Oblivion || Part 4
Tom Riddle x reader
Summary: Memories of the life he had before flash through Tom's mind as he sleeps. the good days, the early days, and the night when everything went wrong.
Warnings for this part; Fluff, OOC Tom, obsessive Tom, Codependency, murder, murder disguised as suicide, drug withdrawal mention.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5
He met her at a mere 11 years old, September 1st 1938, 10:48 AM.
He was a boy, starving and wretched, aching for the things he’d yet to understand, scrambling for anything to learn—to teach—to grow.
He was special, he knew that. He could do things others couldn’t. He was going to be great, he was going to be powerful, he was going to change the world.
He slammed into her, and almost instantly, she became the top priority on his list.
He was going to have her, he was going to be great, he was going to be powerful, he was going to change the world. She would be by his side for all of it.
“I’m sorry!” The girl squeaked out, her hand finding his arm to pull him up after the two slammed into each other—literally—and fell to the ground in a heap. “I’m sorry,” The girl said again, Tom’s eyes remained locked on her face, lips parted. “Mama said it’s rude to not watch where I’m going. I should’ve listened,” The girl said, dusting invisible dirt off his shoulder.
His eyes followed her hand, continuing to trail it as her hand returned to her side. His eyes met hers again as she gave a small smile. “I’m (y/n), I’m a first year,” the girl, (y/n), said, holding out her hand in greeting. Tom reached out, taking her hand in his. “You too?” She asked, Tom nodded. Yes, he was a first year as well—if it wasn’t obvious by his completely black school uniform; yes, he’d already put it on, he was far too excited.
“Maybe we’ll be in the same house! It was nice to meet you, sorry again!” (y/n) said, moving past him suddenly as someone ahead called her name, hugging them goodbye and climbing onto the train. Tom stared at his hand.
It was the first time he hadn’t hated someone touching him. the first time it hadn’t felt like ants on skin, but instead…sparks.
He got onto the train, quickly, just barely catching the sight of her as she disappeared into another train car.
She was going to be his.
He’d make sure of it.
-
The sorting hat had barely touched his head before it called out ‘Slytherin!’, and Tom slipped off the stool and heading over to the table on the far left, full of students cloaked in Slytherin green and black. His uniform changed to match and he sat at one of the open spots at the end—his eyes lingering on (y/n) even though his new prefect, Abraxas Malfoy, greeted him with a pompous smirk.
Abraxas was going on about Tom soon learning the rules of Slytherin house, but Tom didn’t much care—he was waiting for (y/n) to be sorted. Her last name had a W, so she was sorted near the end. Tom didn’t breathe until the hat shouted out ‘Slytherin!’ and (y/n) ended up at the end of the bench, a few seats down from him as others had been sorted before her.
Tom barely took his eyes off her.
She was smart, like him, everything seemed to flow naturally for her; she was the only one in their year able to keep up with him through every class, from potions to charms.
He knew they were meant to be, (y/n) must’ve known too, because she kept trying to get closer to him. Talking to him whenever she saw him, walking beside him to class, and even sharing her food with him.
He knew it, he just knew it.
It was just unfortunate that Tom couldn’t get a word out around her, he’d gather his thoughts and courage, turn to her, and she’d smile, and everything would fizzle away; leaving him speechless and just, staring.
So for four years, they were balancing on the edge of acquaintance and friendship. Thankfully, (y/n) was persistent, and Tom enjoyed every moment she’d invade his space—trying to become his friend, to break down his walls, not realizing that she’d already done so the moment they met.
By year 2, when Tom was 12; he’d finally managed to push past the verbal block he always had around her, and finally speak; though never much. Just a word or two in response to her.
She knew he liked her(she didn’t, she thought he tolerated her at best, but was determined to be his friend, because she saw he had no one else), so she never once gave up on him, even when his responses were quiet and stiff, even when seemingly he had no interest in her, even when he seemingly ignored her.
He never once did, he just couldn’t find words around her.
By year four, at 14, he’d finally got past that mental block, and to (y/n)—finally opened up to her.
“Finally got that cocoon of yours cracked open, did I?” She asked, giggling as she sat above him in the willow tree, her feet swinging as he looked up at her from his seat at the trunk, scarf wrapped around his neck; cheeks red from the early fall chill.
“I must admit, your persistence has…carved a fondness,” Tom said slowly, choosing his words carefully. (y/n) groaned, leaning back until she was hanging from the branch. Tom’s hands flung forward to catch her, swallowing hard when she stayed perfectly in balance, her hands keeping her on the branch.
“Oh Merlin, such dramatic wording, I really made friends with a bookworm?” She teased, Tom came around to her front, glaring playfully. She grinned back, laughing still.
“You had four years to change your mind, (y/n), can't turn back now,” Tom said, stepping closer to her, his eyes meeting hers, faces inches apart.
If he wanted, which he really did, he could lean in right now, and kiss her.
“Ugh, I guess nooot,” (y/n) groaned, swinging back up and jumping down from the branch, twisting around to face him again, grinning. “Guess we’re stuck with each other now,”
Tom hummed, nodding his head a little as she laughed again—his eyes following every tiny movement. “Indeed,” Tom murmured, reaching and catching her sleeve between his fingers—rubbing the fabric a little.
(y/n) looked towards the castle, it was still early in the day. “Study date?” (y/n) said, grinning, and Tom’s heart skipped a beat.
He could only nod, and (y/n)’s hand found his, his heart skipped again, following her—almost in a trance—as (y/n) guided him from the willow tree back into the castle and into the library.
His eyes never left her once, and now that he’d had her hand in his? He was never letting go ever again.
Tom raced through the corridor, bare feet slamming against the ground as he panted hard—hitting a wall as he exited the boy’s dorms corridor.
He’d had a nightmare, a horrible one, he couldn’t even bear to recount it as he stood in front of the girls' dorms corridor—wishing he could push forth and find (y/n).
His shoulder rose and fell with his quick, harsh breathing, his jaw aching from how tight he was clenching it.
He needed to see her, he needed to—he had to make sure she was okay, he had to he had to he had to—
Someone approached from the corridor, and Tom was about to tell them to grab (y/n) for him, but it was (y/n), rubbing her face as she exited the girls' dorms. “Tom?” She asks, voice raspy with sleep, brows furrowing. “What are you doing up?” She asked, looking at him with a worried gaze.
She was worried about him, when here he stood—panicked for her.
Tom takes her in, searching every little bit of her—he reaches out and grabs her, pulling her closer to properly examine her. He tilts her head up, finding no marks of his nightmare on her skin, just her; sleepy and confused. “Tom?” She says his name again, and Tom yanks her close, wrapping his arms completely around her, taking a deep, sudden breath of her.
She says his name again, for the third time—each time sounds better on her lips, his name only sounded like that when she said it.
“What’s wrong?” (y/n) asked, slowly wrapping her arms around him as well, holding him softer than he held her, but still tight enough to be felt. Tom breathed her in again, tilting his head to press his eyes into her shoulder.
“You were gone, I couldn’t find you,” Tom breathed out, shaking and tense, clutching his hands into her skin, feeling her warmth and body against him. The nightmare had been horrible, his worst fear besides his own mortality. Losing her, it had been odd, just a swirl of darkness and pain; only hearing her scream—forever out of his reach, no matter how much he ran.
“I’m right here,” (y/n) murmured, rubbing his back, leaning into his hug now. He took a shuddering breath and somehow clung to her tighter, hot tears soaking her sleep shirt. “I’m right here,”
(y/n) sat beside him in Transfiguration class and almost automatically, his hand slipped into hers. She barely glanced at the touch—far too used to his practical need to keep a hand on her by this point(it was like he couldn’t breathe unless he was touching her in some way), taking out her parchment and books with one hand, the other intertwined with his on top of their shared desk.
Tom smiled, keeping it small as Dumbledore glanced at him.
He’d seen this budding friendship grow over four years, and it…surprised him. The starving, frantic boy he’d met at the orphanage was not the same boy that now sat beside (y/n), holding her hand, eager for any sort of touch or attention from her.
Tom had changed, because of her, and Dumbledore still wasn’t sure if it was a good change, or terrible change hidden behind a good mask.
Tom’s eyes were wide with mania, hands shaking—soaked in Myrtle Warren's blood, silver dagger in his hand as he held her bleeding wrists above a jar, collecting her blood.
He stood, feeling weak in the knees. He did it, he actually did it. He’d killed someone, the first step to his immortal life. He stepped back, making sure to plant a knife in Mrytle’s hand, staging the scene. He cleaned his hands, and sent the jar of blood back to his dorm room with a tap of his wand—making sure he didn’t have any more blood on him where it would be suspicious—before getting into character and bolting out of the bathroom, yelling for a professor.
Tom’s eyes slowly opened as the morning sun peered through the window. He groaned, leaning away from it—it didn’t hurt, but having the sun in your eyes was never fun. He heard (y/n) shift in the bed, and he sat up, completely awake now, eyes wide, taking her in as she slowly woke up.
It’s been two days since he rescued her from the warehouse. She’d freaked out the first night and had to be sedated, hitting her head bad, and then after that she’d barely been awake before passing out.
That was over 12 hours ago now, and he’d been sitting by her side for hours, his cold hand holding hers, just waiting for any sign of life.
And now he watches as her eyes peel open; she still looks sick, pale and gaunt—due for terrible withdrawals at any moment. Her eyes catch his as she looks around confused, and then she just stares, eyes going wide. He stares back, hope building in his chest.
She recognizes him.
And then she screams.
-end of part 4-
@helloamalien <3
