꒰ 𝓭𝓲𝓪 ꒱ she / her ( 18+ ) 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝒻𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓈𝒾𝑒𝓈

certain records concerning tom riddle have survived the passage of time.

‎ ‎ ‎ — 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

Tom would do anything to keep you close after Hogwarts. He could not stand the thought of you wasting away at the Ministry, your brilliance trapped behind a dull desk. That idea alone made his nails dig into his palms. So he paid the owner a little visit and convinced him to hire you at the register—creating the perfect excuse to have you right where he could watch over you every single day.

And watch he does.

The dim glow of Borgin and Burkes suits you far better than any Ministry fluorescent light ever could. You stand behind the counter in the fitted black dress he “suggested” you wear. The fabric clings to every curve as you wrap cursed artefacts for customers who have no idea that the real danger in the shop is the man leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, his eyes devouring you.

Every time you bend to retrieve something from the lower shelves, his jaw tightens as the hem rides higher, exposing the backs of your thighs. Whenever you lean forward to take galleons from trembling hands, your breasts pressing softly against the counter, nipples clearly outlined through the thin material.

His gaze licks up your spine like a hot tongue. You do not need to turn around to know his teeth are bared. He has not moved from his post by the wall and has not spoken a word, but his fingers clench against his folded arms, and you know exactly how those hands would feel unbuckling the dress’s clasp.

When the shop finally empties in the late afternoon, he does not waste a second.

Tom moves behind you without a word; his chest brushes your back as one hand slides up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb drags across your lower lip, pulling it down slightly, his eyes locked on yours.

“Soon,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, “we will not be stuck here. We will be so much more than what they tried to force us into.”

His lips linger on your forehead, warm and slightly dry, while his fingers caress their way down your forearm.

SYNOPSIS: a dark lord’s tormented obsession with the woman who once loved the monster he became. m.list

TAGS: voldemort x reader. time travel. kidnapping. yandere vibes. possessive behavior. | wc: 893

synopsis: In a world where nothing lasts, tom riddle finds the one thing he cannot lose.

pairings: tom riddle x reader. words: 770. warnings: tom’s pov. body horror. obsession. love as possesion. non-consensual magical bounding. morally dubious character.

Tom Riddle had sorted the world into two categories early on: things that lasted and things that didn’t. His life had been spent warring against the latter.

What he had not anticipated was that your temporariness would eventually become his problem.

A soft tsk escaped him. Above all else, he was a man who classified, who ordered, who took what resisted him and found the precise angle at which it yielded.

You shattered that order.

To him, you were the solitary flaw in mortality’s design, the one presence capable of making his forever feel less like triumph and more like a very long time to be alone.

Tom had manoeuvred against death before.

Splitting his soul had required no second thought. Yet this fragment had lived in him for weeks since the murder, and the rest of his soul rebelled against the unnatural containment. Behind his sternum sat a tight, persistent ache, like a bruise that never fully formed. Sleep, when it came at all, was fitful. The severed piece tugged at its moorings, straining toward its missing half.

Never before had a piece of his innermost self felt like a gift, still he imagined presenting it to you wrapped in white paper—the colour of a light you would not reach.

If he had been a gentler man, he might have offered you flowers.

But he had chosen that snow-white shade on the evening he sat in his professor’s office, listening to the sand clock run beside your heartbeat, already knowing that one day only the clock would remain.

Age would silver your hair. Accident would still your pulse. Time, with its vulgar appetite, would steal your voice, your warmth, the taste of your name on his tongue, and the way your hand fit in his.

The woman he had first cherished in the pages of his diary would be swept away by the same indifferent current that devoured everything beloved.

He refused to allow it.

And so his magic finally found its truest purpose.

You were the form the spell had always been meant to take. A torn fragment could not be forced into just any vessel; the container had to endure what was placed inside it.

So he had watched you. Where you held, and where you did not: the throat that bent back to his kisses, how you still reached for him even after learning exactly what he was.

The ritual required an act of violence, of course. But Tom had come to understand that love and violence shared a grammar; only the direction of the lesion changed.

Others would call it desecration—the mutilation of the soul, the hollowing of the self. But Tom had never trusted the moral vocabulary of people who died.

You would no longer belong among them either.

You would carry him and, in carrying him, keep him—a heart continuing to beat around his presence for as long as he permitted.

He wanted to be the last thing your body ever sheltered.

His most exquisite Horcrux.

Should his power ever fracture, yours would hold the seam. Should yours ever falter, his would refuse to let you fall. In this single act, the wizard the world had already condemned as a monster found the perfect symmetry he had always sought.

There was no hesitation in the incantation. Weeks of wrongness undone in an instant.

His molars rang before the pain sheared up through his jaw. Blood flooded his mouth, thick as communion wine, forcing him to swallow around it before it ceased to be his, arrowing out of him and into you.

On the other side of the room, your body arched violently, hooked beneath the ribs and pulled upward. A sound tore from you—whether a gasp or a wail, he cared not—as the invasion rooted itself beneath your breastbone.

A wound opened. It drank him in. And sealed.

When the light faded, a raised scar remained, etched in the delicate cursive of his name.

The shard settled in the cradle of your chest with parasitic devotion. Your rhythm slowly aligned with his will. You would feel him behind your eyes when you blinked, in the catch of breath before you spoke — the abiding certainty that you were no longer alone within yourself.

Tom Riddle did not look at what the weeks of harbouring the splinter had cost him. A chamber within him stood empty at last, a cold cavity where it had once fought to remain whole.

But when he looked at you, he saw no loss.

“𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚, 𝙞𝙛 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙬𝙤 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙤𝙣𝙚?” 𝘵𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘴.

one shots.

• ...

drabbles.

• Rendered Infinite ; in a world where nothing lasts, tom riddle finds the one thing he cannot lose.

• Her terror, His salvation ; a dark lord’s tormented obsession with the woman who once loved the monster he became.

headcannons. / blurbs. 

• Boyfriend!Tom Riddle.

• Borgin & Burkes!Tom Riddle.

໒ྀི₊ If an argument between you turns into a genuine fight, he locks you in an empty classroom so you can hurl every insult you please. He stands outside in the hallway, leaning against the wall, and nods along with the more creative curses.

໒ྀི₊ His love is kept at bay, and he only gives you small amounts of it—just enough to keep you from leaving.

໒ྀི₊ At night, he reads to you. He says it's to make you more civilised, even though the book he picks is 1984.

໒ྀི₊ If you get sick, he will swear that he won't take care of you. But every time you wake up from a feverish sleep, there is fresh tea on the nightstand and a healing draught waiting next to it. At last, you see him sitting on the edge of your bed with a lunch tray on the desk behind him.

໒ྀི₊ He can take praise from anyone. Anyone, that is, except you.

໒ྀི₊ Almost obsessively invested in your academic performance, he remarks, “She is expected to have proper marks as well. How barbaric of her to earn a poor grade.”

໒ྀི₊ His tongue circles against the inside of his cheek whenever he is jealous.

໒ྀི₊ Each night before sleep, he braids your hair, his fingers uncharacteristically gentle as they move through every strand.

໒ྀི₊ He doesn't care about boundaries when he thinks you're in danger. He is in charge of your safety, and every line you draw becomes meaningless the moment he decides he needs to cross it.