Life is burritoful ~

But he had married her. And being the lady of the house suited her. She commanded the servants with a quiet authority that made them eager to please her rather than fearful of displeasing him. She had stepped up to her role in the Department of Mysteries as well, her sharp mind dissecting problems that had baffled older, more experienced Unspeakables. She was, in every measurable way, an asset.

But today she was refusing to leave the house. And he felt like that awkward boy again, hovering at the threshold, unsure of his welcome.

"I know what today is," he said.

She flinched. It was s second, a tightening around her eyes, but he saw it.

"The anniversary of the Hollow," he continued, because he could not stop himself. "Five years. The Wizengamot ruled it a tragic accident. Unstable spellwork in a residential area. No perpetrators were ever identified."

"No perpetrators were ever pursued," she corrected, her voice flat. "Because pursuing them would have meant destabilizing your coalition. The men who toasted your election with champagne while their hands were still red."

Tom turned his head. His profile was sharp against the darkening window. "Yes."

The admission hung in the air between them. He did not apologise. He had never apologised for the things he had done to secure his power. But he did not deny them to her. He had never lied to her about what he was. That, perhaps, was the cruelest truth of all.

"I was supposed to be there that night," she said. "At the Hollow. They were my friends, Tom. My people. Mary. Heleana, Benjy. I was supposed to be there, but I was with you instead. In that horrible little flat you kept in Knockturn Alley. Arguing about the wording of your proposed Muggleborn Integration Act."

He remembered. He remembered the way she had slammed her hand on his rickety table, her eyes blazing. 'If you word it this way, you're still making them second-class citizens. You're still marking them as 'other.' That's not integration, Tom. That's cataloging.' He had sneered at her, called her gullible, told her that she didn't understand the long game, the necessity of incremental progress. And then he had kissed her. Or she had kissed him. He still wasn't sure who had moved first. All he knew was that they had ended up on his narrow cot, and he had buried himself in her as if he could prove something, as if he could brand his possession into her skin and silence her arguments with his body.

The next morning, the news of the Hollow had broken. She had looked at him across his cramped kitchen, her blouse buttoned wrong, her lips swollen from his kisses, and she had said, 'Did you know?' He had said, 'No.' It was the truth. He had not known. His erstwhile allies had acted without his sanction. But he had created the climate. He had fed the fear. He had made it possible.

She had stayed with him anyway. Because leaving would have meant admitting that everything she had tried to do: all the mediating, all the back-channel negotiations, all the times she had stood between his cold ambition and the people who would be crushed by it, had been for nothing. She had stayed, and she had let their secret marriage become the cornerstone of his public defense, and she had moved into this mansion, and she had given him a son.

And now, five years later, she could not open her own front door.

Tom reached out. His hand, pale and long-fingered, the hand of a pianist or a strangler, closed over hers where it rested on her knee. Her skin was cool. He could feel the fine bones of her knuckles, the slight callus on her index finger from holding her quill. She did not pull away.

He wanted to speak. The words were there, coiled in his chest, a serpent he could not charm into submission. But they would not come. Not in English. Not in the language of men, where every word was a commitment, a vulnerability, a weapon that could be turned against him. He had spent his entire life mastering language, wielding it as his sharpest tool. And yet, with her, it failed him utterly.

So he did not speak. He lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her knuckles. It was a courtly gesture, something he might have done for the benefit of photographers at a Ministry gala. But there were no cameras here. Only the two of them, on the floor of a small sitting room, in the house they had built together out of ambition and lies and something else, something he refused to name.

She turned her hand over beneath his, lacing her fingers through his own. Her palm was warm now, or his was cold. He could no longer tell the difference.

"You can't fix it," she whispered. "You can't bring them back. You can't make the world safe just by willing it."

"I can try."

She laughed then, a small, broken sound. "You're so arrogant."

"Yes."

"And you're a liar."

"Also yes."

"And you're still sitting on the floor with me."

He lowered their joined hands to rest on his thigh. "Yes."

She leaned into him then, her shoulder pressing against his, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder as if it belonged there. Perhaps it did. Tom Riddle, who had never belonged anywhere or to anyone, sat very still and let her weight settle against him. The rose garden outside the window was losing its color to the dusk, the crimson blooms bleeding into gray. Somewhere in the house, a door opened and closed, and he heard the distant, delighted shriek of his son. Their son. The boy was back from the gardens, no doubt covered in dirt and clutching a grumpy bowtruckle he had charmed into friendship.

"He'll be wanting his supper," she murmured. "And a bath. He's obsessed with the bubbles you conjure. The ones that change color."

"I know."

"You spoil him."

"I indulge him. There is a distinction."

She huffed a laugh against his shoulder. "There really isn't."

Tom allowed himself a small smile. It felt foreign on his face, this soft expression, but it was becoming more familiar with each passing year. "I will speak to the nanny. Tell her you are resting. I will feed our son his supper and oversee his bath."

She lifted her head to look at him, surprise flickering in her tired eyes. "You will?"

"I am capable of feeding a small human, despite what you may believe. I was once a small human myself." He paused. "Admittedly, a more self-sufficient one."

"You were never a child, Tom. You were born forty-five and scheming."

His smile widened, just a fraction. "A common misconception. I was at least twelve."

She shook her head, but the shadows had retreated from her face, pushed back by something warmer. "Go, then. Minister to our offspring. I'll be here."

Tom rose. He did so gracefully, unfolding his long limbs from the floor with an ease that belied the stiffness in his joints. He was no longer the scrawny, perpetually cold boy from Wool's Orphanage. He was tall, broad-shouldered, a man who commanded rooms and bent the world to his will. But looking down at her, her hair a tangled cloud around her face, he felt again that old, unwelcome tremor. The one that whispered, 'She sees you. She has always seen you. And she stayed.'

He bent down. One hand braced on the back of the settee, the other cupping her chin, tilting her face up. He kissed her. Not the perfunctory peck they exchanged in public, the careful performance of a contented political union. This was something else. His mouth moved over hers with a slow thoroughness, as if he were memorizing the shape of her, as if he were trying to pour every word he could not say into the press of his lips.

She made a small sound against his mouth, surprised and then yielding. Her hand came up to grip the lapel of his ministerial robes, wrinkling the fine wool. He did not care.

When he pulled back, her breathing was uneven. "What was that for?"

He did not answer. He could not. Instead, he straightened, smoothed the front of his robes, and walked toward the door. At the threshold, he paused. He did not turn around.

"I will come to you tonight," he said. "If you wish it."

There was a long silence. He heard the rustle of her dressing gown as she shifted. Then, softly, "I wish it."

He nodded once, a sharp, jerky motion she could not see, and stepped into the corridor.

The nursery was at the end of the east wing, a sunny room that his wife had decorated with murals of fantastic beasts and constellations. Tom had stood in this room the night his son was born, holding a squalling, red-faced creature that was somehow, impossibly, his, and he had felt the foundations of his carefully constructed world tremble. He had looked at the exhausted woman in the bed, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, her eyes full of a wild, protective ferocity, and he had known, with a certainty that terrified him, that he would burn the world to ash to keep them both safe.

His son was indeed covered in dirt. The boy sat in the middle of the nursery rug, chortling as a disgruntled bowtruckle attempted to extricate itself from his sticky grasp. The nanny, a capable witch named Mrs. Figg, rose from her chair with a relieved expression.

"Minister," she said. "He's had a lovely afternoon. Found a whole nest of bowtruckles in the oak. I'm afraid he's rather grubby."

Tom waved a hand. "I will manage. You may go."

Mrs. Figg hesitated only a moment before bobbing a curtsy and departing. Tom crossed to the rug and lowered himself to sit cross-legged before his son. The boy looked up at him with those unsettlingly direct eyes, his eyes, but with her warmth in them, a combination that never failed to unsettle him.

"Papa," the boy said, holding up the bowtruckle. "He's green."

"Astute observation." Tom gently pried the creature from his son's fingers and released it toward the open window. It scurried out with an indignant rustle. "Your mother is resting. I am to feed you supper and oversee your bath."

The boy considered this. "Mama is sad?"

Tom's chest constricted. "Mama is tired. There is a difference."

His son seemed to accept this. He held up his arms in the universal gesture of a small child demanding to be lifted. Tom obliged, hoisting the boy onto his hip with an ease that had taken months to develop. His son smelled of dirt and grass and that particular, indescribable scent of young childhood. He tucked his face against Tom's neck, and Tom felt the small, solid warmth of him like a brand.

"Bubbles?" the boy asked, his voice muffled.

"Yes. The bubbles that change color."

"All colors?"

"All colors."

They went down to the kitchen together, where the servants had already prepared a simple supper of soup and bread. Tom sat his son in a high-backed chair and fed him spoonfulls of soup, dabbing at the drips with a napkin. He answered an endless stream of questions about bowtruckles, and why the sky got dark, and whether someone could fly high enough to reach the moon. He found himself, to his own vague horror, enjoying it.

Later, in the steaming bathroom, he conjured bubbles that shifted from crimson to gold to emerald green. His son shrieked with laughter, splashing water everywhere, and Tom did not even mind the wet patches spreading across his fine robes. He watched his son's face, alight with simple joy, and he thought of the woman in the sitting room, and the world outside the gates, and the blood that had been spilled to bring them all to this moment.

He could not undo any of it. He would not, even if he could. The world he had built required those sacrifices, those lies, that blood. But he could do this. He could sit on a bathroom floor and make colored bubbles for his son. He could hold his wife's hand on the floor of a small room and will her demons back into the shadows. He could be, for them, something other than the cold, calculating creature he had spent his life becoming.

He put his son to bed in the nursery, reading aloud from a worn copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard until the boy's eyes fluttered closed. He stood for a long moment in the doorway, watching the small chest rise and fall beneath the quilt. Then he extinguished the lamp with a flick of his wand and walked back through the silent house.

The door to their bedchamber was ajar. Candlelight flickered within. He pushed it open.

She was there, standing by the window in her nightdress, her hair now brushed and falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She had lit the candles herself, a small domestic magic she rarely bothered with. The room smelled of lavender and beeswax and her.

She turned when he entered. Her face was still tired, but the deep, haunted look had eased. "Is he asleep?"

"Yes. He asked if I could fly him up to the moon."

She smiled. It was a real smile, small and private, the one she kept only for him and their son. "You're good with him."

"I am adequate."

"You're good." She crossed the room toward him. "You're a good father, Tom. Whatever else you are."

He did not know what to say to that. He never did, when she spoke to him like this, peeling back the layers of his carefully constructed persona to name the things he could not name himself. So he reached for her instead, his hands finding her waist, pulling her against him. She came willingly, her arms looping around his neck, her body fitting against his as if they had been carved from the same stone.

He kissed her again. Slower this time. Deeper. Her lips parted under his, and he tasted the faint sweetness of the honey tea she favored in the evenings. She made a soft sound, her fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, and he walked her backward toward the bed.

Later, much later, when they lay tangled together in the vast, carved bed, her head on his chest and his hand tracing idle patterns on her bare shoulder, she spoke into the quiet.

"I'll try again tomorrow. To leave the house."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I know."

"But what if I can't?"

"Then I will come home again. And we will sit on the floor. And I will feed our son his supper and make him colored bubbles. And I will hold you until the world feels smaller."

She stayed silent for a long moment. Then, so softly he almost missed it, she said, "I used to be so sure. About everything. About right and wrong. About who I was supposed to fight."

Tom held her gaze. "I am not your real enemy."

"Aren't you?"

He considered the question. It deserved an honest answer. She had always deserved honest answers from him, even when he had given her none. "I am what I had to become. To survive. To win. To build something that would last." He paused. "I have done terrible things. I will likely do more. But I would never hurt you. I would never hurt our son. I fought for us. I fought for your kind too. I still do. On a good day, you know that."

Her eyes searched his face. "And on a bad day?"

"On a bad day, I sit on the floor with you until you remember."

Something in her expression softened. She reached up and touched his face, her fingertips tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. "You're a difficult man to love, Tom Riddle."

His breath caught. He had not expected the word. She had never used it before. Not aloud. Not directly. Love. Such a small, enormous word. He felt it land in his chest like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through his body.

"And yet," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. "You do."

She held his gaze. "Yes. I do."

He could not say it back. The words were there, pressing against his teeth, but they would not come. They never came, not when he was in full control of himself. He could hiss them in Parseltongue when he was buried inside her, when his mind was hazed with pleasure and his carefully maintained control had shattered. I love you. I love you. I love you. The serpent language slid from his lips like a confession he could pretend he hadn't made, because she didn't understand it anyway. It was the only way he could say it. The only way the words could escape the iron cage of his self-possession.

But she was watching him now, in the quiet, in the candlelight, with full clarity. And he could not say it.

He cupped the back of her head and drew her close, pressing his lips to her forehead. He held them there for a long moment, his eyes closed, his heart hammering against his ribs. He hoped she understood. He hoped she could feel it, the thing he could not name aloud, the thing that had taken root in him against his will and grown until it filled every hollow space he had once believed would remain empty forever.

When he pulled back, her eyes were wet. But she was smiling.

"I know," she whispered. "I know, Tom."

He exhaled. It felt like a release, like a valve opening somewhere deep in his chest. He settled back against the pillows, pulling her with him, arranging her body against his side. She fit perfectly. She always had.

The candles guttered but did not go out. Outside, the rose garden rustled in the night wind, and the bowtruckles settled in their oak, and the vast, complicated world he had built and broken and rebuilt spun on, indifferent to the small, miraculous thing that had taken root in its shadow.

Tom Riddle closed his eyes. He did not dream of the orphanage, or the cold, or the hunger, or the sound of airplanes and the bombs falling. He dreamed of her voice, and colored bubbles, and a boy with his curls and his eyes, laughing in the sun. And in the dream, he was laughing too.

a/n: You can donate on my Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3 (Disclaimer: support is voluntary. None of my fics are behind a paywall of any sort.)

a/n: If this fic reads like an epilogue of chapter 50 of Book 2 of 3 of a very long fanfic series, it's because it is. But the series is all in my head. Hopefully it was enjoyable as a oneshot <3

a/n: Song in the fic title:

ominis' wand led him to the couches that were placed in front of the fireplace. judging by the lack of warmth and no signs of the burning wood smell, someone had put it out already.

that is very unfortunate, ominis thought, the winters at hogwarts were always the coldest.

he felt for the arm of the couch, before making himself comfortable on the plush cushions. he gently placed his wand on the wooden coffee table in front of him. ominis then opened his book, making himself comfortable on the couch and hoping that maybe an hour of reading could ease his mind into sleeping.

after 45 minutes of reading, ominis' head snapped up at the sound of the slytherin's common room doors opening. that was odd. usually everyone would be asleep and no one would dare risk a detention (well, maybe sebastian). he heard heels clicking against the stone built stairs and they even pattered toward him. it wasn't until the person let out a sharp gasp that ominis looked toward where it had came from.

"merlin's beard!" you were frozen with your hand over your heart in fright as you looked on to where ominis' dark silhouette lingered.

ominis was innocently plastered against the couch with his pajamas on and his book in his lap. he was also staring at you curiously with his pale eyes with a tilted head. you wondered if he was trying to figure out who was speaking with him at the moment.

"you scared me! what're you doing sitting in the dark like that?! it's cold as well! freezing, actually." you rambled, but you received no response from the boy.

"(y/n) (l/n)?" he finally chirped and you hummed in response. "am i in the dark? i figured the lamps would still be on."

you paused for a moment before letting out a soft laugh. you were caught off guard by his naive words. "are you not cold? here." you fished your wand out of the pocket of your robes, lifting it up to the fireplace. "incendio!"

with that, a fire engulfed the firewood which were placed in the fireplace. ominis' ears picked up on the sound of the firewood crackling and his nose scrunched at the smell of smoke.

"doesn't that feel much better?" you asked with a chuckle and ominis felt the cushion beside him dip, indicating to him that you had plopped down to sit with him. "honestly, ominis, what are you doing at this time of night?"

"i should be asking you the same thing." ominis said with a smile as he looked at you. "(y/n) (l/n), the star student of hogwarts, sneaking out past curfew?"

"i had business to take care of." you said stiffly and ominis could hear the annoyance in your tone. it wasn't aimed toward him. not at him, no of course not. ominis knew that. rather, your tone seemed to have stemmed from the 'business' that you had mentioned.

"business?" ominis asked in curiousity as he closed his book to give you his full attention.

you bit your lip with a sheepish smile. you knew ominis couldn't see your expression, but it always seemed like he could. especially with the way his eyes pierced into your own.

"i got an owl from an anonymous person this morning asking me to meet them in the broom closet on the fifth floor after everyone went to bed." you say with a sigh, leaning your head back against the back of the couch.

"oh?" ominis tilted his head curiously at your words. "did you find out who it was?"

he heard you let out a huff of frustration. "yes and you would not believe who i found in the broom closet, ominis! i was absolutely embarassed!"

"and who was this anonymous person?"ominis piped up and you winced at his amused tone. surely he wasn't enjoying the amount of embarrassment you were feeling, right?

"leander 'stupid, prick' prewett!" you finally groaned, throwing your hands up incredulously and ominis was quite stunned of your description of the gryffindor. "that unbearably, boorish git asked me to the yule ball. all while we are standing in the dark in the broom closet!"

"prewett?" ominis repeated with a bit of a teasing smile and you groaned at his amusement.

"please do not laugh at my embarrassment, ominis. i had half a mind to use levioso on him!" you grumbled, crossing your arms with a fixed frown on your face. "that prick! did he honestly think i'd accept his invitation? after he purposely put the wrong ingredient in my potion and made it explode in front of the class! i got a failing grade for his mistake, you know."

"so you rejected him?" ominis asked after softly chuckling at your exasperated rant and you gaped at him in disbelief.

"of course i rejected him..."you mumbled and ominis could sense a bit of hesitation in your voice. "or rather, i ran like hell out of the broom closet and came straight back here."

ominis' eyes widened and his mouth popped open in surprise at your confession. you watched as he suddenly snapped his head away from you and cupped his mouth, stifling his laughter.

"are you...are you laughing at me?" you asked incredulously with a raised brow. ominis shook his head in response, but you could see his shoulders quivering. "you're lying! you're laughing at me, aren't you?"

ominis finally looked at you, trying to mask the smile that was creeping up on his lips. "how can i not? you're actually a very intriguing person, aren't you, (y/n)?"

ominis had never really talked to you like this. not alone in the common room or anywhere else. you both usually exchanged quick glances and conversations, but never talked. however, sitting here with you made ominis realize that you were just like any other person here. not just the star student of hogwarts. no, you were funnier and down to earth than what ominis thought before.

"did you think i wasn't?" you questioned curiously as you brought your legs up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them. you placed your chin on your knees, titling it a bit to look at him. "people tend to think i'm boring because of how studious i can be. did you think that too?"

ominis' lips pursed in thought, taking in your words. "well, yes, that was what i thought before sitting down and talking to you."

"oh? have your thoughts changed then?" you asked with a bit of amusement in your tone. he remained silent and you glanced up at him to find a solemn expression on his face.

your face began to flush as you stared at him. the light from the fire illuminated one side of his face, while the other was shadowed over. you couldn't help but let your eyes wander across his face. his pale skin that looked smooth, the few moles scattering along his face, and his eyes. merlin, his eyes. those light blue hues that pierced into yours as he stare at you. they were always so beautiful every time you had the chance of looking at them without anyone noticing.

ominis gaunt was the most beautiful person you had ever encountered. you'd even be so bold to say that he was sculpted by some sort of god. ominis always had been handsome.

"yes, my thoughts of you have changed." ominis finally said and you squinted slightly at his ears. they were turning red and the color was slowly creeping along his cheeks. "i mean, i never thought poorly of you, but you're not what i expected-merlin, that sounds terrible. what i meant to say was-"

"no, i get it, ominis." you interjected with a smile and you nudged his arm with your elbow to assure him. "i'm flattered really. no one has really took the time to talk to me. they only see me as a prude, studious person. i'm used to it though-"

"but you're so much more than that." ominis suddenly blurted out and you were taken aback for a moment. "from the very first moment i met you in our first year, i was intrigued by you."

your cheeks flushed once more at how serious he was being. intrigued? what did that mean? your head was running with thoughts and theories with what he could possibly mean by that. it made your heart flutter and your stomach do somersaults.

"ominis..." you mumbled out his name and he abruptly looked down at the book in his lap. with the fire now lighting up his whole face, you could definitely see the red hue on his skin.

"yes, you're incredibly intelligent, which i've always admired," ominis started, twiddling with his hands nervously. "but when you laugh, it's contagious. it sounds so carefree and childish. your laugh never matched the image that the others came up with. you're also very kind and compassionate. always willing to help others who need it. i knew that there was more to you than being the star student of hogwarts and this just confirmed that."

you were stunned. his words made your lips quirk into a genuine smile. ominis' ears perked up at the sound of your soft giggle, which made him turn his head to peer at you beside him.

"you know, ominis, i already knew who i wanted to go to the ball with before leander even asked me." you confessed with a sigh.

ominis was confused as to how the conversation steered towards the ball, however the boy didn't mind. he was now more interested in the lucky lad who you wanted to go to the yule ball with.

"who?"

your smile then turned into a sly one as you gently took his hand into yours and engulfed it into both hands. "i wanted to ask you, ominis. i wanted to ask you to go with me to the yule ball."

"me?!" ominis' mouth parted in shock. he didn't know if it was from your confession or from your sudden contact with him. either way, his face felt even warmer than before. "why would you want to ask me?"

"i've always had an interest in you, ominis gaunt," you sheepsihly smiled. "i just didn't think you'd notice me. i've been pining over you since our first year in hogwarts and i only had the courage to finally tell you just now."

ominis recalled the quick glances you would both exchange with each other whether it was in the hallways, the classroom, or even when you both were talking with your friends. the unspoken feelings that you both held for each other; it had always been there. it made ominis chuckle as he brought his hand to cup both of yours that held his other hand.

"well, (y/n) (l/n), will you do me the honor of being my date to the yule ball?" ominis asked, bringing one of your hands up and pressing a chaste kiss upon it.

you bashfully smiled as you felt his lips morph into a smirk against your hand. "yes, ominis, i happily accept your invitation!" you reply with a toothy grin, before drawing closer to him. you were now kneeling on the couch's cushions, leaning your face over to his.

ominis' eyes widened in shock as he felt your soft lips against his own, however he didn't hesitate in reciprocating it back. he was in utter bliss at the moment. while it was his first kiss, your movements made it very easy to follow. he felt your hands run up his arms and toward his jaw, cupping it gently into your palms. ominis wasn't quite sure where to place his hands, but you didn't mind.

"wait," ominis said in between kisses and you pulled back for a breath, gazing at him lovingly. "does this mean...we're...you know?"

"yes, ominis, we're a couple." you laughed, leaning your forehead against his.

that was all the confirmation that ominis needed, as he placed a quick peck on your lips. he then grabbed you hands as he leaned his back against the cushions, leading you to lay your head on his chest. you happily followed tucking your face into his neck with a soft smile on your face.

"i love you, ominis gaunt."

"and i love you, (y/n) (l/n)."

that night, ominis fell asleep with you on his chest and both your legs tangled together. imagine the shocked faces of your housemates when they awoke to the sight. not that ominis cared.