essay,” he whispers. The first-year nods, already rummaging through his pockets. The transaction is swift and secretive, invisible to any professor’s eye. Tom hands over a folded note, wearing a saintly smile, but everyone knows who truly holds the strings. He basks in their dependence, thriving on the power it gives him. For most students, this is typical, but Tom and I have our own history: last year’s duel in the library, where my own charm caught him off guard and left an impressive scorch mark across an entire bookshelf, though he never admitted defeat. After that, our whispered arguments over who brewed the better sleeping draught in Slughorn’s class turned sharper, and when I called out his tricks, we both landed in detention, cleaning cauldrons for hours in icy silence broken only by the occasional glare. He notices my eye roll as I walk by, and though he looks mildly irritated, he knows his status is secure. I, however, remain thoroughly unimpressed.
As I began to climb the stairs, my footsteps echoed against the endless shuffle of student shoes. I dodged a group of third-years arguing about who lost the latest House points, then passed rushing first-years and second-years in a panic because their scrolls had flown away—thanks to Peeves, who cackled as he sent a rain of parchment fluttering down the hall. One unfortunate second-year chased hers as it hopped frantically down the corridor, having turned into a frog mid-sentence after a stray spell gone wrong in Charms. Someone shouted “Finite!” but only succeeded in turning the frog-scroll bright blue. A pair of twins dueled with Jelly-Legs Jinxes, their legs wobbling comically as a professor sighed and righted their wands with a flick. I remembered getting hexed and such in my first year—fond memories, like the time Filch made me scrub cauldrons for sneaking into the kitchens after curfew. The scent of toast drifted from the Great Hall, and I heard distant cheers—probably someone celebrating a Quidditch win. Finally, after weaving through a knot of Ravenclaws discussing O.W.L. revision and dodging a pair of enchanted gobstones rolling underfoot, I found the heavy door to the front of the castle. I pushed it open and walked into the light; the breeze was warm, and the sun was out. How lovely. I walked over to the fountain in the middle of the entrance courtyard and began to watch the quiet life hum around me: a pair of Gryffindors practiced levitation charms on chocolate frogs, a Slytherin fourth-year scribbled the answers to Slughorn’s latest riddle, the faint scent of honeysuckle drifted from the Herbology greenhouses. Beth caught up and grinned, producing a Fizzing Whizbee from her pocket—“Don’t tell Filch,” she whispered conspiratorially. A group of Slytherin students strolled past, laughing too loudly as they boasted about their latest prank on the Ravenclaws. Someone tossed a handful of Fizzing Whizbees into the air, and they sparkled through the sunlight, popping and fizzing while a prefect scolded them from across the courtyard. Their Head Girl, badge gleaming, chided them with a look, but it was the Head Boy—Tom Riddle himself—who actually got them to quiet down with a sharp word. Everyone knew Slytherin ruled these halls after dark, and Tom Riddle was the reason why. Soaking in some sunlight after this week was much needed, until a shadow fell over me. I could feel the looming presence, so I opened one eye and sighed. Tom.
I sensed Tom before I saw him—the air always changed, thickening with the sharp, dark scent of ink and winter air, something cold and unyielding that clung to my skin and burned in my lungs. Every time he was near, I felt it first, a warning and a promise.
“Do you mind?” I asked, as if he were a bug on my shoe. Tom’s eyes flickered, assessing, but he just offered a smile that was too sharp to be sincere. “Going somewhere?” he asked, his tone light, but there was a certain intensity behind it, as if he was cataloging every detail about me—what I wore, how close I stood, whether I flinched when he leaned in.
The first time he cornered me after Potions, I had nearly choked on his scent—so close, so overwhelming, it left me dizzy and aching in a way I hated to name. He offered help I didn’t want, hovering a little too close, and seemed genuinely surprised when I turned him down. Since then, it had been a game: his pursuit, my resistance, and the wild, sick thrill that pulsed beneath my skin every time our eyes met.
“And why does the prefect care?” I hum as I stand to look over his shoulder. “Simply. I’m ensuring you are not breaking rules,” he replies, his voice smooth but his eyes glinting with something more than schoolyard authority. For someone who loves rules so much, he seems awfully interested in where I am going. “No,” I reply, catching the way his gaze lingered after my answer—a flicker of frustration at my evasion. When my friend finally appeared, looking dead on her feet from studying, I sighed and turned my attention back to Tom. My heart always skipped when he was near, though I refused to let it show. I wished I could tell myself it was just annoyance that got under my skin, but it wasn’t that simple. Sometimes it felt as if I was caught in the pull of something dangerous and rare, the way he could make everyone else fade into the background with just one well-aimed glance. Maybe it was how easily he got under people’s skin, or how every word he spoke felt loaded with meaning I could never quite decipher—equal parts invitation and threat. There was a sharpness in him that both warned and compelled me, the promise of secrets and the thrill of being singled out by someone who hid so much. I told myself he was nothing but trouble, but I could not ignore how every encounter left me restless, wanting to know what lay beneath his careful mask. Maybe it was the way he always seemed to notice what others missed, or how his confidence was both infuriating and magnetic at once, pulling me into his orbit even as I tried to resist. Underneath all of it, what I truly wanted was simpler and a thousand times harder: to belong, but on my own terms. Not just to a House or a name, not to someone else’s expectations, but to a group who saw all of me and still called me friend. Sometimes I wondered if I would even like the real Tom, or just the version of him I let myself imagine—the clever, misunderstood boy in the shadows, not the snake with secrets.
Beth catches my eye and gives me a look that says, “Are you alright?” but she doesn’t say anything in front of him. I wonder, fleetingly, if she’s noticed the strange tension between us—or if she’s just worried I’ll get caught up in Tom’s schemes. Later, she’ll nudge me and whisper, “What’s his deal with you, anyway?”
Beth is the kind of friend who notices too much. She’s cautious, always warning me not to get close to Tom, calling him “snake-charming trouble” and rolling her eyes at my half-hearted denials. Once, after a run-in with Tom in the library, she cornered me in the corridor. “You know he’s only interested when he wants something,” she’d said, her voice low. “Just… don’t let him get in your head, okay?” I’d laughed it off, but her words lingered longer than I’d admit.
Go find your fan club, Riddle, I say, exasperated, with an annoyed look. As I push past him, his hand lingers at the edge of my sleeve. It’s not gentle; it’s possessive, cold, as if he’s reminding me I’m still within reach. I move to hug my friends and hook my arm through theirs, but I can still feel Riddle’s presence, a shadow just behind us. His gaze isn’t longing—it’s a calculation, a silent warning that he does not like to lose.
Beth, my friend from Hufflepuff, turns to look only to see Tom following close behind, but not enough to be seen as part of our group. She stiffens, her fingers tightening around my arm, and her voice drops to a whisper: “I didn’t realize Tom was coming with us.” There’s a note of fear in it now, brittle and thin. I sigh and roll my eyes. “He’s not,” I reply bitterly as I glance back at him. Beth subtly shifts to put herself between us, pulling me just a little closer. It’s almost funny—someone so in control can’t seem to help trailing after someone who won’t fall into step. Maybe he’s just curious, or maybe there’s a reason he always seems to be hovering just a little too close. I catch his eye for a split second; there’s nothing there—no warmth, no anger, just an emptiness that makes my skin crawl. I look away quickly, unsettled.
As we walk, my friend runs off as she sees her favorite candy in Honeydukes. Suddenly, I feel an arm wrap around mine, firmer this time. The cold brush of his fingers is deliberate, a claim. Annoyance flares, but beneath it is something like dread. I don’t dare react.
“Don’t be so cold, my dear,” Tom murmurs, his voice pitched so only I hear it. There’s no affection in it, just a cool threat: he’s reminding me that I’m still under his watch. I don’t need a babysitter, I huff, forcing a casualness I don’t feel. He hums, not as an answer but as a dismissal, like my words are already irrelevant. What do you want, Tom? I ask, trying to sound bored, though my heart pounds. Up close, I can smell ink and something darker, something that’s entirely him. For a moment, I wonder if he’s keeping tabs on me for reasons that have nothing to do with school rules. If I let him in, if I rely on him for even a moment, I could lose more than just my pride. People whisper he can make or break anyone’s future here. But if I push him away, I risk becoming a target, or worse, losing my friends to the kind of manipulations only Tom can pull off with a word behind closed doors. “Why? I’m simply curious: why do you never need your prefect help?” he asks, voice low, the words stripped of any real interest. I get the sense he’s less offended by my resistance than bored by it, like a puzzle he hasn’t solved yet, and might discard if it takes too long. Unlike your goons, I study,” I reply with a bitter tone. Tom’s laugh is quick and sharp, more mockery than amusement. Don’t sound so sure, he says, and the threat is unmistakable.
For one wild moment, I wanted him to kiss me, just to prove to myself that all this wanting wasn’t only in my head.
I sigh as I pull my arm free of Tom’s grip, feeling the ghost of his touch long after. Tom’s brow pulls together as if he’s offended I wouldn’t stay by his side; first years swarm him, asking how they can be as good as Tom at potions. A few are there just because they find him attractive—many do. He knows this but never does anything; if he does, it’s for his own gain. As they gush and pull his attention in various ways, I shake my head and smile as I watch him suffer with them. He’s fuming because this happens way more than he’d like, though his eyes keep darting past them, searching for me in the crowd.
The noise of the village was a welcome relief after what felt like years of studying—people, how enjoyable. Beth emerged from Honeydukes with a bag full of peppermint toads and chocolate frogs; she looked guilty, as if she stole the whole stock. The air outside was bright with laughter and chatter, the scent of treacle tart wafting from the bakery and the distant clatter of hooves as a Thestral-drawn carriage rattled past. We passed Zonko’s, where a group of fourth-years set off a cascade of Fizzing Whizbees, and the joke shop windows were crowded with enchanted displays.
The short walk to the Three Broomsticks was filled with snippets of conversation—someone boasting about a Quidditch win, another groaning about Dumbledore’s latest transfiguration essay. Beth and I stepped inside, and warmth hit us, butterbeer-sweet and buzzing with House banners overhead and students pressed shoulder to shoulder. There was Kyle—three butterbeers down and chugging a fourth. His pouch was filled with pumpkin juice and new dragon skin gloves. A post-game errand.
“Hey, still recovering?” I ask as he slams down the glass. He looks up at us and smiles. “I’ve never been better,” he replies, tapping his chest. Beth, a sweetheart as always: “You fell 30 feet in the air.” He laughs loudly. “I’m the best, obviously,” he jokes, his ego as big as the Quidditch pitch, motioning for two more butterbeers. Beth rolls her eyes as we sit. “You haven’t even begun on potions,” she huffs, as the noise suddenly grows loud, many voices cheering for their house’s win.
Tom Riddle
She laughs with her friends, sunlight catching the angles of her face, utterly unaware of the way she draws the room’s attention—and mine. From my vantage above the main floor, I watch her. She doesn’t seek me out, doesn’t glance up, and that should be beneath my notice, but it isn’t. It infuriates me. Others clamor for my help, for a scrap of my time, and she simply… does not. She talks with that Hufflepuff girl, her voice low, hands animated, a smudge of chocolate on her thumb from Honeydukes.
But she is not just any girl. Her family traces back to the earliest council of wizards, their crest tangled in the roots of these walls, their names whispered in the Great Hall’s highest rafters. There are whispered stories about her bloodline: it was her ancestor who enchanted the hidden vault beneath the castle, and some say a single word from her family can bend lesser wards. Last year, a rumor went around that her great-uncle once turned aside a curse meant for an entire House with only a flick of his wand. Even now, magic clings to her; every time she walks through the old doorways, the castle seems to recognize the signature of her blood—wards that sometimes shimmer at her touch, a trickle of light along the stone when she passes, portraits tilting slightly in silent greeting. She once absentmindedly summoned a lost book from a sealed faculty shelf, the charm barely whispered, the lock unraveling itself like it remembered her voice. Those old bloodlines carry powerful connections, the kind that could open doors even I cannot force. There is strength in legacy, and she holds it so carelessly, as though it’s nothing more than another schoolbook or trinket tucked into her bag. If she would only realize what we could accomplish together…
I could make this easy for her—solve her little problems with a word, if only she’d ask. But she won’t. She acts as though she doesn’t need me, and each time she refuses, it sharpens something inside me. I could offer her the answers she’ll want for Potions, the trick to Slughorn’s ridiculous riddle—she must know I have it. Instead, she leans on the Quidditch brute, lets him boast and preen, as if his empty bravado is worth more than what I could give. Her resistance is as captivating as it is maddening.
I grip the polished rail so hard my knuckles pale. Below, a fourth-year’s spell fizzles and his cauldron belches out a foul green smoke. The boy coughs, panicked—until I lock eyes with him and offer nothing, not even a warning. He sees my smile and falters further, his potion ruined, and I savor the way fear lingers in the air a moment longer. Power, real power, is knowing I could help but choosing not to.
She is a locked door, not a prize. I could call her over, force her to need me, but I will not stoop. Not yet. Let her struggle. Let her try to work things out on her own. She will falter, and when she does, she’ll have to come to me. Once she does, once she’s mine, I won’t need to try anymore. She’ll be useful until she isn’t.
She laughs again, unaware, and I watch, silent and unseen, as she chooses everyone but me. It is intolerable, but the outcome is already decided. She will come to me. They all do.
Somewhere above, on the second floor, I feel a prickle at the back of my neck. I glance up to spot Tom, half-shrouded in shadow, watching from the balcony—a silent, uncomfortable presence, eyes fixed on me even as he pretends to listen to the students around him. No matter the distance, his attention is a weight, cold and possessive, threading through the crowd. I try to ignore the way my heart stutters under his gaze. There’s a darkness behind his eyes—a warning. It’s not affection, not really; it’s hunger, a need to possess, to consume and control. In that moment, I realize that being wanted by Tom Riddle is not a fairytale. It is a curse, a test, a question I am afraid to answer: what would I give up just to keep being seen by him?
His shadow lingers, unsettling and inescapable. I wonder if the portraits whisper about us now, if the castle itself is watching, waiting to see whether I will run or turn toward the darkness that keeps calling my name. Something in the air feels taut, as if every glance and silent dare between us is winding tighter with every passing moment. I can almost sense the storm gathering, as if one secret slipped or one careless word might shatter the careful balance between us. Maybe it will be the next time we cross paths alone, or when one of Tom’s bargains goes too far and drags me in, but whatever it is, the moment is coming. Sometimes I think a single act of kindness from my friends, or a reminder of who I am beyond school and House, might anchor me to the light. Other days, when the fear of being ordinary feels too heavy or the promise of finally understanding what makes me different calls to me, I am not sure. One day soon, I know this tension will break, and when it does, it will change everything. There are choices waiting—whether to trust the people who see my scars and still pull me into the sun, or to reach for the shadows that promise control when I feel helpless. A part of me thrills at the promise of power, secrets, and a world opened by choosing Tom, but I can feel, too, all the warmth I might lose: laughter with friends, the sunlight I crave, the trust that makes this place home. And I am not sure, when the time comes, whether I will choose the light, or follow the darkness, even as it costs me everything I once thought I could never give up.
The common room had emptied by the time I returned from Hogsmeade, the fire burned down to embers, and the green glow of the lake filtered through the windows. I should have gone straight to bed. Instead, I sat at my desk, a Potions essay open in front of me, my quill dry, my mind blank. Not thinking about him. Definitely not. Then came the knock. Three raps. Measured. Unhurried. The kind of knock that didn’t ask permission—it announced. I knew who it was before I opened the door. Tom Riddle stood in the corridor, Head Boy badge catching the torchlight, his expression unreadable. But something was different. The sharp edges seemed softened, the usual coldness tucked away like a weapon he’d chosen not to draw. Yet. “Patrol duty,” he said. Not a question. “You’re late.” “I’m not late. You’re early.” His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost human. I grabbed my wand and followed, because what choice did I have? We were Heads. This was the job. The corridors were empty, the portraits dozing in their frames. Our footsteps echoed, two sets, falling into an easy rhythm. He didn’t speak at first, and the silence should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. It was almost… peaceful. That was the first warning sign. Peace had no business being anywhere near Tom Riddle. “You were quiet today,” he said eventually. “At Hogsmeade.” I glanced at him. “I was with my friends.” “I know.” A pause. “You laughed. At something the Quidditch boy said.” I wasn’t sure if it was an accusation or an observation. “Kyle is funny.” “Kyle,” Tom repeated, like he was tasting the name and finding it bland. “He’s not your type.” My heart skipped. “You don’t know my type.” He stopped walking. Turned to face me. The torchlight flickered across his features, and for a moment just a moment—I saw something that looked almost like uncertainty. “No,” he said softly. “I don’t. You won’t let me.” It was the most honest thing he’d ever said to me. We started walking again, but closer now. Close enough that when he breathed, I could smell him. Ink and old parchment. Something clean and sharp, like winter air. And beneath it, something darker. Cedar, maybe. Or smoke. Or just him. My head felt fuzzy. Not in a bad way. In a way that made me want to lean closer, just to know if the smell changed when he was nervous. Was he ever nervous? “You’re staring,” he said. I looked away. "You’re hard not to look at." The words came out before I could stop them. I waited for the smirk, the cold laugh, the reminder that he was Tom Riddle and I was just another puzzle to solve. Neither came. Instead, he said, “That’s the first true thing you’ve said to me all week.” And the worst part? I couldn’t tell if he was lying. The rest of the patrol passed in a haze of quiet conversation and stolen glances. He asked about my family. My favorite subject. A book I’d been reading. Normal things. Human things. By the time we reached the corridor outside my room, I had almost convinced myself that this was the real Tom. The one behind the mask. Almost. “Goodnight,” he said. His voice was warm. Too warm. I paused with my hand on the door. “Tom…” He waited. Ask him. Ask him why. Ask him what he really wants. “Nothing,” I said. “Goodnight.” I closed the door. Leaned against it. Pressed my fingers to my lips like I could trap the smell of him before it faded. My heart was pounding. My head was spinning. And I still didn’t know if the sickness in my stomach was fear or want.
