｡𖦹°‧ im ari, im 20, and this is where i #spilldarkink on the digital archives.
｡𖦹°‧ this is my sub-blog for the purpose of writing so please "consult the oracle" and send requests!!
｡𖦹°‧ i write really dark shit. this writing blog is associated with very explicit sexuality as a result of my overactive imagination.
｡𖦹°‧ this blog does include works with dubious consent, themes of bdsm or power imbalance, violence or blood, and themes like kidnapping or stalking.
if any of these themes trigger, irritate, or concern you, please for your own sake scroll past this blog. this is not for you. if you are not 18+ please scroll past this blog. i am not responsible for your own media consumption.
｡𖦹°‧ all love to all the sinners who read filth out there, ari ♡
✦ no part of this fiction may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher/author.
✦ this is my first wattpad original i’m updating every 2–3 days (or at least trying to 🖤). only the first five chapters will be posted here on tumblr—the rest will be exclusive to wattpad. you can find the latest chapters, the official playlist, moodboards, and everything else in my official “the serpent” directory.
enjoy asshole tom 🎀✨
I hated mornings at Hogwarts.
Not because I was tired or because I disliked classes. But because mornings required participation.
By eight o'clock, the castle was already alive with conversations I wasn't interested in having, students I was expected to acknowledge, and enough noise to make solitude feel like a rumor.
Cassiopeia claimed I brought it on myself.
According to her, people wouldn't find me intimidating if I stopped staring at them like I was calculating their likelihood of survival.
I maintained that she was dramatic.
She maintained that I was worse.
Silence didn't really exist in the Slytherin girls' dorms—especially not with Cassiopeia Burke, Lucia Rosier, and Evette Yaxley sharing the same space I did.
Cassiopeia talked like silence was something she could outrun if she filled it fast enough. Lucia observed everything like she was filing it away for later use. Evette treated every morning as if it were personally offensive and required commentary.
And then there was me.
I got dressed.
That was usually my contribution.
By the time we left the dorms, the castle had already settled into itself. Corridors aligned into their usual geometry, portraits murmuring without urgency, footsteps syncing into patterns people didn't seem aware they were following.
Cassiopeia walked beside me, still talking—half sentences that stretched across rooms and staircases as if they were meant to be completed over distance rather than silence.
Lucia drifted ahead of us, occasionally disappearing into the flow of other students like she belonged to multiple versions of the same moment.
Evette followed her own timeline entirely, arriving where she wanted to be slightly too late to acknowledge structure but never late enough to be questioned.
And I followed the pattern. Not because I had memorized it, because I no longer needed to.
The Great Hall was already loud when we arrived.
It always was.
Sound layered itself in waves—cutlery, conversation, movement, the low hum of a thousand people pretending they weren't aware of each other. The war never entered the room directly, but it existed in the way conversations paused before certain names were spoken, and in the way professors sometimes looked too long at the far end of the table.
Cassiopeia slid into the seat across from me immediately, continuing a story I had missed the beginning of. Lucia sat further down, already halfway through her meal. Evette arrived last, as if punctuality was something she refused to validate.
I ate without fully registering what I was eating.
Cassiopeia glanced at me once. "You're not listening again."
"I am."
"That's worse."
I didn't argue.
After breakfast, the movement of the castle resumed its shape. Doors opened at familiar times. Conversations resumed in predictable places. Everything functioned with the kind of consistency that made thought optional.
By the time I left for Charms, I realized something small had already begun to blur.
Not the day itself. Just the edges of it. The space between moments wasn't holding its shape the way it used to.
Charms was structured enough that it didn't require interpretation.
It only required execution.
The professor spoke like someone who assumed reality was stable unless corrected. Spells were written, demonstrated, repeated. The room filled with soft bursts of controlled magic—light bending, objects shifting, air responding in predictable ways.
I didn't think about most of it.
That was the point.
I performed what was asked, corrected when necessary, and moved on without resistance.
Around me, students reacted differently—some too sharply, some too slowly—but none of it registered as important enough to hold.
By the end of class, I could not recall any individual moment that had happened inside it.
Only that it had.
History of Magic followed. Blurring in a way Charms never did.
It wasn't difficult.
It just didn't resist repetition.
Professor Binns' voice moved through familiar territory—names, wars, treaties, outcomes that had already been flattened into something too stable to question.
I found myself tracing the rhythm of speech rather than the content.
At some point, I realized I could not clearly identify when I had entered the room.
I remembered sitting down. I did not remember the walk that led there.
It should have felt like a gap.
Instead, it felt like continuity missing a label. Something my mind had accepted without needing to record. I stopped trying to reconstruct it halfway through the lecture. By the time the lecture ended, I was relieved to have something else to focus on.
Chairs scraped against stone. Books snapped shut. Students rose around me as though responding to a signal I'd almost missed.
The rest of the afternoon arrived without asking whether I was ready for it. When entering Potions, the air changed.
It always did.
The room felt less like a classroom and more like a place that expected precision out of everyone inside it—whether they were prepared for it or not.
Professor Slughorn was already speaking before anyone had fully settled.
"Today," he said, hands clasped as if he were introducing something sentimental rather than academic, "we are not brewing for perfection. We are brewing for adaptation."
That sounded like something people said right before things stopped going well.
A few students shifted.
I didn't.
"Magical conditions are rarely stable," he continued brightly. "So neither should your approach be."
Which, in my experience, was usually what professors said when they were about to make things unstable on purpose.
The assignment appeared on the board:
Potion for mental clarity under external interference.
Pair work.
Mid-brew adjustment required.
Graded on adaptability.
In other words: controlled chaos with paperwork. That last part lingered.
Adaptability.
Not correctness.
I moved to my assigned station without hesitation, expecting last year's lab partner, Lucien Nott, to already be there. He had a habit of claiming the right side of the table before anyone else arrived and complaining when I moved his things.
Instead, Tom Riddle was already there.
Not arriving.
Already positioned.
He didn't acknowledge me immediately. Only once I had settled beside him did he speak.
"Punctuality seems to defeat you," he said without looking up.
"I manage," I replied.
His presence had a way of stilling the room without him doing anything at all. To me, it was like everything around him had been quietly adjusted into order the moment he stepped too close to it. Even the air felt reluctant to misbehave.
"You confuse absence of consequence with permission." His voice landed cleanly, like something placed rather than spoken.
He didn't look at me when he said it. Like I wasn't the point—just a variable he'd already categorized and moved past.
"The flame is incorrect. Adjust it before you contaminate the entire batch."
And only then did I look at the cauldron, like it had personally betrayed me.
It was slightly off. Not catastrophically. Just offensively enough to be noticed.
"I was evaluating," I said, correcting it, "whether or not I care about your opinion."
"You do," he said.
That was annoying.
We worked in silence for a while.
Functional silence.
The kind that implied conversation had been considered and rejected by both parties for efficiency reasons.
Tom moved like he had already read the outcome of the potion and was just filling in required steps for completion.
I found that mildly irritating.
It was efficient. And efficiency without struggle always felt suspicious.
Slughorn passed by eventually, lingering too long in a way teachers only did when they were trying to feel emotionally involved in their own curriculum.
"Ah!" he said. "Two of my most promising students."
I didn't look up.
"That's generous," I muttered under my breath.
Cassiopeia would have laughed at that.
Unfortunately, she was not here to validate my internal commentary.
Tom didn't react. He rarely reacted to things that weren't relevant to outcomes.
I respected that.
I found it that was also irritating.
Both things could be true.
Slughorn lingered another second before moving on, still smiling as if he had already decided the outcome of something we were not aware we were participating in.
The instruction changed.
Without warning.
A secondary reagent was placed on each table.
"Interference variable," Slughorn announced. "You will now adjust mid-process. I want to see who understands control versus who only understands procedure." A few students reacted immediately.
Tom did not.
Neither did I.
He simply reached for the reagent first. I adjusted my movement to compensate.
I leaned slightly toward Tom, just enough that the space between us felt more deliberate than accidental.
"If this explodes," I stated quietly, "I'm telling people you did it on purpose."
He didn't look up at first. His focus stayed on the flame, steadying it with small, exact adjustments like it had never once misbehaved in its life.
"It won't," he said.
"That wasn't a denial."
Only then did his gaze shift—not hurried, not reactive. Already there, as if he'd been aware of me speaking before I finished deciding to.
"It didn't require one," he replied.
I huffed a quiet laugh and reached forward to adjust the flame between us. It responded too quickly, dipping lower than I intended, like it recognized me a second too late.
Tom's eyes tracked my hand—not the flame first, not the motion itself, but the exact moment my fingers hesitated near the heat. Like he'd catalogued it.
"You overcorrect too often," he said evenly.
I glanced at him. "Irrelevant."
"It's not," he said simply. No emphasis. No judgment. Just fact.
The flame steadied under my control again, but my hand didn't move away immediately. Something about the way he said it made the space between intention and action feel... visible.
"You're watching too closely," I said.
"I'm observing the work," he replied.
A pause—clean, measured.
"And its handler."
That time, I didn't respond right away. The fire flickered once, softer than before, as if it had also noticed.
I withdrew my hand.
"Terrible habit," I replied finally, quieter now.
"I don't form habits," he said. Then, after a moment that didn't feel like hesitation so much as calibration, "I record patterns."
The flame steadied again, but the air around it didn't feel entirely the same—like it had adjusted to something I hadn't agreed to yet.
I kept my hand near it a moment too long.
Just to make sure it stayed under control.
That was the excuse, anyway.
Tom didn't move. Still, I was aware of him in a way that didn't match the simplicity of standing beside someone in a classroom. It was sharper than that—like my attention kept catching on him without asking permission first.
Unhelpful.
I shifted my focus back to the burner.
The flame responded immediately, too sensitive under my control, as if it had been waiting for me to settle.
My fingers tightened slightly.
Tom's voice came without him looking at me. "You're applying pressure unevenly."
"I'm not."
A pause.
"You are," he said, calm as ever. "Your control changes when you're distracted."
The word distracted shouldn't have registered. It was neutral. Academic. Pointless.
And yet my attention flickered—briefly, involuntarily—toward him.
But his timing was exact. Like he'd been waiting for me to correct myself before I even knew I had something to correct.
My grip on focus tightened again.
The flame dipped lower, responding too cleanly, too obediently—like it was mirroring me more than obeying me.
I swallowed once, annoyed at nothing in particular.
My hand hovered over the flame again, but I forced it to stay steady this time, even though my attention kept trying to drift sideways—toward him, toward the space he occupied too easily.
We worked faster after that. The potion shifted color twice. Once under his adjustment. Once under mine. Neither of us commented on the fact that we were now effectively competing while pretending we weren't.
It felt unspoken. Which was usually the most dangerous kind of agreement.
"Left," he said suddenly.
I didn't ask why. I just moved it. The potion stabilized. Barely.
"Bossy," I said.
"You would have done it anyway."
Slughorn returned near the end.
"Oh, excellent work," he said, clearly pleased with the idea of things going well in front of him.
He looked between us like we were an experiment he was already planning to repeat. That was... unsettling in a very administrative way.
When class ended, students packed up quickly. Tom closed his notes first.
Of course he did.
I followed.
The late-afternoon air of the corridor outside of Potions was crowded enough that movement became its own current.
Students split apart almost immediately, conversations reforming around them as they disappeared into different routes.
I stepped into the flow of bodies and nearly kept walking.
Nearly.
Tom fucking Riddle just so happened to be moving in the same direction. Which should not have been noteworthy. Unfortunately, I noticed it anyway.
"Rude," I muttered under my breath.
I turned—
There he was. Already positioned in the transition space between classes.
Tom glanced at me. "What is?"
"The atmosphere. It changed tone."
"That's not how atmosphere works." he stated.
"It is if you're paying attention properly."
He didn't respond to that. Which, honestly, was probably wise.
"You take the same route," he said. It wasn't observation this time. It was confirmation.
I didn't answer immediately.
Because I couldn't tell when I had started doing that. Only that I had.
He predicted his pace to allow me pass. To finalize the geometry of movement. And for the first time, I understood something I didn't want to name yet.
The pattern was not only being observed.
It was being learned.
"I take many routes," I finally said.
"This one," he said, already shifting aside like he'd been standing there the entire time to be moved around, "is the one you repeat."
I passed him, but not quite fast enough to make it look like I was ignoring him.
"And here I thought I was spontaneous," I said, letting the words land light on purpose.
A pause—small, deliberate.
"You're not," he replied, like it wasn't an opinion he'd formed in the moment. More like something he'd already accounted for.
That should've ended it.
It didn't.
"That's hurtful," I said, though my tone didn't bother matching the claim.
His gaze flicked to me—brief, assessing, like he was measuring how much of me actually meant that.
"No, it's accurate."
I slowed just enough that he would notice I chose to, not because I had to.
"Funny," I said, softer now, "how accuracy always sounds like it's excusing itself."
He didn't respond right away. He matched my pace instead. And that, more than anything, made the air between us feel occupied.
"Or," he said finally, "you just don't like being observed correctly."
I almost laughed. Almost.
But I kept my eyes forward anyway.
"Unfortunately," I said, "I find being perceived in general to be a flawed system."
And then, quieter—like he'd decided I was worth lowering his voice for:
"That's not what you're reacting to."
And I hated that he didn't say it like a question.
I didn't answer. Mostly because I wasn't sure what answer he thought existed.
The air didn't settle back into place the way it should have after a conversation ended.
The corridor eventually forked. Students disappeared into separate routes. Conversations dissolved.
And somehow, by the time I realized it, he wasn't beside me anymore. The absence should have felt ordinary.
It didn't.
The nearest wall sconce burned a shade brighter than it should've, then steadied—wrong for a second, like it had reacted late to something it couldn't see.
That evening, the Slytherin dormitories were louder than usual.
Not loud by Gryffindor standards. Nobody was dueling in the hallways. Nothing was actively on fire.
Loud by Slytherin standards meant clusters of voices behind half-open doors, conversations cut short when someone walked past, and enough gossip in the air to qualify as its own weather system.
Which somehow felt more dangerous.
Students lingered around the green-lit windows overlooking the Black Lake, talking in low voices that weren't nearly as subtle as they seemed to think they were.
Every few steps, somebody glanced at me.
Then looked away too quickly.
Excellent.
I pushed open the door to my dormitory and immediately regretted it. The atmosphere hit me before the door even finished swinging shut.
Cassiopeia was sitting cross-legged on her bed like a prophet about to deliver devastating news.
Lucia appeared to be reading. Appeared being the important word.
The book was upside down.
Which was either deeply concerning or proof she was listening so hard she'd forgotten how books worked.
Evette sat near the window with an expression suggesting she'd recently lost faith in humanity. Or perhaps simply remembered humanity existed. Either way, normal.
My trunk sat untouched at the foot of my bed. I dropped my books onto the mattress and began removing my robes.
No one spoke. A terrible sign.
I paused.
Slowly.
"Why is it quiet?"
Cassiopeia smiled. A second terrible sign.
"She's alive," she announced.
"I was gone for a few hours. I didn't realize that was a criminal offense." I eyed.
"It felt longer. And in this dorm it might as well be."
"That's because time moves differently around you." Lucia added.
"It does," Evette agreed without looking up. Lucia nodded.
I stared at them. "You're all being weird."
"We're Slytherins," Evette said. "That's not useful information."
Fair.
I began unpacking my books instead.
For a brief, glorious moment, I thought I might escape whatever collective nonsense had possessed them. Then Cassiopeia's eyes narrowed, dangerously I might add.
The way a cat narrows its eyes before knocking something expensive off a table.
"Oh."
I froze. Not because she'd said much. Because she'd said it like she'd just remembered something entertaining.
"Oh what?" I said, looking between my three very suspicious dormmates.
"The Potions incident."
Every muscle in my body immediately decided it wanted no part of this conversation.
"I dislike those words individually," I said. "Together they're significantly worse."
Lucia finally lowered her book.
Right side up now.
Interesting.
"People are talking."
Of course they were. Nothing encouraged intellectual decay quite like teenagers with free time.
"What people?" I sighed.
Cassiopeia blinked. "Everyone."
"That's not a person."
"It's a horrifying number of people, though." She said. I groaned and dropped onto my bed.
Across from me, Lucia folded a page corner in her book. A gesture that somehow carried the same weight as a funeral bell.
My mind immediately supplied an image of Tom Riddle standing beside me at the cauldron earlier, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, eyes fixed on mine across a cloud of silver steam.
I hated that memory for volunteering itself.
"Nothing happened," I said.
The room collectively failed to look convinced.
Cassiopeia leaned forward.
"See, that's exactly what someone would say if something happened."
"It is also what someone says when nothing happened."
"Less exciting."
"More accurate."
I looked toward the ceiling. Merlin.
If this was what awaited me every time I shared a classroom with Tom Riddle, I was going to need a stronger personality.
"We were making a potion." I felt the need to add.
Cassiopeia laughed immediately. Not a polite laugh. The kind that suggested she had already heard six different versions of the story.
"Apparently half the class thought you were about to start a duel."
"We weren't."
"You absolutely were."
"We were not."
"It just happened to involve intense eye contact and visible hostility." She said with a toothy smile.
"That's my face." I muttered.
Evette cracked open one eye from where she'd been pretending to sleep. "Unfortunately true." Traitor.
I dropped onto my bed and kicked off my shoes. "You're definitely exaggerating."
"It's in the Forbidden Forest." she sang joyously, as if sounding harmonious would convince me any.
I looked up. "Not happening."
"But that's what makes it fun!" she whined.
"That's what makes it a terrible idea."
Lucia finally closed her book. "Seventh-years organize it every year."
"Technically we're not supposed to know about it." Cassiopeia stated.
"Which is why everyone knows about it," Evette finished.
I rubbed my temples. "Wonderful."
Cassiopeia pointed dramatically. "You're coming."
"I won't."
"You will."
"I won't."
"You are."
I considered my options. None of them involved escape. "I would rather willingly attend a History of Magic lecture."
The room went silent. Evette sat upright. Cassiopeia looked genuinely horrified. Lucia just blinked.
"That was extreme." Evette remarked.
"It was meant to be."
"Maybe Riddle will be there." quipped Cassiopeia.
The words landed with suspicious casualness. I hated that I hesitated. Only for a second.
Unfortunately, Cassiopeia noticed. Her grin became feral. "Ohhh, that's interesting."
"Nothing is interesting."
"Something is definitely interesting." she chimed.
"It absolutely isn't." I urged back.
"Six hours since Potions and you're already defending him?"
"I am not defending him."
"Mm."
"Cassiopeia." I emitted.
"Mhm." she hummed as if she knew something I didn't.
Hours later, the dormitory had finally gone quiet. Cassiopeia had stopped talking. Which, statistically speaking, felt like a bad omen all on its own.
Moonlight filtered through the black water beyond the windows, dragging green light across the ceiling like something beneath the lake was trying to remember how to become the room again.
I stared at it until it began to feel like it might stare back.
The party should have been occupying my thoughts. It wasn't. That was the point of things like parties and lessons: they were meant to stay where one put them.
It should have meant something that they didn't. I noticed that much.
That I noticed it at all.
Something kept surfacing anyway.
Not a memory. Not quite.
A shape pretending to be one.
I frowned at the ceiling as though it had personally offended me. It did not help. It never helps.
And then there was my magic. Which was worse.
Because it did not wait. It did not ask.
It simply answered.
Before I had formed the question. As though I were the slower half of the arrangement.
Which I am not. I am perfectly quick.
...Right?
What he said came to me first. Not his voice.
Never his voice.
Just the outline of it, as if sound had been stripped away and only intent remained.
Already concluded.
He was speaking about potion work. That was all. And yet the thought refuses to stay where it was placed.
Coincidence. That is what it is. Though repeated coincidence is still coincidence, however irritating it may be.
That is logic.
That is—
The problem is not him.
The problem is that logic keeps arriving when it is not summoned. It sits where it should not sit. It repeats things I did not ask it to repeat.
I turned onto my side.
The lake outside the window moved without permission. Green light sliding wrong across stone, as if the castle were shifting its weight and forgetting to stop.
✦ no part of this fiction may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher/author.
✦ this is my first Wattpad Original! i’m updating every 2–3 days (or at least trying to 🖤). only the first five chapters will be posted here on Tumblr—the rest will be exclusive to Wattpad. you can find the latest chapters, the official playlist, moodboards, and everything else in my Serpent Directory.
enjoy, my little serpents. 🐍
Hidden away in a compartment in the third train car of the Hogwarts Express, I sat with my nose buried deep in a book. I had spent most of the summer hunting for this particular copy—Elemental Earth Transfiguration by Miranda Goshawk—and it had proven itself endlessly fascinating.
Provoking, even.
With the war, things had become harder to come by. Floo powder, potions, herbs, books—really, anything once considered ordinary before the world split open.
I'd already read the text three times. It hadn't taken long for me to understand the premise: granted enough concentration, an intentional spell or enchantment could transfigure the elements around a witch or wizard without the use of a wand, using the mind alone as its conduit.
Difficult magic.
Dangerous, too.
But I'd never been one to avoid skills simply because they weren't meant to be touched.
Orion had dissapeared into the train hours ago, swallowed by his sixth-year companions with little more than a smile thrown over his shoulder. He never let me keep solitude for long though.
So I wasn't surprised when the compartment door slid open.
I glanced up briefly before returning to the page.
We'd always been close for siblings, especially with only eleven months between us, but age brought separate expectations to the both of us.
Several quiet minutes passed before I finally closed the book with a sigh.
"Are your friends not entertaining enough for you?" I asked, arching a brow.
"Well, I suppose they are," Orion said, leaning lazily against the doorframe. "I think I just wanted to be in your presence before Hogwarts steals you entirely."
"Distracts, you mean?" I corrected with an amused smile.
His grin widened.
"This is your last year."
"And yours is next."
He hesitated. A beat passed between us. "If we even make it to next year."
I rolled my eyes at the dramatics. "We will." Then, softer, "It's not as though you'll never see me again."
He nodded, warm spirit alive as ever. Suddenly his face brightened.
"Oh! I almost forgot—"
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a cloth-wrapped package carrying the unmistakable scent of fresh sweets. The smell hit me first.
My eyes widened immediately.
"Are those—"
"Sugar cakes!" he announced proudly. "Before rationing steals the last joys of civilization."
"Ori..." I breathed, a laugh escaping me. "How did you get those? I thought the train wasn't offering treats this year."
He only shrugged. "They're your favorite, aren't they?"
He handed one to me, and I couldn't help the rush of gratitude that followed. I took a bite, the warm sugary cake practically melting in my mouth like heaven itself.
"Thank you," I groaned dramatically through another bite, being sure to savor every second of it.
Orion only smiled before wrapping the remaining cakes and placing them beside me.
"I think we're almost there," he said after glancing out the window. "I should probably get back before Alphard starts gambling away our luggage."
"You say that as though he hasn't already," I humored him. And for a moment, he looked as though he wanted to say something more. Something I'd grown used to with him.
"A fair point." he spoke quietly.
"Be safe, Orion." I hummed.
"You sound like Mum." He replied, glancing at me sideways. His hand paused briefly against the compartment door, "Just... avoid trouble this year."
I nearly laughed at that.
At Hogwarts, trouble rarely needed an invitation.
I glanced out the window toward the approaching platform. Orion Black slipped from the compartment, disappearing into the crowded train corridor.
It was strange watching him grow up, though I supposed I had done it first.
The Blacks were not people who said I love you. We expressed it differently—through reminders, through careful glances that quietly dissected one another's wellbeing, through small tokens that proved someone had paid attention to the things you loved.
I tucked the sugar cakes carefully into my bag before moving to slide my book beside them neatly. As the train squealed against the tracks, everything changed.
The book slipped from my hands, and a violent force overtook my body.
Not pain. Recognition.
Pressure slammed through my senses, heavy and cold, as if my magic had collided with something it did not understand.
The compartment seemed to tilt, and something tight gathered behind my ribs. Like invisible hands had suddenly wrapped around my lungs and squeezed.
I sucked in a breath, but the air felt wrong somehow—
My fingers gripped the edge of the seat hard enough to ache. Beneath it all there was this awareness. Not of the compartment. Not of the train.
Close.
The thought was not mine.
It moved through me like an ancient instinct.
The train slowed harder.
The sensation sharpened like thread drawn between two unseen points.
Something was near—someone existed with terrifying clarity.
I stood so abruptly the compartment lurched beneath me. Cold air rushed in as I slid the door open, carrying with it the scent of rain and coal smoke from the corridor beyond the Hogwarts Express.
A group of students passed outside the doorway in blurred motion, laughing loudly over one another as trunks scraped against the walls of the train.
Normal.
Everything looked painfully normal.
I forced myself to breathe. Whatever had just happened, I refused to let myself believe it meant anything beyond exhaustion. Nothing more.
The summer had been suffocating enough without my body deciding to betray me now.
The train fully stopped.
Hogsmeade.
Outside the window, fog curled low across the platform while rain lashed violently against black stone. Students had already begun flooding the corridors in frantic waves, gathering trunks and owls beneath bursts of hurried conversation.
I reached for my things quickly.
The moment I stepped outside the compartment, the feeling returned. It was a more focused awareness now. Like being watched before you could prove it.
The noise around me dimmed strangely—not silence exactly, but distance, as though the world itself had shifted half a step away.
Then I saw him.
Several feet down the corridor stood Tom Riddle.
He faced partially away from me, speaking to Abraxas Malfoy in low conversation while students unconsciously moved around them like water around stone. Even among pure-blood aristocracy, Tom carried himself differently. Not wealth. Not status.
Control.
Perfect and terrifying control.
Abraxas spoke animatedly, though I heard none of it.
Tom went still. Subtly.
The kind of stillness predators possessed moments before noticing movement in the dark.
Then his head turned. Our eyes met instantly.
The world seemed to have sharpened, and something inside of me recoiled immediately.
I froze.
Not visibly. Every instinct I possessed seemed to pull tight at once. It felt primitive.
The feeling was familiar in a way I couldn't place. Like my body had recognized danger before my mind could shape it. The kind of danger that existed long before logic.
I looked away first, my pulse quickening. When I looked back, he was still watching.
And for one impossible moment, confusion crossed his face.
As if he'd felt it too.
It then vanished, beneath practiced composure so quickly, I almost convinced myself I had imagined it. Like standing too close to shattered glass.
His expression tightened almost imperceptibly. There and gone.
Abraxas continued speaking, breaking whatever invisible tension had settled between us.
My grip tightened around the handle of my trunk as I forced myself down the corridor with the rest of the students, pulse thundering loudly enough to make me nauseous.
Rain greeted us violently.
What in Merlin's name is wrong with me?
Torches flickered against the storm as students crowded beneath the narrow awnings, black robes billowing through heavy wind. Somewhere nearby, prefects shouted instructions no one truly listened to while first-years stumbled anxiously toward the boats.
Hogwarts loomed beyond all of it.
Usually the sight filled me with relief.
Tonight the castle looked almost severe beneath the storm clouds, every tower disappearing into sheets of rain and darkness.
The war had reached Hogwarts long before any of us arrived.
It lived in the reinforced wards. The quieter halls. The strained expressions worn by professors attempting to disguise fear as discipline.
A group of seventh-year boys brushed past me discussing Grindelwald openly without lowering their voices.
"My father says Britain's next if they don't strengthen restrictions—"
"Well they should've done that years ago."
I looked away before they noticed me listening.
By the time I reached the Slytherin dormitories beneath the lake, exhaustion had settled heavily into my bones.
The common room glowed green beneath the shifting light of the water outside. Shadows drifted across the stone walls in strange patterns as students reclaimed familiar corners and velvet chairs with tired relief.
Nothing about Slytherin House ever truly felt warm.
Elegant, yes.
Powerful, certainly.
But warmth implied comfort, and Slytherins rarely allowed themselves luxuries that made them vulnerable.
"Kaida!"
A familiar voice broke through my thoughts.
Cassiopeia Burke crossed the room toward me gracefully, ginger curls pinned neatly back despite the weather outside. Behind her, two girls I vaguely recognized from sixth year were already unpacking books beside the fire.
Conversations remained quieter than usual, fractured by lingering unease. A group of girls near the staircase whispered intensely over copies of the Prophet while several older boys discussed Ministry affairs with far too much confidence for seventeen-year-olds.
"...they're reconsidering old family contracts—"
"My mother said the Wizengamot's discussing preservation measures—"
"Well they have to. Magical society can't survive like this forever."
Preservation.
The word had seemingly become a plague.
Cassiopeia lowered her voice slightly. "Have you heard the rumors?"
"Which ones?" I frowned slightly.
"That Hogwarts may begin implementing Ministry oversight this year."
A cold feeling settled low in my stomach.
"That's absurd."
"Is it?" She glanced toward the common room entrance. "Half the school's families are already involved politically. The Ministry's terrified Grindelwald sympathizers have infiltrated Britain."
Before I could answer, my magic shifted. It was like the air itself bent wrong.
I looked instinctively toward the staircase leading deeper into the dormitories. The torches lining the common room walls flickered.
My fingers sparked.
The distortion was sharp enough this time to steal the breath from my lungs entirely.
"Kaida?"
Cassiopeia's voice sounded far away.
I blinked.
The sensation vanished as abruptly as it had arrived, leaving only the faint sting of magic beneath my skin.
"You alright?"
"Fine," I lied automatically.
Her eyes lingered on me for a moment, unconvinced.
Then, thankfully, she sighed.
"Well, have your crisis after Transfiguration." Before I could respond, she excused herself. "I'll see you in the morning."
I watched her disappear toward the girls' dormitories, the sound of her footsteps fading into the stone.
Only when she was gone did I let myself look back toward the staircase.
And there he was.
Tom Riddle had just entered the common room.
Conversation did not stop when he appeared. It shifted.
The room seemed to bend around him without meaning to. Heads turned. Voices lowered. Even laughter sounded different—as though people were suddenly aware of themselves.
There was something wrong with him this year. Not wrong in any obvious sense.
If anything, he looked exactly as he always did. Immaculate. Composed. Handsome in that infuriating way that made people forgive him things before he'd even spoken.
But something was different, like a crack running beneath ice.
I couldn't tell if anyone else noticed it. Something fractured lingered beneath the surface of him. Not weakness. Not instability.
Division.
It felt like a part of him stood in front of me in the common room while another part watched from somewhere impossibly in the distance.
My eyes followed him despite myself.
In all the years I'd shared corridors, classrooms, and common rooms with Tom Riddle, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was looking at a stranger wearing his face.
His dark robes were damp from rain, sleeves rolled neatly toward his forearms as though even storms failed to truly touch him. Several students acknowledged him immediately while others straightened unconsciously in his presence.
His gaze lifted. Directly towards me.
My magic resisted as if I'd touched a wand that didn't belong to me.
I grew up understanding, without being told, that attention was currency—and very few people were worth spending it on.
So I didn't reach.
I decided to observe instead.
Him now especially.
I watched him the way I might watch something that didn't yet know it had been noticed. A story existed in the way he carried himself. Not one I belonged to. Not one I wanted to belong to.
Every logical part of me dismissed the physical reaction as nonsense. A momentary discomfort.
A trick of unfamiliarity.
Later that evening, staring into the dark canopy above my bed, I realized I could not remember half of the faces I'd seen that day. That irritated me more than it should have.
My magic had noticed something worth fearing.
That explanation should've been enough.
But over the following weeks, I found myself tracking him. Across corridors, at meals, in classrooms. Small details.
Like where he stood, who he spoke to, when he arrived, when he left.
I told myself it was because he'd unsettled me. Because there had been something strange about the encounter.
But every time I thought back to him, I felt that same strange recoil deep within my magic. Like a warning delivered in a language I hadn't learned to speak.
And since returning to Hogwarts, I found myself wondering whether my magic was trying to tell me something I would not survive understanding.
As Grindelwald’s war spreads across Europe and Muggle cities burn beneath the shadow of World War II, eighteen-year-old Tom Riddle is becoming something far more dangerous than anyone realizes.
Then an ancient magical phenomenon binds him to a girl he was never meant to know.
She is everything he despises — compassionate, stubborn, and unwilling to accept the pure-blood ideologies consuming their world.
Worse?
She sees him.
Not the charm. Not the brilliance. Not the carefully crafted mask.
Him.
A prophecy declares them soulmates.
Every vision of the future declares they will destroy each other.
As Hogwarts becomes haunted by disappearances, a forgotten curse resurfaces, and a mysterious illness spreads through a magical world already weakened by war, Tom and his destined counterpart are forced into an alliance that threatens everything they believe.
Because fate never accounted for a boy who would challenge death itself.
Or a girl willing to challenge fate.
In a world built on fear, love may be the most dangerous magic of all.
✦ no part of this fiction may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher/author.
✦ this is my first official wattpad original fic. i’m only releasing the first five chapters on tumblr, but the link for the fic (ongoing!wip) can be found here.
✦ w/c: 2,8k
The castle stretched endlessly around me, shifting in ways that made my stomach turn. Hallways bent where they should not have bent. Staircases descended into darkness I did not remember existing. Portraits watched too closely as I passed, their painted eyes lingering long after I moved beyond them.
An erratic buzzing pulsed beneath my skin. The deeper I wandered, the stronger it became.
Until finally—
I turned sharply down a narrow corridor and stopped cold.
The Mirror of Erised stood before me.
Dust clung to its enormous golden frame, though the glass itself remained untouched, gleaming unnaturally beneath dim torchlight. Something about it felt wrong immediately. Heavier somehow. Like the air surrounding it carried its own gravity.
My feet moved before I consciously decided to approach. Then I saw them.
Two figures stood within the reflection.
One masculine.
One feminine.
Dark silhouettes stretched long beneath silver candlelight, their features obscured as though the mirror itself refused to fully reveal them. They stood facing one another in complete silence, motionless except for the slow rise and fall of breathing.
My breath caught.
Their hands lifted simultaneously. Identical movements. Identical pale-grey skin. When their fingers finally touched, something fractured. The reflection warped violently.
Not the mirror. The figures within it.
The feminine figure collapsed first.
Her body struck the floor with a sickening force as violent convulsions tore through her limbs. Her spine arched unnaturally against the stone beneath her while soundless screams ripped across her face. The air around her distorted, trembling as though reality itself struggled to contain whatever was happening.
I tried to move.
Couldn't.
The masculine figure remained standing above her.
Still.
Watching.
Then slowly, he extended a hand. A pale light emerged from the woman's body instantly.
It wasn't light.
It was something deeper.
It unraveled from her chest in thin silver strands, twisting upward toward his outstretched hand like thread being wound onto invisible fingers.
My stomach twisted violently.
The woman's convulsions weakened, the figure standing above her never moved. It never reacted. As though this ending had always been inevitable.
Then the mirror began to darken.
The figures faded slowly into shadow while a foreign voice echoed somewhere beyond the glass, low enough to vibrate through bone itself.
"Infernum est lux, caeli sunt umbrae."
𓂃𓂃𓂃
The words followed me into consciousness.
I jolted upright against the leather couch, breath catching painfully in my throat. Sweat dampened the back of my neck despite the cold.
For several disorienting seconds, I remained frozen beneath the darkness of the drawing room, pulse hammering violently against my ribs while remnants of the dream clung stubbornly to my skin like cobwebs.
These seizures and visions.. They're becoming worse.
More frequent. More vivid.
And each time they left behind the same unbearable feeling—that I was forgetting something important before I even had the chance to understand it.
I dragged both hands through my hair, forcing myself to breathe steadily.
What does any of this mean?
The question haunted me endlessly now.
I pushed myself upright with a quiet curse, slipping my feet into house slippers before reaching for my wand resting along the arm of the couch.
"Lumos." Soft golden light bloomed instantly against the darkness.
The Black manor remained silent around me, though it was never truly asleep. Old houses like this breathed differently at night. Pipes groaned within the walls. Floorboards shifted without warning. Portraits whispered behind closed doors beneath layers of velvet shadow.
Tonight the manor felt especially restless.
Or perhaps I did.
Either way, remaining in my room had become impossible.
I wandered without purpose through the manor's winding corridors, following whichever hallway caught my attention next. The house was quiet at this hour. Too quiet. The sort of silence that seemed to settle over the estate whenever rain battered against the windows and cloud swallowed the moon.
Eventually I found myself in the kitchen.
A cup of tea sounded appealing.
Unfortunately, the familiar sound of approaching footsteps ruined that prospect almost immediately.
I glanced toward the doorway when Orion appeared.
"Orion," I said flatly, "why are you down here? Your presence is disturbing me."
"Oh.." He states flatly, "Well I was actually soon to be disturbing your best friend, my apologies."
I'm quick to throw a scoff and a disgusted look his way, "You're such a whore, Ori."
"You're the prude." he snickers.
I roll my eyes and continue to the cabinets, putting a pot of tea on and grabbing two teacups. He settles somewhere behind me before asking, "Kaida?"
"Hmm?" I hum, adding only half a cube of sugar into each teacup.
"Are you excited to go back to Hogwarts at all? You've barely spoken a word of it to Mum or Father.." he trails off, "Though not even Father is speaking much these days."
I ponder for a moment before settling to respond, "I suppose. Though I doubt there will be many pleasantries in store this year." I pour the brewed herbs into our cups, scents of cinnamon and red apple gracing my nose.
War has been ravaging the wizarding world for three decades now. With Grindelwald's ideologies rooted in every continent, mass pureblood immunization policies have been implemented, our trade routes have been obstructed, and laws are pushing towards restrictions on marriage.
"Well we have nothing to worry about, we're apart of the Noble House of Black," he jesters, with a toothy grin, taking the hot cup as I pass it to him.
"We have to ration sugar just like anyone else," I suggest with a blank face, "So I believe, our 'Noble House' is useless at the moment."
Neither of us have time to add when a voice emerges from the dimly lit hallway, "Do you really believe that to be of the House of Black, Kaidana?"
My brother and I instantly recognize our Father's resonating voice, the pair of us adjusting to sit up in his hardened presence. He enters from the opposite hallway that Orion did, eyebrows raised in disbelief.
I place my teacup onto the counter before me, unable to swallow the words I just spoke. "Father? I presumed you to be asleep." I countered quietly.
"You presumed wrong, and you misdirected your answer. Want to continue?" His voice was low enough to be heard, yet carried volumes. His arms crossed as he approached me, giving a quick glance to Orion but not addressing him. The bags under his eyes conveyed the lack of sleep we had in common, ascertaining that he'd been disturbed by something as well.
I swallowed thickly, "Father I meant nothing against the Black name but we are rationing just as anyone else." The words felt wrong as soon as they left my mouth.
The silver of the chandelier above gleamed in the moonlight, candles flickering softly. Somewhere beyond the tall glass windows, rain battered against the manor as if trying to force its way inside. Even the house elves were quiet.
I hesitated.
"So how are we different than-"
"We," Father interrupted smoothly, "are different."
His voice was not loud. It never needed to be.
Arcturus Black stood near the hearth with one hand clasped behind his back, the fire outlining the sharp edges of his face in amber light. His gaze settled on me with practiced patience, the kind reserved for correcting a child who had spoken out of turn.
Then he lifted his hand.
One pale finger pointed toward my forearm resting against the counter.
"The blood flowing through your veins," he said carefully, "has been bred pure for over one hundred and fifty years. There is power to that." The room seemed to constrict around me.
Not because I had never heard those words before-I had heard them all my life-but because of how easily he said them. As though purity were not an ideology and a law of nature. Like gravity.
Like death.
Across from me Orion shifted. For one hopeful second, I thought he might disagree. Might laugh about it. Might say Father was being dramatic. Might do anything other than sit in silence.
But Orion only glanced between us, his expression unreadable in the dim light. His eyes flickered briefly to the untouched sugar bowl at the center of the ebony counter, before returning his attention to Father. Quiet compliance. Much worse.
Father continued as if lecturing before the Wizengamot instead of speaking to his own children. "The world beyond this house is collapsing because people have forgotten the importance of distinction. There is chaos in Europe because standards have weakened. Blood matters. Legacy matters. Especially now."
Especially now.
Everyone had begun saying those words, as though war had became permission for cruelty.
"The muggles are at war," I said before I could stop myself, "And wizardkind would be wise not to follow them into ruin."
His eyes settled on me fully then. Assessing. Cold.
"You are entering your seventh year," he said. "It is time you understood that sentimentality is dangerous in times of instability."
There it was again. The language that everyone had been using. Words like instability, protection, preservation. These were nothing more than words polished until they no longer sounded cruel.
Orion finally spoke, though too softly to alter anything. "Father's been occupied with ministry discussions all week." I looked toward him.
Father answered instead, "Because unlike others within the Wizengamot, I understand what is required to secure the future of pure, elder bloodlines."
As he spoke a knot formed slowly in my stomach. There was something underneath his words tonight. Not just politics, but preparation. As though conversations were already taking place behind closed Ministry doors while the rest of us sat waiting to discover what has been decided for us.
The rain battered harder against the windows now.
Father reached for a copy of the prophet placed beside Orion's elbow, glancing briefly at the shifting headlines, before tucking it under his arm.
More disappearances, more unrest, more fear.
In times like these," Father said calmly, "the world reveals what people truly are." His gaze settled back on me. "And history remembers those strong enough to preserve it."
Silence followed. Heavy, familiar.
The chandelier's flames cracked softly in the hearth of the kitchen while somewhere upstairs an old pipe groaned. Orion remained still from across me, his tea long untouched, though whether from discomfort or agreement I could no longer tell.
Father smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from the sleeve of his robes before turning toward the hallway.
"I expect both of you packed before the weekend," he said without looking back. "The train leaves early Monday morning.
Then he disappeared from the doorway. The sound of his footsteps gradually faded into the house until only the rain remained.
Neither Orion nor I spoke for several moments.
My gaze drifted back toward the sugar bowl sitting at the center of the counter. Four cubes rested inside like precious stones in candlelight.
Ridiculous, really.
The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black measuring sugar by the cube while Father spoke of superiority like war itself had crowned pure-bloods kings above suffering.
Orion exhaled through his nose, "You do enjoy provoking him."
"I wasn't provoking him asshole." I state with a rather quick sigh of annoyance.
"No," he muttered. "You were questioning him. Which is somehow worse."
I looked toward the darkened doorway Father had vanished through. "There is something happening at the ministry." I spoke quietly.
"There's always something happening at the ministry." He contrasted.
"This feels different."
He did not answer immediately, which was answer enough.
"People are frightened." He finally said, voice lowering slightly. A strand of dark brown curls fell above his brow bone, to which he quickly swatted at.
"Frightened people make dangerous decisions." I said.
"You should be careful saying things like that." He replied in a chiding tone.
A bitter laugh nearly escaped me.
Inside the Black manor, caution was its own form of currency. Conversations lowered at the approach of doors. Newspapers vanished when certain names appeared in print. Even the portraits seemed to listen more attentively these days.
I sighed quietly. "I'm tired."
Orion nodded once, though he look as though he wished to say something more.
Instead he only reached for a different copy of The Prophet, unfolding it while the moving photograph on the page flickered beneath candlelight. I left him there with the headlines.
The following days before my return to Hogwarts passed with a strange heaviness. The manor seemed quieter than usual, though perhaps I only noticed the silence more now. House elves inventoried pantry shelves with nervous precision, while Ministry owls arrived at increasingly late hours carrying sealed letter stamped in dark wax.
Father spent most evenings behind closed study doors entertaining grim-faced officials whose conversations dissolved into murmurs whenever I passed. Certain words surfaced repeatedly nonetheless.
At night, Oxfordshire disappeared behind blackout curtains thick enough to suffocate moonlight entirely.
The house changed after dark. During the day, life continued with the careful precision expected of old wizarding families. Breakfast appeared at the same hour. Hogwarts letters arrived. Visitors exchanged polite conversation over tea as though the world beyond the estate walls wasn't steadily unraveling.
But evenings were different.
Once the sun disappeared, the performance became harder to maintain.
The Wireless rarely stopped speaking. Its low crackling voice drifted through drawing rooms and corridors alike, carrying reports from both the Muggle war and the growing unrest spreading across magical Europe. Every night, I lingered on the staircase landing outside the sitting room, hidden just beyond the doorway where no one thought to look.
The elder adults always sounded different after dark.
Less certain. More honest.
Disappearances in Prague. Attacks near the French and Belgian Ministries. Rumors that Grindelwald sympathizers had begun operating within Britain itself. Every conversation seemed to end the same way—not with disagreement or reassurance, but with silence.
The sort of silence that followed when everyone in a room understood something unpleasant and chose not to say it aloud.
It wasn't war that unsettled me most. It was everything spoken beneath it.
The quieter conversations exchanged over crystal glasses and lowered voices during dinners and private gatherings. Conversations that had little to do with battlefields and everything to do with preservation.
Marriage contracts. Family alliances. Ancient obligations. The necessity of maintaining strong magical bloodlines during uncertain times.
I heard the same arguments often enough that I could practically recite them myself. The world was changing. Old families needed to remain united. Traditions needed protecting. The future required careful planning.
Always spoken with the same calm certainty.
As though people could arrange the future neatly enough to survive it. As though war respected planning. As though destiny could be negotiated over dessert.
The older I became, the more those conversations seemed to follow me. At first, I'd assumed it was coincidence. Then I'd begun noticing the looks. Lingering glances from elder witches. Subtle evaluations hidden behind polite smiles. Questions disguised as harmless curiosity.
How old am I now?
Had I enjoyed my studies?
Was Hogwarts treating me well?
Each inquiry seemed innocent enough on its own. Together, they felt like measurements being taken.
I started recognizing the way their eyes moved. Assessing. Calculating. Not unkind. Which somehow made it worse.
Like pieces being considered on a chessboard before a move was made.
I understood that returning to Hogwarts wasn't simply a return. It was a transition. The adults around me all seemed aware of it, even if they believed I wasn't.
The rest of my week, up until my attendance for my seventh year, went rather quickly.
By Sunday evening, my trunk stood packed beside my bedroom door. The house felt strangely quiet. Not peaceful.. but expectant?
As though everyone was waiting for something to begin.
Before bed, I stood at the window and stared into the darkness beyond the glass. The countryside had vanished beneath the blackout. No stars. No moon. Nothing but my own reflection staring back at me.
For reasons I couldn't explain, my thoughts drifted once more to the "vision."
Gray eyes.
A raised hand.
The strange uncertainty that had lingered since my body paralyzed me that evening.
It wasn't memory. It wasn't prophecy. At least, I didn't think so.
It felt more like a thread I couldn't see, pulling somewhere beyond my understanding. I told myself it was nerves.
The explanation sounded reasonable enough that I almost believed it.
Almost.
When Monday morning arrived, King's Cross Station buzzed with familiar noise and movement. Students laughed. Owls screeched from their cages. Parents exchanged final instructions before departure. Everything appeared exactly as it always had.
When I stood on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, I felt the same unease settle between my ribs. The sensation that something had shifted while no one was looking. That events already in motion were gathering momentum beyond my sight.
By the time the Hogwarts Express pulled away from the station, Hogwarts no longer felt like a return to normalcy.
I was moving toward something.
And though I couldn't yet name it, the certainty followed me all the same. Something waited ahead.
The Serpent (18+) a 1940s hogwarts-era historical au where young!adult Tom Riddle and oc!reader navigate a world determined to kill or erase them. dark romance. work in progress, first chapter out now!
[wattpad: @urh0ts0]
Something Like Control (18+) unreleased, work in progress. [inspired by: this]
𓂃۶ৎ Theodore Nott
Say yes to heaven (18+) unreleased, work in progress.
𓂃۶ৎ Extracirriculars (completed)
God Help the Sinner (18+) one shot. hot biker smut, dubcon included.
Teeth and Tenderness (18+) one shot. draco malfoy. p0rn without a plot.
The dim glow of enchanted lanterns flickered across the towering shelves of the Restricted Section, casting long shadows over ancient tomes coated in a fine layer of dust that tickled her nose with each shallow breath. Draco Malfoy’s piercing gray eyes locked onto hers as he pressed her back against the worn oak table, his lean, powerful frame pinning her in place with a predatory view.
"You've been begging for this all week, haven't you, little witch?" he murmured, his voice low and commanding, fingers tracing the curve of her waist before summoning a coil of enchanted ropes that slithered from his wand like living silk. They wound around her wrists swiftly, binding them to the sides of her thighs. The magic humming against her skin sent sparks of anticipation through her all throughout her body.
She arched into the restraints, eyes flashing with equal parts defiance and desire as Draco's hands roamed freely, tugging down her robes to expose the swell of her tits and the beauty of her pussy, already glistening with arousal.
He teased her endlessly, fingers lightly circling her clit without granting full pressure, his cock straining hard against his trousers as he leaned in to nip at her throat.
She had no words, only an intense inexplicable chemical reaction.
"Look at you, so wet already," he groaned, grabbing a handful of her ass, a motion that echoed through the silent stacks, the sting blooming into warmth that made her gasp and squirm.
“Fuck—” she briefly muttered.
A very powered smack of the very location he grabbed followed, then another, the ropes tightening in response to her movements and heightening every sensation.
Her eyes quickly flashed with irritation and desire as her figure sharply arched against him, her breasts heaving beneath the thin fabric of the lacy bra that remained, nipples already straining visibly.
"You think you can control me here, Malfoy?" she whispered, but her voice cracked with anticipation as he pressed her face-first into the wooden table.
The power play intensified as Draco secured her onto her stomach with a flick of magic, the ropes adjusting seamlessly to position her for what was to come.
Draco leaned in, his breath speaking lowly against her ear, his lean body molding to hers as his fingers trailed teasingly between her thighs, brushing the pulsing wetness of her pussy through her skirt before yanking it up. "Quiet," he murmured, his cock hardening against her thigh, thick and insistent.
His hand met her flesh again, harder, watching the way her ass moved and reddened, then he just barely slipped two fingers inside her slick folds, pumping slowly to draw out her moans while his thumb circled her clit. The ropes tightened with her struggles, magical sparks dancing along her skin, heightening every sensation as he teased her entrance, denying full entry until her hips bucked desperately.
With a low groan, Draco freed themselves of their hell, the head of his cock glistening as he rubbed it along her cunt. It wasn’t long before he was thrusting hard and deep into her. It took one smooth motion, and he was filling her completely.
Their bodies moved in urgent and aggressive rhythm, skin slapping against skin, her walls clenching around him as he weighted himself against her back, the suffocation blending into waves of pleasure. She gasped his name as he reached around to pinch her nipples, rolling them between his fingers.
His arm moved to wrap around her throat, his other hand reaching to hold her head. “You think you’re so fuckin’ smart hm..?” he grunted into her ear.
Tears of overstimulation welcomed themselves on her face, becoming a whimpering mess. She swallowed thickly, attempting to breathe. Her thoughts felt so distant, the only thing keeping her at bay being the arm around her throat, and the man pounding her into oblivion.
She snapped back to reality when he lightly smacked her cheek a few times to get her attention. “You alive baby?” he snickered, “Don’t tell me you’re tapping out before i’ve fucked you well off yet.”
She couldn’t help but shake her head slightly, whining out moans accompanying her blissful expression. As her orgasm built she felt like she was heaving, restrained legs quivering around Draco’s thick length.
His grip on her remained as her fucked himself into her cervix over and over. He leaned forward and bit her shoulder, emitting a cry from the woman as she proceeded to cream completely over his cock and stomach.
Draco only felt the erratic pulsing of his balls before he used one arm to wrap around her waist and yank her further onto him, filling every part of her with his cum. He didn’t pause as his cum leaked out of her dripping pussy, he slowed enough to get himself together before looking at the weak mess before him.
His pace slowed, breathing unevenly, looking down at the witch. She was bound, marked, bred— and yet still he wanted to fully claim her. She’d caught her breath after seeing heaven on earth, now only slightly twitching when he fully bottomed himself before pulling out.
“Draco i’m fucking sensitive.” she managed to breathe out, body slightly aching at the length of time she’d assumed this position for him. The silken ropes undoing themselves.
“There’s more of that to come, darling.”
The words settled between them, low and dangerous, carrying far more weight than the quiet tone he used to deliver them. She laughed despite herself, breathless and embarrassed all at once.
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
A rare smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. For a moment, neither of them moved.
The world beyond the windows had gone dark hours ago. Somewhere downstairs, the grandfather clock chimed softly, reminding them that time had continued passing while they remained suspended in their own little universe.
Draco’s gaze softened. It was subtle—so subtle most people would’ve missed it entirely. She didn’t. His hand found hers, fingers intertwining naturally.
No games. No teasing remarks. Just warmth. Just him.
The silence that followed felt different now. Comfortable. Earned.
She faced him now and studied him for a moment, tracing the familiar lines of his face.
“What?” he said.
“You look happy.” she states quietly.
The admission seemed to catch him off guard. For once, he had no clever response waiting. Instead, his thumb brushed across her knuckles. “I am.”
The honesty of it made her chest tighten.
Because Draco Malfoy had always hidden behind sarcasm, behind wit, behind carefully constructed walls.
Yet here he was. Looking at her as though none of that mattered anymore. As though she mattered more. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his.
“Good,” she whispered.
His eyes closed briefly.
“Good.”
The corner of her mouth lifted.
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“I’m trying something new.”
“And what’s that?”
“Being honest.”
She laughed, and the sound seemed to fill every empty space in the room. Draco smiled against her hair, pulling her a little closer.
Outside, the night carried on. Inside, neither of them were in any hurry to be anywhere else. And for the first time in a long while, that felt like enough.
t/w: k!dnapping and fr33 use. power imbalance. non-con and dubious consent. only official warnings. with love, tiredandonline.
God help the sinner.
The night had been rough and it was currently 3:13 a.m. with no chance of recovering. My car slowly came to a stop outside of the gas pump to the far right of the gas station. Upon immediately returning from paying inside, what looks to be 6 bikers, come rolling in from the far entrance. I realized very suddenly that I was the only person there besides the ancient cashier lady 100 ft away from me. A small shot of panic rushes through my veins as my eyes dart to the gas that’s barely begun pumping. One of the bikers rides up to me and revs his engine a little bit. Yeah, it takes so much talent to rev your loud ass engine at 3 am.
I’m starting to get more nervous as the agonizing seconds tick by. Through the corner of my eye, I see a tall figure dressed in all black stare at me through a helmet that looks like it was crafted from the darkest obsidian. Its sleek edges slice through the cool air with the precision of a predator on the hunt. Matte black, it drinks in the light, swallowing it whole, leaving only the suggestion of its contours in its wake. But it's not just its ominous appearance that commands attention; it's the air of danger that surrounds it, an aura that sends shivers down my spine and down to my core. Amidst its intimidating allure, there's an undeniable magnetism that draws the eye, like my moth to his flame. A paradox that both thrills and terrifies me in equal measure.
But I needed to get home and I couldn’t be expected to trust the situation at hand. I plastered my most polite, kiss-ass smile onto my face and quickly climbed into my car. The biker that was previously staring at me stood up and ate up the distance between us quicker than I could process. He made two distinct knocks on my window even with his gloved hands. My doors were locked but I rolled down the window just a couple of inches to see what he needed.
He took off his concealing helmet and his raven-black hair cascaded like silken waves around his chiseled features. He is sexy. I noticed his devilish smile immediately, framed with lips that seem sculpted for sin. His piercing eyes found mine instantly; they radiate a magnetic intensity that lowers my defenses and draws me in. As he speaks, his voice resonates with a husky timbre that sends a jolt of arousal through me.
“Well, what do we have here? A pretty little thing like you all alone at a gas station in the dead of night?” Each word drips with intoxicating temptation, weaving a spell that ensnares the senses and leaves you yearning for more. But it's not just his captivating gaze or his velvet voice that sets him apart; it's the way he moves, with the fluid grace of a predator stalking its prey. I smirk at the compliment but the deep underlying message of that sentence suddenly fills me with dread about what’s to come. I reply cautiously. “Excuse me?” He bends down to the window a bit more and silkily replies. “You heard me. You didn’t have to fill up your tank, baby. After all, you’re coming home with me.”
I swiftly roll up the window and put the car in drive. I quickly gain speed and notice all of the individual bikers are staring at me but the only one haunting me still was him. As I drive back to my house, he’s all that’s infiltrating my mind. I almost couldn’t believe it when something started rapidly accelerating, coming up behind me at what looked like a felony speed. I gulped. And it was already too late. I was in a one lane road and he cut in one the side going the opposite direction before advancing quickly in front of me.
I slammed on my brakes as hard as I could and swerved to the side of the road but before I could even think about driving off, he was parked right outside my car’s door. He broke the glass with a metal device I didn’t quite see. In a second or less, the door was ripped open and I was scrambling against his arms, crying out to be let go.
He barely struggled to get me out of the car and was pinning me to the ground with his knees and hands. He put what felt like zip-ties around my wrists, bound behind my back. He yanked me up easily and threw me over his shoulder and I screamed bloody murder. It sounded like there was a satanic ritual happening and I was his offering.
He paid no attention and when my throat ran dry, quiet sobs escaped my mouth. I heard him say, “Sorry sweetheart, no one’s coming to save you. So save your breath.”
“Why are you doing this to me? What kind of sick game are you playing?!”
“Just keep quiet and do as you’re told. Trust me, it’ll be easier for both of us that way.” He set me down roughly and I almost tried to run away but his painful grip on my arm was leaving bruises. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going anywhere with you.” I spat out. He steps closer and towers over me. His voice is low and dangerous as he threatens me.
“Crazy or not, you don’t have much of a choice. So, be a good girl and don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.” I broke. The tears flooded down my face as I came to understand the reality of the situation. “Now, let’s get going before I lose my fucking patience.” He puts me on the front of his bike and I’m forced to lean back on him for support. He puts his bike in gear and takes off, making me jolt backwards from the sheer force. He keeps his left hand around my waist, further digging my ass into his crotch. My hands shift uncomfortably behind me and I feel his toned stomach beneath the fabric of his hoodie. He goes fast and the adrenaline pumps through me vigorously. The cold air floods around me and I can’t help but shiver against him. I remember how many miles we go and how many turns we make. But then we arrived at the first location.
I got off the bike as soon as he put the kickstand down and started running into the woods as fast as humanly possible. With a curse under his breath, the biker leaps from his bike, the ground crunching beneath his boots as he gives chase. The branches clawed at his skin as he plunged deeper into the woods, the adrenaline coursing through his veins driving him forward. He could hear my labored breaths up ahead, the sound, a haunting melody, spurring him on. Branches snapped beneath his feet as he closed the distance between us easily, his heart pounding in anticipation. And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, I stumbled, my foot catching on a root hidden in the darkness. With a cry of pain, I tumbled to the forest floor, my body crashing against the unforgiving earth. The biker skids to a halt beside me, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he reaches out to me, and grabs my face roughly.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice hard with concern as he gazed at me. I don’t answer but instead I twist my body so I’m sitting up and then I made a terrible decision. I spit in his fucking face. He didn’t take kindly to that, like I’d planned.
My head jerked to the side, with a fresh handprint left on my right cheek. The biker’s muscular frame rose up to a stand and I saw every inch of fabric hug his lean, solid physique with a seductive precision, accentuating his commanding presence. The air around him crackles with electricity in his presence, charged with the promise of danger and desire. He is the embodiment of temptation incarnate.
He picked me up and put me over his shoulder once again and gave my ass a sharp slap that caused me to squirm in his arms. My head was getting dizzy from being upside down but I couldn’t do anything to stop what he was doing to me. We arrived at the abandoned building, I assumed, because he stopped at the flickering light above the door with a broken lock. It only took a second before we were inside and he was setting me down upon the cold cement flooring. My head is aching from the change in pressure. My eyes are flickering in and out of focus roughly when he finally clears the silence.
“Relax sweetheart. Just thought we could have a little fun away from prying eyes.” Tears began infiltrating my eyes and running down my crimson cheeks against my will. “Fun?” I croak. “This looks more like the setting to a horror movie than a fun time.” He chuckles darkly and replies, “Don’t be so uptight, baby, that’ll only make this harder for you…I can show you a side of life you’ve only experienced in that pretty little head of yours.”
I’m full on sobbing at this point but he doesn’t care. It only makes him more aroused to see me in so much distress. He roughly dragged me up so I was on my knees right in front of his crotch. Flares were going off in my head but his hand was digging into my right shoulder blade, keeping me pinned. I’m going to have his hand print bruised into my skin tomorrow. If I make it to tomorrow. His left hand glides to his zipper and he slowly lowers his pants.
“God, the way you look right now has my dick pounding so fucking hard.” I only whimper in response before he’s releasing his cock from the restraint of his underwear and pants. “Now open that pretty little mouth like the good girl I know you’re dying to be.” He’s saying all the right things…
He starts slowly, letting me fully work my tongue and mouth around him. After he’s good and wet, he plunges half his length down my throat harshly and spits out softly, “I’m sorry baby, I couldn’t help myself. You just feel so damn good..” My breath catches up as he slips himself in and out in a rhythmic motion. He’s big. I allow my eyes to close while I focus on what I’m doing when he suddenly grabs my chin, causing my eyes to meet his again. “Eyes on me, princess. I want to see you being undone..” Tears are rolling down my eyes and into my mouth and circling around his cock. He jerks himself inside me and I’m almost taking all of him when he fully pulls out of my mouth.
I was just getting used to him filling my throat and his absence pains me more than I can admit. He sees it on my face too and lets out a laugh in response. He drops to his knees in front of me before I can process it and grabs my neck in his hand. His fingers press harshly at the sides of my neck, filling my head with a delicious hypoxia I didn’t know I craved.
Our mouths connected in a millisecond and I found myself kissing him back as he forcibly shoved his tongue in my mouth while still choking me. He dominated my mouth and I felt something like desire burn through me. The fingers of his spare hand trailed the waistband of my jeans until he unbuttoned and unzipped them. I kept whispering, “No,no,no,no,no…” against his lips. But he just whispered back, “Yes,yes,yes,yes,yes…”
Our bodies moved against each other and we couldn’t be closer. I don’t know what he did to me but I came to realize I was deriving pleasure from the intensity. In any other circumstance, this would have been my wildest fantasy. But he was my kidnapper..why was I falling for his seductive act? His hand was in my pants and dipping in between my legs when I involuntarily thrusted into his hand. A groan escaped his mouth and died on my lips. His fingers slipped between my wet cunt causing something primal to consume him.
“Look how wet you are…you’re not supposed to like this you know..” I whimpered in his lips; it was the only response I would allow myself to give him. It’s like a fire, the way he’s touching me. A burning, insatiable flame that consumes every thought and every breath I can give. When he looks at me, it’s as if his eyes trace the curves of my soul, unraveling every hidden desire within me. I’m not supposed to like this. His words sliced through the air like ominous bell chimes. Each note whispered of forbidden desires, stirring a primal hunger within me, as if daring me to succumb to the intoxicating allure of his sin. He undresses me all the way, tearing at my clothes like they were committing a crime for being on my body.
As our lips collided, ravishing each other as our only salvation, he uttered under his breath, “You’re…everything. Mine. All mine.” With a trembling breath I replied hotly, “Mhm..” Nothing could stop his desire then. As he reached into his pants, my breath caught in my throat, adrenaline flooding my veins with fear. Every nerve on edge, I braced myself for the worst as he dragged a sharp knife from his pants and released the blade. I gasped.
He moved the knife to my wrists and to my surprise, he only cut open the bind’s restraining them. “Don’t even think about running away, baby..” Before the fear even got the chance to leave my body, his knife was pointing at my throat. The look on his face was daring me to disobey him. “Lay back now, baby.” The knife followed me as I was put on full display for him. He quickly pumped his cock a few times before lining it up at my entrance. His blade lightly dug into my throat, leaving a threatening sensation in my body.
He pushed into me and I moaned as he let out a husky, “Fuck.” He started working himself in and out, trying to fit all of himself inside my tight cunt. My arms went to the back of his neck and I gripped his hair while he fucked me thoughtless. I didn’t think about how he had threatened me. Or how he kidnapped me and forced himself on me. I didn’t even think about going home or if that was even a possibility for me anymore. My thoughts were consumed by him and what he was doing to me and the sharp blade of metal keeping death close like an old friend.
He sped up as he thrusted into me and I could tell he was about to come undone. But he slowed down drastically and threw his knife to the side with a sharp clatter. He took one hand and placed it beside my head on the cement for support. Just the tip of his cock resided in me and I groaned at the suddenness of his actions. He took his other hand and started circling his thumb on my clit, making me moan sharply. With the extra stimulation, I was thrown over the top and he plunged into me fully.
“That’s it baby, that’s it.” The knot low in my stomach came unraveled and I clenched, fully milking his cock. He drove himself inside me one final time before cumming deep inside my cunt. We came down from our euphoric high together and he kissed me roughly one final time before declaring with a sinister smile, “You’re still coming home with me though.” We disappeared into the late night together and I felt the pull of desire clawing at me as I craved his touch again. I found a forbidden ecstasy, as I willingly surrendered to the allure of captivity and the lust that follows...
