Mar 13
CAN SOMEONE PLEASEEE WRITE A VOLDEMORT X READER FF/IMAGE OR IM ACTUALLY GOING TO CRASH OUT😭
Like actual Voldemort and NOT Tom Riddle😭😭
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CAN SOMEONE PLEASEEE WRITE A VOLDEMORT X READER FF/IMAGE OR IM ACTUALLY GOING TO CRASH OUT😭
Like actual Voldemort and NOT Tom Riddle😭😭
head boy tom riddle having his own publicly claimed compartment on the hogwarts express like he’s had every year since he was a fourth year.
no one touches it. no one dares to even knock. the blinds are drawn shut on the way to and back from hogwarts at the start and end of each school year. students gossiped all the time since he’s officially — unofficially — put his name on that specific spot.
they talk about how much he values his privacy.
about how he might be jerking off.
but this year, things were different. for the first time, he let someone else inside with him.
you.
and of course, people speculate. it’s rather scandalous, isn’t it? for a boy and a girl who were dating to be alone, shut together in a small space, not a sound coming from inside?
some try to peek in to find out. nervous first years search for empty seats and older students steer them away from their doom, whispering stories like they do every year in the corridor like tradition, one after another chiming in on the mystery of riddle’s compartment. some say he’s simply studying up for the new school year beforehand to be ahead like always. others say he’s finally found a partner to share his so called sexual escapades with.
but, there is simply no way, right? golden, head boy, respectful prodigy, polite gentleman, saint riddle would never do that to a girl on the train to hogwarts, would he?
he would never be sitting silently with his legs crossed and a book on his lap in that compartment on the express, humming to himself in thought as he read through an issue for the new curriculum, turning a page every once in a while with one hand.
…while the other sat squeezed just between your shut thighs and inside your soaked panties beneath your skirt, long fingers curling and thrusting in and out of your sopping little hole absentmindedly as you squirmed in your seat beside him, panting and whimpering quietly like he said to while clinging onto his arm, hips humping your cunt against his digits desperately while he paid you no mind whatsoever.
tom riddle was always a good multitasker, and he’d need the skill to balance work and pleasure for this coming year. so, he is doing just that — diligently taking care of his academics and dutifully assisting his girlfriend who was just so pent up after not having seen him all summer.
poor thing.
out there, they all say he’s either studious or debauched. tom riddle thinks: why can’t he be both?
after all, it was just his responsibilities as head boy(friend).
Why Do Planes Crash
Y/N is a popular writer who studies Muggles. She's not afraid to write books glorifying their science and technology. Tom is intrigued.
y/n is too detailed, the romance is kinda weak, Tom hires us. I'm currently looking for a new job and that's all I can think about lol
“...I trust this letter will find you: a) frantically packing for the safe house the Order will no doubt insist upon, or b) terribly anxious. I wish to assuage both conditions. You are in no danger, and there is absolutely nothing to fear. Believe me, if I really wanted to kill you, I would have no one to write to.
The unfortunate incident at your book presentation rests entirely with the Order. My people and I were merely defending ourselves. What you read of us in the newspapers may or may not be true, but today I came in peace, wishing only to obtain an autograph from a favorite author. I am, as I'm sure you are, terribly sorry for the lady who fell victim to the Aurors' recklessness. You must not blame yourself.
I wish to offer you something else to consider. As I said, you are among my favorite writers (second only to Conan Doyle) and one of the most brilliant minds of our age. I have read all your works. I am rarely mistaken about people, and I sense in you a potential so vast it would be a crime to ignore it or to fail to help it. That is precisely what I propose to do. The ways you could benefit our cause are numerous: you are witty, eloquent, persuasive, you comprehend Muggle technology, you maintain connections among them... I could continue, but why? You know your talents inside out. What you cannot yet see is what I could help you achieve.
I find myself in a delicate position. It may appear as though I am offering forbidden fruit, but in truth, I wish only to shield a gifted mind from the brutalities of a looming war and from the practical struggles of a young author. Your apartment at 4 Onslow Mews West leaves much to be desired. How do you and your cat manage in such conditions?
Do not rush to reply. You will likely show this to your friends in the Order, and they will say precisely what I expect them to say. But if you truly authored those books yourself, you will reach your own decision, independent of all others. So, spend the night with that thought. Place this letter beneath your pillow (I will be pleased to know it’s there).
P.S.: Can you imagine how small the world truly is? It seems the father of your agent, Margaret Ogden, knew my mother. Margaret herself told me. We shared a most pleasant conversation.
Sincerely yours,
L.V.”
* * *
You remember how Margaret Ogden, your faithful literary agent, even rented out Flourish and Blotts once. There were so many people demanding autographs that your arm ached for two days afterwards.
Today was different. Books aren't supposed to be promoted like this; it felt just wrong. In the cramped auditorium (which you’d managed to secure, oddly enough, in the basement of St. Mungo's) barely half the pews were filled. That sweet elderly witch in the first row seemed to have attended every one of your presentations. Two girls in school robes were giggling and whispering in the back (how did their parents even let them be here?). Refusing to succumb to the cowardly habit of weak lecturers who would ‘wait another ten minutes for latecomers’, you rose from your seat, cleared your throat, and said:.
"Dear witches and wizards, whom I have the honor of addressing today, I am pleased to welcome you. But before I say a word about my book, I feel I must first thank you" your voice wavered slightly, but you quickly regained its volume "for your courage in simply being here today’.
A shadow crossed the faces of the witches and wizards, and all of them, even those you were seeing for the first time, seemed familiar and close to you. Alastor, sitting near the door, chuckled knowingly.
"It's no secret that nowadays courage is required for the simplest of things. We've all become so brave we scarcely notice it anymore. The world has grown so dark that simply stepping outside, walking your son down Diagon Alley to help him choose his textbooks is scary. Visiting friends that are known for being 'blood traitors' is scary. Coming to the aid of your Muggle neighbors when their house is attacked by Death Eaters..."
The color drained from the cheeks of the elderly witch in the front row, yet she did not lower her gaze.
"...is terrifying. Writing about Muggles is scary sometimes. And coming here today to learn what has been written about them, to understand how these people live and why they are not our enemies, that, too, requires tremendous courage. I bow my head to you and I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for taking this risk."
You would have given anything to calm their fears, to tell them that Alastor and Stebbins had their wands at the ready, and that a dozen Signal Spells were casted on the door, but Alastor had strictly forbidden it. The last thing you need is to show your hand to the enemy. Yet, looking at the handful of people before you, you were torn between a terrible guilt and a strange, fierce elation.
* * *
You called for Alastor through the fireplace in the dead of night.
“Well,” his head said when you finished reading the letter aloud (your voice was trembling, you were skipping over the words). “Welcome to the Order. That’s usually how it starts.”
“Wait,” you said. “Just wait. I’m losing my mind. What should I do now? I mean right this second?”
“Is the owl still there?”
“Yeah, stomping on the windowsill.”
“Are you going to answer the letter?”
“Alastor, I have no idea what to write to him! That’s why I called! Look, this isn’t about me-”
He swore.
“What is it with these damn books!” he exclaimed, and you thought you heard rare note of despair in his voice. “What a wonderful time for all this muggle studies crap…”
He wasn’t truly serious, of course. He remembered (he couldn’t forget) that Dumbledore himself had been the first to support you and offer the Order’s protection. Right now, he had told you, those books are most important. Not before the war, not after, but during it. Alastor was just angry, he had every right to be. At you, and at himself, for not being able to save you well enough.
You sometimes thought he liked you.
“It’s not about me, it’s about Margaret,” you pressed. “I’m certain she’s in far worse danger than I am right now. Alastor, please, what can we do? She lives on Virginia Road, I don’t remember the exact number…”
He was silent for so long you called his name once, twice, fearing the connection had broken.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was sending a Patronus to the Commander.”
You already knew that was the Order’s name for Dumbledore.
“Thank you,” you said. “They’ll save her? They will, won’t they?”
“How should I know?” Alastor muttered. “Maybe there’s no one left to save… We’re heading there now, Merlin knows what we’ll find. Pack your things now. He’s right about the apartment.”
“No.”
“What the hell do you mean, no?”
“Alastor, I’m not going anywhere.”
You felt his urge to hit you even through the fireplace.
“Pack your things, I said!” he barked. “Dorcas will be with you shortly, she’ll take you to a safe house.”
“Alastor, don’t waste time on me, I’m not the main target right now. But I’m not going back on my word.”
“I’ll talk to you later!”
The Floo connection died. Unlike other Order members, who sometimes wondered if their goodbyes to family were final, Alastor never said goodbye at all. Superstition, you supposed.
* * *
"...Let's not waste time," you said. "If my memory serves me right, the previous book in this series was called 'Why Do Planes Fly' in which I tried my best to reveal the history of the most important Muggle inventions. Has anyone read that book?" A smile twitched at the corners of your lips.
A few hands timidly rose into the air, then more and more. Alastor also raised his hand and waved cheerfully at you.
"I only passed Muggle Studies thanks to her," one of the girls chimed in.
"So it wasn't written in vain," you said. "I racked my brain for a long time trying to figure out which inventions should be mentioned, and I think I've come up with a pretty good selection, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the topic wasn't fully explored. It wasn't about… you see, it wasn't about what other Muggle mechanisms and discoveries I'd missed. It was about their failures. The new book, or rather, the second volume in this series, is called 'Why Do Planes Crash.'"
* * *
"If you won't think of yourself, at least think of the poor cat," Marlene said gloomily. "Or your neighbors. Have you ever seen what a house looks like after Death Eaters visit?"
"Marlene, you have to understand, I'm not in the Order," you said. "I can't expect you to drop everything and protect me. He," you refused to use the name, " he is recruiting, we know that. How many offers do you think he is sending out? If they were all impossible to refuse, he'd be spending all his energy just intimidating the stubborn ones."
"You're just trying to convince yourself," Marlene said. "You just want to believe you can stay neutral."
She was partly right, but there was yet another reason you told no one. Of course, you hadn't put the letter under your pillow, but you couldn't bring yourself to burn it either. You'd reread it many times since. Gradually, the suffocating image (Voldemort holding this piece of paper his hands) had given way to a more uncertain thought ‘it seems he isn't lying’. It seemed he truly didn't want to harm you, at least, not yet. But he was more than willing to harm anyone who tried to help you.
Margaret's house had been identified by the Dark Mark, of course (and the shattered glass, and the door hanging from a single hinge). Inside, oddly enough, everything was untouched. Either she hadn't put up a fight, or whoever had visited her had been meticulous in cleaning up.
And there was still that tiny, flattering thrill in rereading the letter, but this feeling you wouldn't even admit to yourself.
"There are more Signal Spells here than stars in the sky," Marlene said, lowering her wand as the air stilled around her. "Just be careful and don't open the door for anyone. Better yet, don't open it at all. Dorcas or I will be by this evening. It would be good to find you a Secret Keeper..."
"Say hello to Alastor for me. And tell him I'm sorry," you said.
"He has every right to be angry, you know," she said without turning around. "Frankly, so am I."
"I'm already a burden, Marlene... Look, I’ve got this. It's August. Hogwarts starts soon, it’s the safest place in the world, and you know who's teaching Muggle Studies this year? I've only got one week to get through here, and then I'll be safer than a Gringotts vault."
You didn't answer him that night, instead, you sat down and wrote to Dumbledore. For the first time in your life, you sent a job application at three in the morning, and by five, an owl was scratching at your window. The Muggle Studies teacher position, Dumbledore wrote, was indeed vacant, and he would be delighted to have you fill it.
Marlene glanced over the shoulder, her expression distrustful.
"You might not be a fool, but you're still terribly arrogant," she said. "If he leaves a smoking crater where your house used to be, I won't be coming to clean up the mess."
"Thank you," you repeated, trying to smile. "Marlene, will you take Whiskers to headquarters tonight? He's very docile, you won't have any trouble."
After she left, you poured tea, sorted drafts and rewrote the same section a dozen times, all to forget the letter lying in your desk drawer. Your third book would be on Muggle medicine, a topic so vast you could devote your life to it. Margaret had been found Stunned in her basement. She was alive yet had to be treated at Mungo, but you couldn't imagine continuing to work with her anyway; you were already choosing words to explain that you wouldn't let anyone else suffer for you. Blood transfusions, yes, a good opening section. Or perhaps vaccines? It would not be the same without Whiskers. You'd grown accustomed to his pleasant weight on your lap as you typed, but the thought of him buried in rubble made you nauseous. The typewriter was Muggle, and you were proud of your typing speed, but in four hours you'd barely managed three clean paragraphs.
When the knock came, you rose absently and went downstairs, still turning over the last sentence in your mind. You pushed the door open, already knowing it was Marlene with the cat carrier.
It wasn't Marlene.
* * *
You glanced at the piece of paper where you'd scribbled out the outline of the conversation in a sloppy handwriting, understood nothing, and looked back at your audience.
"Allow me to digress briefly. What would you define as a man-made disaster?" you asked.
"A disaster caused by technology," offered the witch in the front row.
"Correct," you nodded. "Thank you. Now, is there an equivalent in our magical world?"
A thoughtful pause followed. You swept your gaze across the room.
"That depends on what you consider a disaster," a young man ventured. "Probably not?"
"Well" you said. "Let's reason by analogy, then. Everyone likely remembers the explosion at the Floo Powder factory in 1915. In fact, thanks to that incident, we now know the secret production was in East London, since relocated, of course. Young ladies, does this ring a bell? I believe it’s part of the curriculum”.
The girls, who had been whispering loudly just moments before, now stared at you. You sometimes thought you could teach at Hogwarts (Muggle Studies, for instance). They didn't answer, you recounted the history of the Rainham tragedy (which was nearly several hundred dead and injured), described the massive Memory charm operation required for the Muggles living along the estuary, and said:
"This is perhaps the closest our world has ever come to a man-made disaster. And thank Merlin it is."
* * *
You walked into the kitchen on unsteady legs, and he followed. You thought he was quite familiar with the apartment's layout, but you couldn't think the thought through more clearly. Your heart was pounding in your throat. You tried to boil the kettle with your wand, and when it didn't work the third time, he gently pushed you aside and did it himself.
"There's no need for fear," he said peacefully. "I think my letter which you so kindly ignored should have assured you of that."
He was tall. To speak to him, you had to raise your head and expose your face to those intense eyes. He was dressed quite simply and (it was clear from the first movement) was very poised, but all reality seemed to sag under his weight the moment he entered the room. He resembled his photographs the way a dragon resembles a photograph of a dragon, and even though you were seeing him only twice in your life, you didn't think you'd ever be able to forget that face. Your entire kitchen seemed small and vulnerable in his presence.
"How should I address you?" you asked. Despite the tea you sipped your voice seemed unsteady.
"Mr. Riddle," he replied pleasantly. "Consider it a stage name."
"I wasn't aware you were an artist as well."
"My talents are modest compared to yours," he said and smiled. A knife could have smiled like that. "What are you working on at the moment, by the way?"
"I want to write about Muggle medicine," you heard yourself say.
And so you spoke of Muggle medicine, a subject in which Mr. Riddle proved to be unexpectedly well-versed. You even wondered if he'd studied Muggles specifically. He sat across from you, cradling his cup of tea in his hands, and spoke so animatedly and enthusiastically (you were mostly listening), as if that was what he'd come for.
"That is an excellent idea," he finally said, raising his cup as if making a toast. "And timely. I assume ‘Manticore Press’ is already preparing a contract?"
"I haven't mentioned the idea to anyone yet," you said, looking at the tablecloth. "Not even to Margaret."
"Who?... Ah, Miss Ogden," he drawled. " I'm afraid when news of her fate reaches the publishing house, they may reconsider their association with you altogether."
"I am ceasing my partnership with her myself," you said. "I suppose I am a freelance writer now." And then you added "She was innocent."
"Was she?" he asked, and let the subject die. And you realized that being in Voldemort's path, or even a step away from it, was in itself a terrible crime, and there was nothing more to say about it. Suddenly you realized he could kill you in the next minute with a single wave of his hand, and he wouldn't even need a reason. Merlin, what were you thinking! You believed in nobility, you invented the image of a gallant bandit with a code of honor, you were born a fool, and you'll die a fool! Oh, you hoped he wouldn't hurt Whiskers...
"My dear, I can easily read every movement of your soul, and those movements don't please me," said Mr. Riddle boredly. "When I found you here, I hoped it was a sign of good will. Now I see that you're simply saving your friends, or rather, you think you're saving them by offering yourself to me as a form of some stupid sacrifice. Mind you, I don't need a sacrifice because I always take what's mine. But tell me, how can you write about bravery like that and chatter your teeth against your teacup like that while we're simply talking about book publishing?"
You set your cup down on the table to avoid spilling it and asked, "Why are you here, Mr. Riddle?"
"To repeat my question. I believe you just haven't had time to answer the letter."
"I've given it some thought."
"And what conclusion have you reached?"
"How stupid to die in the kitchen... Well, no more stupid than dying in the bathroom or in your own bed," you thought. What else could you think of at such a moment? But out loud you said:
"I don't quite understand the specifics of the proposal, but I think I get the general gist. Mr. Riddle, I need you to realize that I am a journalist first and foremost, and as a journalist must remain neutral, otherwise we'll never know the truth."
"I would be delighted to clarify the specifics," he said. "And you're wrong to think of yourself merely as a journalist. In my opinion, you trukly are a poet. That speech about Muggle bravery at the end of the book presentation, so rudely interrupted, almost brought a tear to my eye. And as for the truth, no one will stop you from continuing to write as before, albeit with a few caveats. Your expert opinion on Muggle matters is in great demand among the public. Listen, have you ever considered combining your work with a position at the Ministry?"
Your head was spinning. You seemed to understand what he was getting at, but his speech was so enveloping, lulling and confusing that you couldn't be sure. If only he'd kill you before Marlene apparated here (no, I couldn't think about that, he'd know) oh, Whiskers, poor Whiskers…
"I'm afraid I've already found a permanent job," you said with a nervous laugh.
"Are you afraid?" he asked briskly. "Have you finally decided to admit it? Merlin, really? You've been trembling in front of me like a hunted hare for half an hour and you think I haven't seen it?"
"What do you want, Mr. Riddle?" you repeated dully.
His hand covered yours.
"First of all, I want you to fucking relax."
* * *
"If I were teaching Muggle Studies at Hogwarts," you said, "I might dedicate the entire curriculum to man-made disasters alone, and believe me, that would be enough. What defines a person, or a group of people, more profoundly than their mistakes is how they overcome them. You must understand that the disaster at Rainham and a handful of other quieter accidents in our magical industries are but a tiny fraction of the history of Muggle technological defeats. And within that history, I believe, lies a profound courage, the very kind we spoke of at the beginning." You hadn't rehearsed this, and if Margaret had been here, she would have been horrified, but the words seemed to roll off your tongue, one after another. The old lady in the front row leaned forward.
"Magic is inherently personal, and so are person's relationship with it, and all our victories and defeats, all discoveries and mistakes, bear the names of magicians, the real people behind them. I grew up in this world too, a world of magic. When I first started studying Muggle history, I was terrified of this immense anonymity… Yes, anonymity in the face of catastrophe, in front of a pile of twisted metal, in front of a wall of flame, in front of scorched earth. And yet they move forward, you see? They are brave, much braver than we are”.
Yes, Margaret would have been horrified. It was a good thing you’d persuaded her to stay home. It wasn’t that she disagreed (her father, Bob Ogden, had devoted his life to protecting Muggles from wizards, and she shared his convictions) but to dare to speak so boldly now, today, when Death Eaters could be listening at the door!
Alastor looked at you, holding his breath.
* * *
...and as his heavy hand was still clutching yours the kitchen swam before your eyes, and Mr. Riddle began to speak something completely impossible:
"...you see, I first saw your photograph in the Prophet, just before your first book was published. You looked so vibrant in it, much more so than you do now, and I immediately decided that I would read what you wrote there and then kill you. You see, I hate Muggles, does that surprise you?.. I believe I've been pretty clear about my political stance these past few years... I have this photograph with me, I carry it in my breast pocket, would you like to see it? Well, I acquired your book when it was still wet, and I spent entire night with it, and then I've reread it countless times since. I refuse to believe you do not understand me, I refuse to believe you are not, in your heart, aligned with my cause. This is the first time I've seen someone who respects Muggles as much as I do. You see, they are feared, hated, despised, or, conversely, admired, but no one has recognized their power, which is obvious to me, and reading your book, I realized that if anyone can make the wizarding world truly fear Muggles, it is you."
Your lips sighed.
"Don't leave me so soon, my dear. The potion will put you to sleep, we’ll continue our conversation somewhere else, but before that, I want to explain... Your photograph burns my pocket, and your lovely little hand burns me too," he laughed and squeezed your fingers. "Well, I attended your book launches incognito and couldn't believe what I saw. You feared nothing and no one. You spoke of Muggles as freely as if you were a Muggle yourself, you were unassailable in debate, your mind knew no fatigue, your smile... I never missed a single event. Listen, I've decided that you will work for me."
"Water," you said. "Please, water."
"Be patient, will you? Then I found out where you live, and I was amazed once again, you were like a bird on a bare branch, trusting to providence... For a long time, I thought there was some kind of trap here, that the Aurors were guarding you or something else, until it hit me. Do you think, no, do you really dare to think that being right will protect you?’
He spoke faster, like a madman or a lover, and you couldn't tell if he was holding your hand or if you were holding it. You saw only his eyes and, for some reason, his teeth, and thought of wolves and hares.
"I just couldn't get you out of my head. I once sampled Amortentia at school, and it felt very similar... Have you ever tasted it? That can be arranged. I have a habit of keeping useful things to myself, and I don't know anything more useful than you. I often walked back and forth near your house, thinking, if I were to walk in and kill you, what would you say then? Oh, never mind... The whole kingdom for your autograph, how often do you get offers like that? Keep in mind, I'm jealous of my things. No part-time jobs."
And as Mr. Riddle spoke, everything around him faded into darkness, the kitchen transformed into the familiar basement at St. Mungo's, and in this dream you were talking to him, arguing, and he was holding your hand tightly, like the most precious thing in the world. "Would you like my autograph for a change, my dear?" Mr. Riddle asked cheerfully. "But I don't have anything on me," you said. "That's quite all right. I'll leave it where you won't lose it. Give me your left hand."
* * *
"They fall and rise, fall, rise, and go again. Every chapter in this book is a story of how the fallen rose again, and the whole book is, if you will, a hymn to the greatest courage in the world. The courage to live. Muggles learn from their mistakes, they don't repeat them, they make new ones, learn not to repeat them too, and step by step they move forward. What I'm trying to say is that they move faster than us, much faster. Perhaps because they live in a world full of disasters." You caught your breath. "I won't lie to you, I sincerely believe that Muggles possess both great courage and great strength. That's what the book is about, actually."
Before you could say another word, someone at the door began clapping. The applause was so off-key, so out of time, so slow and mocking that several rows of people turned around in unison, and you, too, narrowed your eyes slightly, peering in. You knew the face of the man standing by the open door well. You'd never seen him in person before, but the Prophet had published his photograph more than once (without a name, of course).
Alastor threw the Shield with a wave of his hand.
Bacchanal
Includes: Morally grey reader, fem!reader, dead body, off screen murder, p-in-v, creampie, ooc!Tom, public sex, fingering, blood drinking, slight exhibition, cockwarming, hinted at cum eating, reader and Tom are in their last year at Hogwarts and are over 18
Summary: Tom Riddle asks for your help in creating a horcrux
Wordcount - 3k
“I need your help.”
You looked up from the book you were reading, and instead focused on Riddle. The curtain that had been shielding you from prying eyes had now been pulled back so that the head boy could properly disturb you.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” You said, wondering if you should sit up from your bed to make yourself look as presentable as you could be or if you should stay laying in bed. The second option seemed to be calling to you.
Tom blinked down at you. “I’ve taken the proper precautions to make sure no one would bother us.”
Curiosity gently pricked at you, trying to figure out how Tom had even passed by your common room without getting noticed before another thought came to you.
“Why are you even here, Tom?” You pulled your blanket over yourself, getting comfortable.
“I have an important task that I believe I could trust you with.” Tom leaned down so that his head was just slightly above yours. “And you mustn't tell anyone else about this.”
His dark eyes stared down at your own, though his gaze was not intense and did not make you want to push your body deeper into your bed (well, maybe just a bit. Tom riddle was a handsome man); it was quite the opposite, really. His eyes were soft, looking down at you as if you were his lover. You looked back at him challengingly.
“Let me guess. You have another strange experiment, and instead of asking one of your friends to help, you wish to risk my life instead.” You quirk a brow.
“You know quite well that those… that they are not my friends.” Tom’s voice quieted when he said this next part: “The only one I consider akin to a friend is you.” Tom straightened himself.
“So, are you going to tell me why you’ve snuck into my dormitory, Tom? Because I’d like to know what this task is.”
“I won’t tell you here in case any of your roommates try entering your dormitory and can’t seem to figure out why. I’ve been here for a while,” said Tom. “I’ll wait for you outside of your common room at midnight tomorrow night. Does that sound alright?”
“This conversation could have been an owl,” You groaned.
Since the next day was a Saturday, you slept in quite late because you wanted to be in the right mind when working on whatever experiment Tom had planned.
When it was a few minutes before twelve in the morning, you decided to sneak out. Luckily, the lady in the portrait had gone on a late–night visit, so you snuck out of the common room with no problems.
Tom was patiently waiting for you.
“So, will you now explain to me what it is that you’ve been so secretive of?” You asked.
“In all honesty, I’d rather speak with you in the Room of Requirements.”
With that, you both snuck up to the seventh floor of Hogwarts.
The room itself was quite fine. There were two couches that faced each other with a wooden table between it and a fireplace burning nearby.
You let out a small, satisfied sigh as you sank down onto one of the couches. Walking up all those stairs left you tired.
Tom said down next to you, knee brushing the skirt of your own.
“Now, about that task…” Tom trailed off.
You focused your attention on him. “Yes?”
“Have you ever heard of a Horcrux?”
That piqued your interest. You answered honestly: “No, Tom, I have not. What is a… Horcrux?”
“It’s a rare form of magic. A Horcrux is an object one has used to conceal a part of their soul. A way for one’s soul to live on forever. I had happened upon it during my readings in the library. The topic interested me and I visited Professor Slughorn, in the hopes that he might’ve illuminated me on how to create one.”
You quietly shift in your seat, a strange feeling of unease grappled within your insides. But curiosity got the better of you, as well as the knowledge of Tom needing your help with a task to do with a Horcrux was much stronger.
“How do you make a Horcrux, Tom?”
“Do you remember learning about ancient magic rituals performed by witches and muggles alike in History of Magic?” After a nod of confirmation, Tom continued: “Well, of course, a ritual is needed to create a Horcrux… and it can be rather messy. Do you know why?”
There was no need for you to search your brain for an answer. No, you knew. You knew of the rot beneath Tom Riddle’s flesh — the one he’s been trying so hard to hide — and have been waiting for it to show itself to you, and now it seems it is coming to the surface. And most importantly, staying there for your eyes to see instead of passing by as if he were the softest brush of wind on human flesh.
You answered, “You’d have to kill someone.”
A smile graced Tom’s lips. “Correct. As I’d thought you’d be.”
“And you… want to create a horcrux?”
“We will. If you want, of course.” Tom blinked at you, as if he were an angel gracing a mortal with a life changing deal. Or perhaps he was the devil. When it comes to Tom, it was hard to discern which was which.
You leaned towards Tom. “I believe that for whatever reason, if I refuse, you wouldn’t be able to proceed with this little plan of yours… Am I right, Tom?”
A twitch at the brow. “I could. But, your presence would be the preference.”
You sit back, expression relaxing. Years ago, Tom would have turned his nose at the thought of ever telling you so much as one of his true thoughts. But things were different now. You shifted, the heel of your shoe bumping against the polished top of his.
“And why is that?”
He took in a deep breath, hesitating. This might have been the most flustered you had ever seen Tom.
“Murder isn’t the only thing needed. It is — It is also a sex ritual.”
Oh.
“Didn’t want to do this with one of your knights, Riddle?” You teased, though already you were imagining just what a ‘sex ritual’ would entail.
“Oh, shut it.”
“I’ll do it, Tom.”
The following day, you could not take your mind off of what Tom had told you of. Horcruxes, immortality, soul splitting, rituals, sex rituals…
It was midnight again when Tom led you out of the building and into the Forbidden Forest. Thick trees shrouded over your both, blocking moonlight and hopefully any other eyes. Tom’s wand illuminated the way after a firm lumos passed through his lips.
Maybe it was just paranoia, but your arms wrapped around one of Tom’s when you heard a crunch of leaves.
“Why here?” you hissed, choosing to focus your gaze on the side of Tom’s face. The light cast upon his face, showing off his sharp jaw, and sickly pale skin.
“You’ll see. Now be quiet unless you want to be crushed by a centaur.”
You tucked your face against Tom’s shoulder, letting him lead the way.
You both ended up in a small, cleared space between two trees. The thick branches of which poked each other like two hands, creating a shelter.
It took a moment for you to notice the body that lay propped against one of the branches. Eyes shut, a student unfamiliar to you. Perhaps that’s why he’d been chosen by Tom. So not many people would go looking.
Your fingers dug into the sleeve of Tom’s jacket. Suddenly, the weight of what you were doing with Tom felt very much real.
Tom paid you a glance before tucking his arm around you. “Did you bring the cups like I told you to?”
You tore your gaze away from the body to focus on him, nodding. You shrugged off your satchel and grabbed the two goblets you’d snatched from the kitchens a few hours prior.
Tom grabbed them with a murmured ‘good girl’ as you watched him. Kept your eyes on him so as not to stray.
Tom stepped towards the body, and coward you were, you finally tore your gaze away to turn around. To keep watch, is what you told yourself, even as you heard a sick squelch.
Tom places the filled up goblets on the ground before giving you an amused look. “You can turn around now.”
His coat was off now, laid upon the ground. You gladly took your seat, legs shaky. Tom handed you a goblet, his cold hand helping you wrap yours around the handle.
“Drink this to calm your nerves.” Tom brought his own cup to his lips, adams apple bobbing as he drank.
You hesitated before tipping your head back. The liquid was warm on your tongue, coppery… but sweet. Your lips parted, swallowing down more. Only to open your eyes when Tom was coaxing the empty cup out of your grip.
He leaned forward, thumb swiping over your chin to wipe the blood that escaped your greedy tongue. You leaned forward, sucking on the tip of his finger to capture the stolen remnants.
“Greedy girl.” Tom hummed, angling your head back before pressing his lips with yours. His kiss was clumsy, but that didn’t stop your hands from clutching at the front of his shirt, deepening the kiss.
He pressed you back against his jacket so you were laying down. His fingers ran over your cheek bone, to your jaw, down to the back of your neck to keep you still while he deepened the kiss.
His tongue poked through your lips once before he broke apart, cheeks flushed.
You squirmed, reaching for Tom again, pulling his head towards yours. One of your legs was spread out on his lap while the inside of the other lazily pressed against his hip, with Tom settling between your legs.
Tom’s tongue dipped between your lips again, slowly licking at your teeth, gums, the hood of your mouth before sliding against your own tongue. You moaned, a muffled sound that Tom swallowed down.
His free hand lowered to your ankle, tracing the delicate arch through your sock before reaching up to slide beneath your long skirt. His cold touch made you shiver. Made you press closer to him in search of a warmth he could never give you.
Tom was partially laid atop you, still not giving the weight of him as his hand traced a path higher up your leg, leaving goosebumps in his wake as your skirt raised with his wrist.
“Tom…” You murmured his name once you two pulled away again.
“Hm?” His mouth brushed your cheek, lips stealing the warmth there. “What is it, darling?” His hand massaged your thigh, and a familiar coil bloomed in your gut, pushing your hips against his palm.
Tom gently brushed his fingers against your folds, finding you already wet. You shivered, a small gasp tearing from your throat.
“More,” you demanded, tongue heavy in your mouth.
Tom clicked his tongue but dipped his thumb through your folds, swiping upwards until he grazed your clit. “Greedy thing.” He pressed more firmly when he heard you mewl, felt your thighs twitch around him. “Be as loud as you want, I’ll take care of everything else.”
You hadn’t even remembered to be quiet, forgetting about the dangers of the Forbidden Forest with Tom’s hand rubbing between your thighs. But — as you’ve learned — there aren’t many things as horrifying as he is.
Your hips rocked against Tom’s hand, trying to get him to go faster so that the tightening coil inside of you could finally snap. “To–Tom…” You stuttered, eyes squeezing shut, “I wanna—”
“Be patient. Not yet.” Tom pulled his hand away, inspecting his hand to glance at your wetness that coated his fingers. You opened your eyes to glare at him, cheeks warm under his attention. “I can’t trust you to be able to go again.”
Before you could complain, he bunched your skirt around your hips. Two fingers parted your folds for his gaze. Another gathered slick on a digit before he was pressing you open.
The first feel of Tom inside of you had your thighs tensing before you forced yourself to relax. Tom was being slow, patient as he worked his finger in.
Tom sucked in a deep breath as he felt your warm walls around him, his pants tightening uncomfortably in a way he was rarely used to. The sound had blood rushing to your ears. You hoped you affected Tom like he did you.
Soon a second joined the first, stretching you open. His thumb returned to your clit, rubbing soothing circles to get you to calm down as his fingers moved to leave you again. Before thrusting in again. His pace was slow, occasionally scissoring his fingers to get you ready for him.
You reached up, wrapping around his shoulders to kiss him. His tongue warmed your lips, and the kiss felt more needy than it had before. Your lips curved into a smirk even as you clenched down on his fingers, dribbling wetness down his hand.
“I’m ready. If you want me, Tom.” Yours hips wriggled as Tom twisted his fingers out of you. Wetness stuck to his fingers, looking like cobwebs when he parted them.
Tom reached down to undo his pants. His hand was shaky as he smeared your wetness over himself. He lifted himself higher above you, settling on his knees.
“I’m going in now.” The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, slowly sliding inside as you greedily clenched down on him. He pressed his lips together, moan swallowed down as he forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose. You felt better than he wanted to admit.
Your legs wrapped around Tom’s hips as he sheathed himself inside of you, pulling him closer so he was hunched over you.
Black hair stuck to his forehead despite the cool air of the night. All your doing.
He bottomed out, his hips pressing flush against yours. Tom pressed his face against your neck, lips and nose nudging at the soft skin there as he cockwarmed himself inside of you.
You impatiently squirmed beneath him. “Tom, move.”
Tom breathed deeply, your scent clogging his lungs. “I told you to be patient. Be good. For me.” But still, he dragged his cock out of you, barely pulling out an inch before letting himself be sucked back in. His moan was muffled against your skin.
Your fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, lips parting to whimper with every deep roll of Tom’s hips. He was so close to you, pelvis grinding against your clit, making your hips buck up for more.
Tom grinded his cock against that spongy spot inside of you, making you clamp down against him in turn. “Right there.” You barely got the words out as you felt him pull his cock out until only the tip was inside you before he was pushing back inside of you.
You expected Tom to be calm, mechanical about this as he was about all other things, but this felt human. The way he hid himself in your neck, pressed deep inside of you like he wanted to burrow deeper than was possible.
Tom’s thumb returned to your clit, rubbing in fast circles. His pace quickened, the wet sound of your bodies slowly rising as you both rocked against each other.
Your thighs shook as you felt yourself come closer to that familiar edge, back arching as you pressed your chest against Tom’s. You wish he’d taken off your shirt, but it might have been too cold for that, and not what Tom was chasing for.
“I–I’m close.” Your voice broke as Tom pumped his cock faster into you at your words. Your eyes squeezed shut as you tipped the edge, cumming around him as a moan tore through you.
Tom curiously lifted his head to watch your face as he grabbed your thighs, pressing them against your chest. With a few more shallow thrusts, he spilled deep inside of you, a groan escaping his lips.
He sagged against you, lazily rocking into you before stilling. His softening cock rested inside of you as Tom reached below you to palm at his jacket. Slipping his hand into the pocket, he grabbed a small vial, his breaths leaving your ear when he finally pulled out of you.
His free hand held onto one of your thighs, keeping your leg pressed against your chest and spread out for him as he leaned down to the mess he made in between.
Tom uncapped the vial, and with a confused sound from you, he pressed it against your sensitive entrance, letting his release mixed with yours fill up the container.
“Tom?” You propped yourself up on your arms, craning your head down to watch him work between your legs.
“I’m just preparing the next part of the plan.”
Once Tom decided the amount of your fluids in the vile was sufficient, he capped and tucked it away before tugging your skirt back down, the hem brushing your ankles.
He gave one last glance at the body — you’d forgotten it was even there, and you shivered, ashamed and embarrassed. “To make sure there’s no trouble, I’ll walk you back to your dormitory. I’ll take care of him,” he said, standing up.
Tom reached down and you grabbed his hand, bringing his discarded coat up with you. Tom usually kept all his clothing carefully cleaned, not a wrinkle in sight except for when one of the knights would sling their arm around his shoulder or bump into him. But even then, Tom would run his hands down his body, soothing any mistake left on his image.
You both returned to the path to make your way back to Hogwarts, a pit in your stomach. You were still riding the high from before, brain slightly mushy and cheeks warm, but, like an ocean wave, regret flooded your nerves.
You helped Tom in whatever scheme he was planning. Helped in the creation of a horcrux. You didn’t scream when you caught sight of the dead body, didn’t push Tom away when he kissed you. Instead, you asked for more.
What else would you help Tom achieve?
a/n: "I'm going in now"🤓☝️ real ones remember that I said I'd be posting something like this in december of 2024. After getting 1000 words in, I pretty much abandoned it, but I recently returned to this because even though I said I wasn't going to publish anymore fics on this account, I was annoyed that I had a wip sitting in my docs, so I finally decided to complete it. So, if there feels like there's some sort of shift in tone half way through this fic, that's why. I'm glad to finally have completed something after so long of not writing (at least not something I was happy with).
Halfway through writing this I realized, technically, Tom didn't need readers help to do this butttt idc I knew I wanted to write smut, and when I saw a theory that sacraficing a part of oneself could help in creating a horcrux, I decided that I'd make Tom nasty about it and have his fluids be what he "sacrfices". Barely a sacrifice ik but I found it funny and inspiration hit.
divider creds: saradika
Okay, okay, OKAY. I really need to break through writer's block cause i've been struggling over a full-length fanfic on this topic for quite some time now and at this point i just don't know where do I go next. I kinda wanted to write something about Tom and I feel helpless uwu soooo you get this instead. Consider this a teaser for a fanfic i've already written 2k words for, but can't seem to finish (yet?...). The idea was basically screw the omnipotent dominant Tom bc i want this mf on his knees for you :3
Another romance bites the dust. You breezed through the breakup, but Tom is losing his mind.
Witnessing it was the only way you'd ever believe it. Seeing Tom Riddle like this defied all belief. There was something deeply wrong about it, unsettling, unhealthy and faintly shameful. It felt like watching someone spiral out of control or descend into a destructive binge. That kind of madness where fortunes vanish at the roulette wheel, where a man guns down his wife's lovers, then his wife and then himself. You could never have imagined Tom Riddle, the Prince of Slytherin, so utterly undone.
Let's rewind a bit. I can easily imagine Tom, a collector by nature, becoming interested in you for reasons that had nothing to do with True, Selfless love™. Perhaps you represented the pinnacle of what he deemed worthy, be that the cunning pride of Slytherin or the sharp intellect of Ravenclaw. Perhaps you were especially beautiful in his eyes, academically brilliant, or born of an ancient wizarding line, or all three at once. Perhaps you were a fiery Gryffindor who clashed with him, making him notice you; perhaps you were a gentle Hufflepuff unfortunate enough to show him a sliver of the kindness he desperately needed, without even realizing it.
For some reason, the dynamic between you unfolded differently than his usual conquests. The more enchanted he became, the more disillusioned you grew. This, too, makes perfect sense; the very insight and wisdom that drew him to you like a moth to a flame (the poor bastard had the audacity to see himself as the predator!) also gave you the power to see his true nature. And lets just say you did not like what you saw.
How often exactly do we write fanfiction where we _break_up_with_ Tom Riddle on our own initiative? Has anyone tried turning this guy down? Asking for a friend because i need advice from someone with experience. Because the moment you feel like you're ready to break up with him, you already have a gut feeling that it might not be safe.
Whether indifferently or reluctantly, you hurt his feelings. Perhaps you sent Tom a letter politely offering to ‘just be friends’ (bonus points if you were smart enough to do this during the summer break, when you'd be at a safe distance from him). Perhaps you quickly offered to break up in the noise and chaos of the Great Hall, then disappeared into the crowd of your classmates. Perhaps you asked a friend to be with you during this tough conversation.
Tom takes it better than you expected. At first, he certainly feels like someone poured a glass of boiling water down his neck, but it's more of a surprise than pain (the pain comes later). He might even manage to smile politely at you. The thing is, even though you distanced yourself somewhat shortly before the breakup, he probably didn't notice, because, paradoxically, despite his paranoia and mistrust of other people, he's not very good at reading other people's emotions. You don't expect your cat to pack up and leave you one day, do you?
Dude goes through twenty stages of grief as solemnly and meticulously as no one ever has (though he'll never reach acceptance, he just goes back and forth). You should be wary of every stage, not just anger.
Everyone should fear his wrath, especially those he calls "friends" (spoiler alert they're not his friends). I mean, while Tom will still try to maintain his goody-two-shoes image, this is the moment he's closest to losing it. A pale shadow of the fury with which Voldemort will dish out Crucio curses is beginning to emerge. No one is safe and nowhere is safe. If someone breathes too loudly near him, they'll be in the Hospital Wing before they know it. If Tom has reason to suspect that you haven't just left him, but traded him for someone else, he could actually send that person to the grave, like, no joke. Even he himself won't escape his anger. I can imagine that during this time, Tom might make another Horcrux as a form of self-harm.
Bargaining is where he irritates you the most. You may not be a material girl, but Tom has that mindset to some extent himself. He lives in a world where possession is the ultimate form of control, and control is what makes life worth living. Get ready to receive a lot of gifts. A. Lot. Of. Gifts. In fact, you'll have to make an effort if you want NOT to get them. The creativity with which he leaves them on your desk, in your bag, in the pocket of your robe deserves better use. If you keep leaving those where you found them, one day Avery or Mulciber, frowning and looking away, will thrust a box into your hands. Tom tries to incorporate into his gifts what he's learned about you during your brief romance. It's the book you've been dreaming of. It's something related to your hobby. It's trinkets that will perfectly match your hair.
It's Myrtle Warren's broken glasses, whom you comforted after yet another fight with Olivia. It's a torn photograph of Prewett, with whom you had a cheerful conversation this morning. It's a dead bird, one of Hagrid's, your friend's, charges. Don't forget that bargaining also means setting conditions. Tom hints at what those conditions are. Once you found your portrait under the pillow, quite detailed one, and you couldn’t sleep all night.
Look, I'm POSITIVE Dumbledore will try to intervene at some point. Don't get me wrong, I have no doubts about his moral compass, but he's already proven his ability to use people for the greater good. Perhaps this ability hasn't previously extended to his students, but in the face of the looming danger he vaguely senses in Tom, Dumbledore (rather young then) may compromise his principles. He's already Keeps An Annoyingly Close Eye on him (because yeah that's what you do when your student literally murders someone), and when Tom turns into a loose cannon, he'll at least try to find out what happened between you. He won't overtly push you to reunite; rather, he'll want to know exactly how the disaster happened and what can be done. One day, most likely after some particularly frightening incident, he'll invite you to his office, listen to your story in a breaking voice, offer you some lemon drops, and ask sadly if you two really can't be friends anymore. Dumbledore already knows the answer. But deep down, he bitterly regrets the failure of his hope that you would stand between the world and Tom Riddle. From that day on, you will have (at least within the walls of Hogwarts) a powerful ally, and Tom will have yet another reason to hate the old man.
Despair is what almost makes you feel sorry for Tom. Like I said, witnessing it was the only way you'd ever believe it. Slughorn asks him to demonstrate some simple experiment, the kind Tom would have easily performed back when his girlie was still with him. With disheveled hair, bags under his eyes and an empty gaze, he slowly walks up to the board. He glances around the silent class, lingers on you, with a longing and somewhat "why?" expression, and then quietly says, "Professor, I'm afraid I don't know the ingredients of this potion." You will never guess why exactly Tom didn't sleep last night and what he did. Was he gnawing on his pillow, plotting the deaths of everyone dear to you? Was he concocting Amortentia (because at this point you seriously have to fear that he will resort to that remedy)? Or was he simply quietly crying without shuddering, realizing that he had lost the only real, best thing in his life and no threat and no present can get her back?
Don’t pity him though cause next day we’re back to fury again. He catches you after class to whisper something nasty in your ear.
As unpleasant as it sounds, you essentially have no real choice but to take him back. The terms of your reunion depend entirely on your timing. If you return quickly, it might be manageable, then it becomes difficult, aaand wait too long and it’s a horror. My advice would be run back to his waiting arms before graduation, while you're both still on school grounds. Buoyed by the all-consuming joy of having you back, Tom might deign to forgive your foolishness. But don't you mistake that for freedom, because now he will never ever let go of your hand. The moment you leave Hogwarts, he will begin his vigorous transformation into his true self (and we all know who that person is). Returning to that man would be as terrifying as trying to escape him. Still, if you choose this path, you might cling to the illusion of choice. By then, his relief at holding his most prized possession again will already be poisoned by paranoia and the acid sting of your betrayal.
If you somehow manage to hide from him long enough, one day, Tom will come for you himself.
So, Tom Riddle is your crazy yandere ex. That's it that's the post.
the lighthouse on the phoenix road
1960s. Tom returns to England. If there’s anything left for him in this world, it’s the light in the window of the house on Phoenix Road, where Y/N waits for him.
Thus she kept her lamp trimmed and burning to receive the bridegroom when he should come. - O. Henry. The Trimmed Lamp
Tom arrives after midnight.
The dead hour on the wet autumn streets. No one sees Tom turn away from the station, walk slowly along Phoenix Road, stop at a house hidden equally from the eyes of both wizards and Muggles. He looks up appraisingly, searching for the right window. He climbs the dark stairs unseen, but hesitates a little on the landing. His thoughts are a mystery.
He opens the door with a barely noticeable flick of his wand.
Light from the lamp in the room spills into the narrow hallway. Everything here remains just as he left it: the bulky chest of drawers with a tarnished mirror, the porcelain cat with a broken ear on the shelf, a stack of bills and letters, a tartan umbrella, a Muggle calendar for 1960. The girl printed on it grins at him with a dead, faded smile. Tom surveys it all impassively before glancing down at his feet. He needs to count the shoes. Are there any extra? There are no extra shoes, however, only Y/N’s, scattered carelessly, too light even for early autumn. Tom frowns. He steps over them and enters the room.
Y/N waits for him there, fast asleep.
A dim lamp burns on the bedside table, casting a yellow circle on the ceiling. Y/N's face is turned toward the wall, her hand limp atop the blanket. There is so much fragility and serenity in this whole scene that Tom freezes for a few minutes, standing over your bed quietly, like a murderer. He will never admit neither to you nor to himself what seizes him in that moment.
Carefully, Tom sits beside you. His fingers brush yours.
"Y/N," he says quietly.
Y/N shudders in her sleep, but does not wake. He lightly squeezes your hand, gently at first, then almost painfully.
“Just five more minutes”, Y/N whispers indistinctly.
“No more minutes”, Tom says seriously, not taking his unblinking gaze off her. “Your time is up”.
Y/N fidgets under the blanket like a kitten, but does not wake.
“You didn't miss me at all?” Tom asked, smiling at the corner of his mouth. He knows the answer.
“I dream about you all the time”, Y/N sniffles. “Just like now”.
“It's not a dream, Y/N”.
“Mm-hm”.
A train rattles in the distance. The lamp crackles quietly. Tom is in no hurry. He does not let go of your hand, gently stroking it. His gaze sweeps the room, and under its weight the walls seem to shrink. Sitting here, on this carefree polka-dotted blanket in his black Muggle coat Tom looks alien and grotesquely out of place, like a bat in a doll's house.
"You ought to change into boots," he says at last. "It's turning cold. The last thing we need is you catching a chill".
Y/N is silent. Hazy images float through her foggy sleepy head. Tom reads them effortlessly, nodding along absentmindedly. Deep in thought, he looks at the light dress thrown over the back of the chair. The fabric is worn thin.
“I’ll buy new ones, don’t you worry. And then I’ll have a talk with Malfoy about your allowance. It seems he has been careless with his duties. No doubt he had a good reason for that,” he says in a strange voice. This voice worries Y/N, and she shudders again.
“I wouldn’t dream of such things,” she mutters. “Shoes, money, Malfoy... Are you really back?”
“Open your eyes and see for yourself.”
“I’m scared.”
“Am I that scary?”
“I’m afraid I’m sleeping again and you’re just another dream.”
“What do I usually do in your dreams?”
Y/N yawns silently, sits up in bed and starts rubbing her eyes.
“Well... You enter... Just like now... And I put the kettle on. It's usually mornings, I think. I wake up to the whistle and cry all day. Or I dream I'm walking down the street and see you in the crowd... But that happens in real life too, I stare and stare, and it's never you. And sometimes… Sometimes I dream that you come, and the lamp is off, and you just stand there in the dark”.
“Then maybe you should put the kettle on? Well, just to make sure”.
Y/N finally looks at him. The lamp blinds her, all she sees is a black silhouette in front of her. She is silent for several long seconds. Then she inhales sharply, her hands fly to her cheeks, she clutches her hair, she’s shaking, she tries to either jump up or cover her head with the blanket. She almost screams, but her voice has abandoned her. Her face is distorted with ancient undiluted horror.
“Tom?! Tom?! Tom, is that you?! Is that you, is that really you, Merlin, is it really you, is it really you–oh my God–oh Merlin–is that really you?!” the words spiral hysterically for a full minute, maybe longer.
“Quiet”, Tom laughs. “You'll wake the dead”.
Then she is in his arms. He strokes her hair slowly, possessively. He holds her softly but firmly –the way one might press a chloroform-soaked cloth to the victim's mouth– and under his touch Y/N indeed becomes quiet.
“Better?” he asks tenderly.
Y/N nods silently. She is unable to speak. They stay frozen like that, and Tom wonders when was the last time he had a moment like this? To be in her cozy bedroom, to hold the most precious thing he has?
“But is it really you?” Y/N says timidly.
Tom thinks that her question has some merit.
“That depends... What exactly do you mean?”
“Are you the Tom I met the first year?”
“That boy? He's the one I have nothing in common with”, he says mockingly, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “He vanished in my second year. "Only snakes can shed their skin so their souls can age and grow..." You're asking the wrong questions, my dear”.
The Hogwarts Tom Y/N once knew would also toss around some cryptic quotes. She forgot about that habit. The first wary smile touches her lips, but then she frowns again.
“Say something... Something so that I can recognize you”, she asks.
Tom sighs. He, however, is rather pleased that his treasure has learned caution.
"Myrtle Warren was offed by the basilisk?"
"No good," Y/N shakes her head guiltily. "Five other people know that."
"Five pretty loyal people plus one basilisk, but you're right about that," he agrees. "If five know, twenty-five suspect. And their loyalty may require reassessment..."
"Tell me something that only Tom knows," Y/N asks even more quietly.
Tom is silent for a bit longer, stroking her head.
"I killed my father," he finally says in an even voice. "Will that do?"
She nods again, pursing her lips. He looks at her intently, and it is not a nice look.
"I think, my dear, you do not quite believe me," he remarks. "You think that I might have told Lestrange, and that he in turn might have told someone else. Is that right?"
"I’m sorry."
"Don't be. I’d be disappointed if you’d grown careless in my absence. Let’s try again. Do you see that lamp on the table?"
"Yes, Tom".
She knows at this very moment what he is going to say, that’s why she can call him that now.
"I lit it myself on the sixteenth of October, nineteen-sixty. It was the day of my departure, or rather the night. I forbade you to come with me to King's Cross, but you were so eager to go with me… We quarreled and you threw that porcelain cat against the wall and then burst into tears. I came back into the room, lit the lamp with my wand and told you that it would go out the instant you ceased waiting for me. Did I?”
“Yes, Tom”.
“I also said that it must not go out. That if I returned to find it extinguished, you would regret it. I did not say how exactly you would regret it, but I can see in your eyes that you remember this too. Am I right?”
“Yes, Tom”.
“As ever”, he smiles, but the smile does not reach his eyes, does not warm them. “Good. I’m glad you kept it burning”.
Y/N is silent. A couple of years ago, when he’d still been Flamel’s apprentice, he needed to catch a golden-tailed butterfly for a potion. Those die as soon as you touch them, and now, looking at how quiet Y/N has become, he remembered that moment: something once living and vibrant becomes a fragile corpse on his palm.
“No, truly, this is good. I’ve no desire for theatrics when I barely removed my boots… Tea, then?”
Y/N makes a move to slip out of his grasp, apparently to go to the kitchen, but Tom suddenly stops her. Tomorrow he will officially rise from the dead; tomorrow, he will summon his old friends and judge who waited and who did not; tomorrow he will bury himself in work, because he failed in art and therefore must take up politics. But all that is tomorrow.
“Wait”.
He pulls back and looks at her intently, greedily. He will never admit that he too has seen this moment in his dreams, that her ghost has haunted him wherever he went, trailing him through Albanian forests and Parisian gutters, that with each new Horcrux she grows more and more precious to him. What else is left to cherish, when all that remains inside him is a hungry gaping void? Now that Y/N is in his arms, he knows with cold clarity that it was hunger that drove him back to England. Back to the lighthouse, to the place that could still be called home,if such a word still holds a meaning. Quickly, before it was too late, before the lamp died out and the world plunged into the darkness.
Y/N stares back into those hollow yet attentive eyes. She knows she’ll never recognize who has returned to her, and no password can turn this creature into her Tom again.
The painting: Marianne Stokes, 'Death and the Maiden'
The poem: Nikolay Gumilev, 'Memory' (the most Tom coded poem ever written)
How Tom Riddle married off his cousin
Late 1940s. Y/N is Morfin Gaunt’s illegitimate daughter. The Death Eaters take turns proposing to Tom's dearest cousin. He does not like a single candidate. Platonic.
(Death Eaters speak quite freely with Tom, but this is like… my hcs lol…... they got out of school yesterday, they are still classmates and not the members of some underground cult)
Abraxas Malfoy sighed heavily, tapped his wand on a scrap of parchment and pushed it towards Tom. Tom lazily picked it up and ran his eyes over it.
"Ten thousand Galleons?" he asked mockingly. "If you're thinking of buying my sister, that's not a very generous offer."
Malfoy snorted, waving a dismissive hand, as if to say, ‘look at this merchant selling his sisters’.
“How much do you want for her, then?” he asked, sounding hurt. “Mind that this offer is for you. Y/N won’t haggle over her upkeep. There won’t be enough parchment to write down the price.”
Tom turned the scrap of paper over with a bored expression, pretending to think about it. Then he carefully placed it on the table in front of Malfoy.
“Cassie, do you know how I met her?”
***
It was the end of August, the last summer before his final year at Hogwarts. The month had been dry and hot, but on the day he needed to drop into Knockturn Alley on business. As luck would have it, it started raining. The long-awaited, thundering rain that raised the dust on the pavement. The alley was deserted in an instant, passers-by rushing in all directions, someone conjuring a transparent umbrella over his head. Tom slipped through the half-open door of the shop, hoping to wait out the downpour.
It was quiet inside, dimly lit and somehow... cozy. He sniffed and immediately recognized the intoxicating smell of old books, unlike anything else. A moment later, when his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw them: on the shelves reaching the ceiling, on the counter, on the steps of the wooden staircase. Old ones and ancient ones, disheveled and neat, with monograms on the covers and without no covers at all. The shop was a bookstore. Tom, a great connoisseur of books, immediately bent over an inconspicuous tome and opened it in the middle.
"Good day, sir! Welcome to the Godsend," a friendly voice rang out. Y/N, whom he didn't yet know was Y/N, peered at him from the utility room.
"Pretty," Tom thought. "And polite."
He smiled back at her.
***
"Where’ll you live?" Tom asked.
"Asked" was putting it mildly. The White Wyvern was so crowded he had to nearly shout in Dolokhov's ear. Antonin nodded, took a big swig from the bottle, throat bobbing.
"I have a flat nearby," he shouted. "Not a Malfoy Manor, of course, but liveable. Y/N is a wonderful girl, she'll decorate any shack it'll seem like a palace."
That was true. Y/N sometimes joked about being Wendy on a pirate ship. If there was even a drop of comfort and warmth in the headquarters, it was she who brought it there.
"A wonderful girl, that is correct," Tom said, looking away from Dolokhov. "Tony, are you sure you’ll have anything to talk about? She's a Parselmouth, just like me."
"We'll manage," Dolokhov smirked. "Y/N is such a modest girl, and a docile one. You see, I told her the other day that I’d ask you for her hand. She said, "As Tom says, so it will be."
"She can’t be more right," Tom said.
***
An hour later, Tom still couldn't leave the "Godsend." He forgot about the case, which never happened to him before. He felt bitter and absurd at the same time; there he was, standing at the counter, chatting with the saleswoman like some lazy schoolboy, in no hurry. As if there weren't goblins waiting for him in the next block with goods that could easily land him in Azkaban. As if his soul wasn't split. As if he didn't have four murders on his account.
He didn't want the rain to end. It was easy with Y/N. She understood him with half a word, with half a look, they finished each other's sentences, they read the same books, they even smiled the same way.
"Why didn't I see you at Hogwarts?" Tom asked, tilting his head to the side. "I would have remembered."
Y/N smiled sheepishly and shrugged.
"I had to work. I helped my mother here since I was a child, studied a little when I could, mostly on my own. Now I'm preparing for the OWLs. A bit too late for that, but still…’.
"And your father?" Tom asked after a pause. Asking about such things is rude. If they didn't mention a father, you probably already know where he was. But in that hour he and Y/N had spoken in such a way that Tom thought, If soulmates exist, it’s her.
“Merlin knows where he is”, Y/N shook her head indifferently. “Mom saw him a few of times. He called himself a prince, heir to an ancient family… Mom told me, he was a scruffy guy, but a charming one. They left me this ancient family name, so the Hogwarts letter addressed me as Y/N Gaunt, but I’d rather use my mother's name... Oh, be careful!”
Tom dropped the book he was holding.
“What?” he asked sharply. “Come again? Gaunt?”
For the first time, Y/N feared the look on his face.
***
“Tom, I don’t get it. Are you even going to marry her off or not?” Ray Lestrange asked irritably, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “You refused to even talk to Mulciber - that I can understand. Tony’s no prize either. But what's wrong with Rosier? I won't even mention Malfoy, who can easily drown Y/N in gold, and his name is quite respectable”.
Tom stirred his tea absently, as if he hadn't been listening.
“Rosier botched his mission twice, we’ve spoken, and I’ll sideline until he learns to behave”, he finally said. “As for Malfoy... Drowning someone in gold doesn’t require much gold”.
“Tom, that was figurative”.
“I know. And forget the name”, he added coldly. “Y/N has Slytherin’s blood in her veins. She is no less in status than Princess Elizabeth, and you want me to marry her off to some rich upstart from overseas?”.
"There you go again..." Lestrange said wearily. "Fine. No worthy groom for your precious cousin in magical Britain. Tom, no offence, but what now? I understand your fears. She’s your blood, you want the best for her...”
"No, you don't understand.
***
Y/N was everything. Home, family, comfort. A friend, a light in the window, a breath of air. She was what he lacked and what he couldn't live without.
If he knew who’d kept Y/N from him for sixteen years, he would kill them without any wand, bare-handed. But there were too many guilty ones. And instead, Tom strangled those who dared to look askance at his little sister or think badly of her (not figuratively, he was a skilled Legilimens already). Fortunately, few were foolish enough.
Another taboo was talking to Y/N about the organization. When Nott hinted at something in her presence, he writhed under Crucio within an hour. She knew nothing. She didn’t even know that Tom had sent her father to Azkaban.
Sometimes he wondered if he’d split his soul to find its match. If so, he regretted nothing.
***
Of course, Tom didn’t explain all of this to Lestrange.
“… Then why lead them on?” Ray asked wearily. “Marry your precious princess yourself and be done with it. There is no law against it, neither Muggle nor magical”.
“As if I’d ask Muggles for permission”, Tom chuckled. “Ray, has it ever occurred to you that there are soul bonds beyond romance?”
“You mean you share one with her?”
Tom didn't answer. The door creaked upstairs, and Y/N's sleepy face appeared on the balcony.
“Oh, Mr. Lestrange!..” she exclaimed. “Tom, why didn't you warn me that we had guests?”
Tom looked at her as one might look at the sun, gold, a masterpiece, a beloved child, a mother. Like no one else. Lestrange felt a chill.
“It's alright, darling. Come down”, Tom said softly. “The tea is fresh”.
faith ㅤ᭢ ܍ tom riddle
the golden boy of slytherin house is a largely inaccessible figure— few know much of him past his charm and all too thin smile. which leaves you to wonder… who is he really?
main course tom riddle x reader
details one-shot, gender neutral reader
perfect tom riddle. prefect, head boy; amiable with just about everyone, considerate, top of his class. all while hailing from meager beginnings— an orphan, raised among impoverished muggle children without a clue about the true extent of his power. humble tom riddle, gracious tom riddle. this is the persona that the students of hogwarts have become acquainted with over the seven years he has spent roaming its hallowed halls.
it is also a facade.
and you know it.
perhaps it was your intuition… or maybe it was the fact that your ‘closeness’ with tom gave you a closer look into his psyche than most would be privy to. but you don’t understand. if he is aware of how you are scrutinizing him and his every intention, he hides it very well.
“what is it?” you snap to attention as tom’s voice cuts through your internal monologue.
both of you are hunched over desks in the slytherin commons, the stacks upon stacks of tomes barring your view of him. you hum noncommittally in reply.
“oh, nothing.” you plant your cheek in your palm, tapping your quill relentlessly against the table. this is entirely purposeful. you’ve noticed that every single time you do it— if only for a split second— you spot undisguised disdain on tom’s face. a split second of irritation before he corrects himself in some vain attempt to appear more tolerant than he really is.
“… you keep staring. is there something you wish to discuss?” his tone is clipped, moderate. the politeness grates on you.
you hesitate, not wanting to rock the fragile stilts of the ‘connection’ you have to tom. referring to it as “a relationship” feels like an exaggeration of the truth; despite the rumors that have made their way from every seventh to first year that you and tom are romantically involved. they aren’t unfounded, either… after all, he walks you everyday from potions to charms, studies with you, brings you as his date to all of professor slughorn’s parties, and every day you are the only person that he is seen alone with on a regular basis.
tom riddle is easily the most well liked boy in hogwarts. the only person unenchanted by him is professor dumbledore, though you don’t have a clue why. perhaps he sees what you do— that lack of a glimmer in his eyes. the little lie.
he compliments you, smiles just when it’s right and tells you all that he knows you’d like to hear. saccharine promises where he smoothly assures you that you are special and clever and more than what other people say you are. and the flattery would go right to your head, the way it has to slughorn and many of tom’s eager followers, but it doesn’t. because while he may lie, his eyes may not.
there is no true soul or emotion behind his kindness, no real admiration or passion. you wondered at first, if this was your fault. if he simply reserved his affections for other, more important people. but you observed tom closely. this performance of his was for all eyes, it seemed. but why? why would he need to pretend? what was he hiding?
“you’re doing it again…” tom sits silently before he chuckles, though even that feels rehearsed. “if there is something troubling you, you may confide in me.”
“is there something you want from me?” the words have slipped out before you can reign them in. “i’m sorry, i just… i simply don’t understand your interest in me.”
“do you mean to imply i have ulterior motives?” tom asks teasingly. you pay close attention to the undertone of condescension in his voice.
“no, no, not at all!” you start, oh so tentatively broaching the topic… “i’d like to know you better. i feel as if… i don’t understand you.”
“is that so?” you can’t see him past the books, but you imagine he’s turned smug at this. “i don’t believe you do.”
“that i want to know you, or that i don’t understand you?” you snip back.
“both.” tom replies curty.
“but i do… i want to understand you.” you move a stack of books out of the way so that you can make proper eye contact with him. “there’s more.” you go on, leaning forward in your chair.
he raises his eyebrow as indication for you to continue. you oblige. “i was simply… confused. about our status. there are rumors, after all…”
“about?” tom asks, acting as if he has no idea.
“our… relation… to each other.” your skin prickles with heat as you avert your gaze from his. tom’s beauty is transcendent, everyone knows it… he gets his way so easily. it disarms you.
“is that so…” tom hums, and gingerly places his quill on the desk. “what about it?”
“are we friends, or… more? forgive me if my assumptions are unfounded, but after you had asked me to accompany you to slughorn’s party, i thought that was…” you trail off, flustered.
“is that what you desire?” he asks. you chew on your lip thoughtfully… do you? and before you can answer, he does for you. “i suppose it is their expectation, considering our… closeness. we are both top of our year after all.”
“but…” you begin, biting your tongue.
he raises his eyebrow. “yes?”
“when you look at me… there’s… nothing there. you smile, but, there’s no… warmth.” you stare holes into your textbook. you don’t want to see whatever expression he’s carefully practiced to evoke guilt in you.
it does not come. “you are far too observant for your own good.”
tom’s eyes are just the same as they almost always are when you believe he is not performing— cold, soulless, and entirely apathetic. but you’ve been given a moment of grace to be able to see this true and honest facet of him.
“i know you. we’ve spoken at length. i know you have ambitions… so do i.” his manner of speech is so utterly clinical that it unnerves you. “i have seen you, when you believe you are alone. i see no reason to prolong a charade when our interests are aligned.”
“what interests?” you ask, your throat suddenly feeling incredibly dry.
“you have something… that i want to use.” tom smiles sardonically, his eyes narrowed. “i have made friends in our year who share my vision for the world. but there is something to be gained here for the two of us.”
“what do you have that i could want?” his chair creaks as he makes his way over to your side of the desk. he leans forward, his arms folded behind him.
“information.” he slowly produces a book from inside his coat— a book you recognize. one on enchantments that have been banned from libraries across the globe… with entries on the philosopher’s stone. immortality has always been of interest to you. how did he get it out of the restricted section?
“it’s incredibly simple. i get what i want, as do you.” how can someone be so detached? so utterly lacking in humanity, and feeling?
“if i refuse?” you expect him to react with frustration, but he doesn’t. he just smirks, as if he’s already got you in the palm of his hand.
“have you ever heard the term, ‘mutually assured destruction’?” tom drawls, as if the fright on your face is entertaining him.
“you don’t have anything on me.” you stand up, pushing your chair in and looking to dust off your coat and head out. but he grabs your wrist icily.
“oh, but i do,” he tilts his head. “you see, i seem to recall a certain someone being incredibly helpful to me during my fifth year. unwittingly, albeit, i doubt that matters when you’ve lied to our headmaster...”
and that’s when your blood runs cold. “no.”
“you should consider it a compliment. i wouldn’t have divulged anything, had you been more daft.” tom lets his hand skate over the desk, to the leather bound notebook he always keeps close to his person. “i’d like to employ your assistance.”
he’s right by your ear, and it’s as if all your nerve endings have been set alight. you’re terrified, and unfortunately, your feelings have passed a dark shroud your judgment. privately, you curse the rapid beating of your heart.
“why do you think i requested favors, then? asking you to make excuses for my absences to our professors?” tom closes in on your personal space, so horrifyingly aware of the effect his presence has on you. “the basilisk killings had just begun. you had an inkling, didn’t you? some part of you must have realized… how when i disappeared, the slaughter would begin again… and oh, when i asked you to claim you’d seen that oaf hagrid let his foul beast attack that filthy little mudblood …”
you panic, your eyes going wide. “no, you— you told me he had done it, that it was the right thing to do, that he was—”
“you knew,” he hisses lowly, keeping your wrist in his grasp as he raises it in the air. “you knew it wasn’t him. but you took my side… because you fancy me.” and tom sneers so cruelly as he says it.
your voice wavers. “no, that’s not why i…” you’re silenced as tom collects both your wrists in one hand, his nose brushing yours. wordlessly, he uses his free hand to grasp your chin roughly. you feel his breath against your face, and it’s so unbearably overwhelming as your heart jumps from your throat to pound on your ears—
“that is all the proof i need.” he mocks, releasing your wrists and stepping away from you.
you stagger in front of the desk, clutching your chest as you breathe heavily, still delirious and caught in shock.
“entertain this charade with me. consider it a kindness that i’ve deigned to play the role of your paramour.” tom waves his hand in the air, collecting his books, and inconspicuously tucking the stolen tome into his coat. “you’re a pureblood, and proficient enough in spells to be useful to me. you will do nicely.”
“i don’t understand,” you choke out. “what is it that you truly want from me?”
a smirk grows on his face, as if he’s thinking of some inside joke he has with himself.
“… you will carry a shard of my soul.”