but i'm a fire and i'll keep your brittle heart warm

Which, you’re a little ashamed to admit, is an Apparition lesson.

“Say that one more time and I will start muttering it in my sleep tonight," Tom admonishes wryly. "Besides, the course has yet to even commence. We’re rather early." He gestures to the jittery sixth years scattered throughout the Hall with a flourish. Somewhere between your stroll here and your arrival, the house tables have gone and reality has crept in with a vengeance. The capaciousness of the room does little to quell the feeling of somersaults multiplying in your stomach.

“You mean you haven’t been doing that?” You laugh, but the sound is strained even to your own ears. “Hey, what if something goes horribly awry?”

Tom shrugs offhandedly and gives you a pointed look. “You voluntarily enrolled for this. Nothing unpleasant will come of it if you follow the steps, and frankly I can’t see how anyone could fail in that regard.”

You shut your eyes. Okay, fair, but you had deemed it a good idea at the time; at least a much sounder one than Floo powder, convenience-wise. You should’ve known Tom wouldn’t share a fragment of your last minute doubts. The day he reaps anything less than an Outstanding on a paper, or loses a duel—something you can’t even begin to picture—is a cold day in Hell. Envy simmers beneath your skin. 

You wrestle it down.

“It’s not that easy,” you mumble quietly, wincing as alarming images flash behind your eyelids in shades of red and horrifying angles of warp and curvature. “I’m not you, and I worry about the stakes. I could get splinched and…” You trail off and suppress a shiver.

When you open your eyes, Tom is absentmindedly twiddling his wand between deft fingers—which is odd considering he’s never been much of a fidgeter—and studying you with pinched brows like he’s carefully mulling over your words. His jaw is set in a way that you’ve taken to mean he’s either extremely peeved or…dangerously determined.

“You won’t.” Tom declares after a moment, such finality in his tone you’re almost inclined to believe him. “I’ll make—” 

He glances down at his fingers. You catch the second realization dawns on his face, irritation written all over his scowl as he hastily tucks his wand into his sleeve and balls his hands into fists. You tilt your head in a silent question.

“Nothing,” Tom snaps. His voice rings clear even in the growing din. Faltering at the anguished look on your face, he pulls one of his classic Tom sighs™ you’ve grown all too familiar with.

“Quit brooding. You won’t splinch yourself—you have it on reliable authority that you’ve been mentally preparing way too long for that.” He smirks when you roll your eyes. “However…on the off chance that you do, I suppose I will,” he grows interested in a spot on the wall behind you, “visit you at the matron. Assuming I have time to.”

You break into an ear-splitting grin. It shouldn’t have taken a mere three sentences to soothe the calamitous sea you call your emotions, it really shouldn’t have, but suddenly you’re too happy to care. Tom compensating for your lack of self-assuredness? Tom promising to swing by provided you’re injured? 

Good heavens.

A swarm of sweaty-faced students rush in with a commotion, greeted by the bell and the instructor’s disapproving cluck of the tongue. You swallow thickly.

Although the weight on your chest feels significantly lighter now, your pulse still thrums unsteadily—a trace of excitement laced in with the nerves this time, to your surprise. You roll your shoulders back and make to move closer to everyone else when something cold encases your hand. 

Soft and grounding, you find yourself short-circuiting in your confusion before you even think of peering over your shoulder. 

When you do, a pair of onyx eyes stare back.

“Wouldn’t want to lose you in the crowd,” Tom whispers, the ghost of a knowing smile lingering on his lips.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

requests

Disdain on their faces. Cold creeping up his skin.

The day Tom had known happiness was off the table was the day they shunned him, left him standing there in his oversized, threadbare shirt—he’d watched in silent resentment as their game of Hopscotch played out on the concrete. It had hurt only a little to realize that despite his best efforts to acclimate to their mob mentality, the place would never be home. And company would come in the form of twisted thoughts and talking snakes until hell froze over.  

Even when the memories have been blotted out, buried in the depths of his mind and left to stew over in the hush of night, every now and then Tom can't help but remember. Remember that unlike the anger and hatred that runs through his veins forevermore, happiness will never be a familiar feeling.

Until in comes the most frustrating little badger he’s ever met, lugging rainbows and sunshine and unwelcome feelings by the boatload.

And Tom, with his knack for persuasion, can proudly say he can elude blame for most things. It’s not his fault everyone falls for his carefully-crafted smiles and well-woven lies, or intimidation works wonders on the student body. Or that fountain pens are more convenient than quills.

But as much as he wishes he could, he just can't find any rhyme or reason to the fact that your presence is…an antidote.

A strange remedy for the jagged pieces of his heart.

"You know,” your gentle voice carries from above, and Tom is pulled from his reverie to the sound of lush grass rustling under your feet. “You really have a thing for secluded places."

In a vast courtyard teeming with dense crowds and lone studiers, of course it’s you who finds him.

Tom raises a derisive brow. “Perhaps it’s to get away from you.”

He sees to it that you don’t miss the way he shifts in some semblance of an invitation.

Laughing, you step out of the June sun to plop down beside him against the trunk of an old elm tree. Going on a few thousand years, if Tom has to guess. Its winding, leaf-coated branches cast dancing shadows across the ground.

“Classes drained the soul out of me.” You let out a muffled yawn. 

Like a kitten.

Tom frowns.

He’s no stranger to intrusive thoughts, but lately they’ve been odd. Unpredictable. Not to mention it’s only when you’re near that they seem to materialize, and, well, he isn’t so sure what that could spell. To analyze a yawn, for Merlin’s sake…

But you’ve always been a bit of a distraction, haven’t you?

The rhythmic drumming of your fingers on your lap can attest to that.

He watches as a faint smile pushes at the corners of your lips and a dreamlike quality glazes over your irises—both tell-tale signs that you’ve come bearing good news. 

Not that he cares or anything. It’s none of his business, none at all because honestly what does it matter if you—

"You’ll never guess what happened today.” You declare, triumphant when you meet his eyes.

Tom’s breath catches in his throat. “Hm?”

Maybe the earth can swallow him whole.

You beam. “Professor read over the report from my tutor this morning. He told me that at the rate I’m going I’ll be caught up in no time!” You clasp your hands together. “On top of that, I passed my practical exam with soaring colors, so things are going swimmingly."

Tom had forgotten about your struggles in Charms—arguably the easiest subject Hogwarts has to offer. He can sympathize with needing a little assistance in Arithmancy, maybe even Runes to some extent. That is where the average student has their pitfalls, after all. Charms, though?

It certainly isn’t common, to say the least.

But he really wishes you’d quit looking at him like that. He wishes the radiant twinkle in your eyes wasn't so adorable and you’d stop grinning expectantly like his acknowledgment would make your entire month.

Yes, nobody should be behind in Charms. Tom decides he doesn’t particularly care.

"That's a decent amount of progress in just a few weeks.”

There’s a moment of peace, a second of placidity before Tom’s brain turns into turmoil.

Why did he say it?

To make you happy? For the sake of something so trivial as your feelings, with nothing to gain for himself? Impossible. He’d never stoop to such—

“Thank you!” 

Your infectious smile boasts only sweetness and light, but to Tom’s absolute horror it’s in that instant that you decided to inch closer—he has no time to prepare himself before he’s falling into a heaven comprised of the fragrant smell of your shampoo and the softness of your gaze, an erratic tha-thump reverberating throughout his chest all the while.

Distantly, he sees your mouth moving, knows you have to be talking, but God has breathing always been such a laborious task?

Well, the world can burn for all he cares because nothing else matters save for the heat radiating off your shoulder. Nothing else compares to the bliss.

“—om?” Concern seeps into your tone.

No, no, no. It has to be wrong, all of it.

He fights desperately at the haze for his bearings, wills his focus to trickle back in and reins to be found again. All too slowly the stupor relinquishes control and the feeling of repulsion emerges from the fog, shame not far behind. Tom closes his fist around a tuft of grass.

He sees it now, in all its foul glory. He has it muddled up—the point where wanting ends and doing begins—and if there ever is a master of self control it’s him. The patient, composed, self-restrained student extraordinaire. It’s degrading that a mind of his caliber could simply stop functioning. Frozen, reduced to nothing, like a used parchment purged of its contents.

Could he be possessed? Insane?

Tom knows he’s insane, has to be for the plans he’ll carry out and unspeakable things he’ll do in the coming years. But this is a different kind of insane. It’s the kind that challenges all he’s taken to be set-in-stone, that threatens his beautiful, tragic world of black and white and red.

It's the kind that could sever the rope between mere life and immortality.

And yet Tom can’t decide whether it’s a curse or a blessing when you cast your eyes away in lieu of foraging through your satchel.

He’ll have to…look more into this matter. He’ll tear up the library in his wrath; he’ll search all over, high and low and in every nook and cranny until the thirst is satiated—

“Tom, Tom, Tom. Tomato. Tomfoolery. Oh, there you are!” You find his eyes once more, completely oblivious to the pathetic feeling closing in on him. “This is for you.”

A book flaunting loose threads sits on your lap, worn and flimsy.

Tom knows it’s one of those muggle stories you like to read, ones with the plotlines he can never understand and messages he can never grasp. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to—he’s tried at one point, and he does indulge in muggle literature on occasion (it’s not his fault they’re informative)—it’s just…well, he doesn’t think he can.

"I wouldn't have picked it for you if I didn't think you'd enjoy it," you assure him matter-of-factly.

He blinks. By no means are you adept at reading him, but it is strangely pleasant that someone should see past the anger and ire into his quieter, rarer emotions.

"A little broken, I know." An amused chuckle escapes him at that. You grin sheepishly. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t love it.”  

Sincerity on your face. Warmth hugging his skin.

Your fingers brush against his as you press it into his hands.

But how can he dare dream of anything more when darkness is a constant in his life? He has never wished to see the rainbow, has never found any appeal in a kaleidoscopic world until you stumbled into his life. You ebbed away at the corners of his concrete barriers until little by little the light shone through the cracks.

And Salazar. He wants to do something to you right then. Something way out of line, something that goes beyond his protective urges and against everything he believes in.

Regardless, he can always break away, can't he? When the time comes, he’d toss you into the pile of people who served their use and then he'd never have to deal with that stupid fluttery feeling in his chest again. 

Yes. That is what he'd do.

So things are good, wonderful even; they’ve never been better and Tom has never been happier, at least he thinks that’s what it has to be. For once it’s not the promise of power or the vow of eradication that get him up in the wee hours of the morning.

And things are good.

Right up until they aren’t.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

“My Lord.” Mulciber fidgets nervously in the gold candlelight. Clears his throat. Once. Twice. “Do you think...will there be enough time to find the chamber before vacation commences?” He grips the rim of the table with ring-clad fingers until his knuckles turn a pasty white.

Tom bites back a sneer. Coward.

"You fret for nothing. While you incompetent fools were lazing around, I was scouring every inch of this castle. I'm quite certain I've found the very place Salazar Slytherin built his foundation on."

Tom bathes in the outbreak of gasps and elated cries before silencing them with a hand.

"I will not be disclosing the location; I alone will find a way to open it, though I doubt any of you would have proven to be of help anyway."

Tom watches them deflate, like he’s pierced their spirit with a needle. Perhaps this way they’ll learn that with him, making an impression takes more than a feeble attempt or two. Besides, he has yet to discern the loyal from the fainthearted and with so many things that can go wrong, there is no room for mistakes.

He holds everyone’s gaze for a few tense seconds (most of which end in rather pitiful quivering on their part) before continuing on.

“As I have discussed previously, our years at Hogwarts are drawing to a close. We have time, of course, some of us more than others, but we must plan every move meticulously.” Tom allows himself a satisfied smile. He’s been so painstakingly careful, so thorough in drawing up the plans and in due time every ounce of his hard work will be recognized. "The infiltration of the Ministry plays a pivotal role in my—our success, thus each of you must ensure your positions are secured—”

"You're infatuated with that Hufflepuff."

A sharp intake of breath, and then silence befalls the room. All eyes flick to Avery; some with disbelief, some with poorly concealed excitement, but he pays them no mind.

"That's what's taking you so long, isn't it?” The boy hisses vehemently. “Ever since you met that poor excuse of a student, you've been putting off the purge. You’ve known about the Chamber’s whereabouts, haven’t you? Why is it that you haven’t acted by now?”

He pauses to feign contemplation, a slender finger tapping at his chin. “I’ll take a wild guess; it’s because that little mudblood is sufficient enough for you.”

And just like that the stillness is back, though this time it is an illusion; it can’t exist, not when the unmistakable buzz of fear and apprehension crackles in the air.

No one rushes to Avery’s defense, but Tom doesn’t need legilimency to know—he can see it clear as day—that it’s a unanimous agreement.

Red swirls in his vision.

An audacious Avery leans back in his seat as if accepting a major victory, boastful smirk intact. He lets his accusation sink in before he adds, like salt to injury, like an arrow piercing right through Tom's heart:

"You know what I think? I think you've gone soft."

Jaws drop and eyes widen, but Tom only smirks back, nauseating and sickly sweet.

He could torture him right now. He could turn his skin inside out and make him feel pain in all the worst places. He could reanimate the darkest stages of his trauma and dangle him by the ankles like a marionette until he begs for death's cold embrace.

And what’s stopping him? It’s nothing he hasn’t thought about before. Nothing he hasn’t come close to doing.

Would you be afraid of him if you found out?

Tom sputters.

Who are you to come up in his thoughts at a time like this? How dare you traipse over every line he’s ever created and exist there as if you’ve always belonged?

He suppresses his flaring, burning rage and tries, unsuccessfully, to even his breathing. No, it's hardly worth getting his hands bloody over. Besides, he'd rather not have to clean up the mess.

"Leave. All of you. Now." He manages to choke out.

It’s a scramble for the door.

Good. Fear is good.

His last follower has barely bolted before he’s pointing his wand at the long teakwood table and thundering out an Incendio. With each careless flick of his wrist, searing flames consume the conference space and it’s not until dark, ashy smoke obscures his vision that he takes his leave.

The door to the secret room clicks shut behind him, but the release has done little to assuage his fury.

He paces the length of the hallway outside.

The nerve. How could he suggest something so preposterous?

Everyone involved in his cause knows to never bite the hand that feeds them. And Avery has been feeding out of his palm ever since he took him in and gave purpose to his otherwise meaningless life.

Tom should tail him right now, really. Find him. Curse some sense into him. Who does that dull, privileged snob think he is? That daft, good for nothing—

But he's right.

Avery is right. Dead on, nail-on-the-head right.

He’s fallen for you; hook, line, and sinker.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

Tom isn't at the library the next afternoon.

You tell yourself he's busy, that he probably has a million duties to carry out and the world isn’t going to cave if he doesn’t show for one day—still, the little tug on your heart speaks for itself. Call it sentimental, but the study sessions have become something of a tradition.

And Tom’s usually a stickler for tradition.

“Looks like it's just you and me,” you tell the waiting pile of homework on the table.

You can practically hear his exasperated whisper in your ear. For Pete’s sake, stop conversing with inanimate objects as if they’ll miraculously bestow upon you the solutions or so help me. You grin.

It appears you’ve come to rely quite a bit on his forceful encouragement, because twenty minutes later your parchment is emptier than the porcelain flatware in the Great Hall after dessert, and only one thought reigns supreme on your mind.

“So much for productivity,” you mutter sullenly.

It hits you right then that Tom Riddle is taking up all your headspace.

When you had met him in this exact spot on that fateful night, you never would’ve guessed that he’d be so drawn to you. So adamant on getting to know you. You share no common ground with his other friends—egotistical, haughty, you’re-so-beneath-me blood purists who command the open-mindedness of jellyfish.

But despite what your confidantes claim, you truly think you’ve seen a side of him no one else has. Because when he’s with you, he sheds the rigid golden boy demeanor for something relaxed and content and dare you say it, warm.

Of course you had plummeted headfirst into your emotions. How could you not? Your affections for him have been growing by the day, and you doubt this is some silly old crush that’ll peter out with the last of summer.

No, the feeling extends way past friendship, you’re afraid.

You entertain the idea, play around with it and roll it over the edges of your brain, let it circle through before reluctantly storing it away for next time.

For the guilt, it’s always there; overbearing and unshakable and clawing at you. Surely it’s immoral to think of a good friend in such a way, especially when it seems good friends are all you’ll ever be—you’re no fool to neglect his detachment towards the whole topic of romance.

You groan. You’ll have time to dwell on it later, but for now there are more pressing matters to at hand. For starters, the conference with your D.A.D.A professor that starts in approximately…fifteen minutes.

You bid the librarian goodbye and wave to the old, regal portraits on your way down the long marble staircase, unceremoniously scouting for vanishing steps.

“Safe and sound,” you sigh when your feet reach hard ground.

Sunlight spills through arched windows into the ever-majestic halls, which are empty save for the occasional wandering student. With the early summer weather, everyone must be congregating outdoors again.

Tap tap tap!

Rushed footsteps and a sudden blur of motion at the end of the corridor bring an abrupt end to your solitude. You halt in your step, just managing to catch the barest glimpse of an outline before it rounds the corner in one swift turn.

Curiosity killed the cat.

A grin breaks over your face. But satisfaction brought it back.

And quick as a fox you’re trailing after the shadow, only a little ashamed that the promise of a distraction outweighs any sense of responsibility you might have. An instant later, a pair of spotless dress shoes accompanied by pristine, ironed robes come into view.

Why, you’d recognize that statuesque figure anywhere.

"Tom!" The prefect freezes mid-step, tension written in every line of his body as he reaches into his pocket and shuffles to his side ever so slightly and right ahead of him stands...

The girl's lavatory?

He swivels around as you approach, wand in hand. "Tom! There you are—"

Except he doesn't look very much like Tom.

There's something manic in his eyes, a ferocity in the way he peers down at you that sets your fight or flight instincts ablaze. His fingers curl restlessly at his sides and you have the horrible impression that you’ve just interrupted something very important.

Tom scowls, regarding you with a coldness so foreign, so unfamiliar you almost recoil under the scrutiny.

But everything your body tells you pales in comparison to the concern that overtakes you.

“Are you alright?” You place a tender hand on his arm, your initial excitement dimming at his state. “You seem ill. Should I escort you to the nurse?”

Tom stares at you, unblinking with those glacial eyes.

Ouch. You tear your gaze away and push down the fears that threaten to surface. There are a million different possibilities, but it'd do you no good to ruminate over any of them right now.

“Come on.” You tighten your grip and steer him toward the stairwell, mindful to take slow steps—you know it’s a fragile peace when eggshells are what you’re treading on.

Still, you’re thoroughly unprepared for the force that wrenches the arm out of your grasp. 

The shock registers slowly. It’s a colossal punch to the gut, but all the same you try to keep the woundedness off your face.

“I am not in need of your assistance.”

His voice is low, devoid of its usual silkiness. Chills form a serpentine path up your arms and down your back, raising goosebumps all over your skin until you’re shivering.

Indignance claws its way past the alarm. “Is that why you didn’t show up?” You retort. “You’re normally awfully insistent on cramming as much studying as you can. Vital lucubration, or whatever you call it. I figured you might’ve needed to—”

Tom cuts you off with a scoff, all scorn and vitriol.

“That,” he enunciates slowly, “is none of your concern. I am not quite certain when such brazenness entered the picture, but it is not appreciated."

You blink owlishly before taking a much needed breath. “I don’t understand. Could you start from the beginning? I’m certain we can figure this out, it’s just the story is a little convoluted right now and—well, actually, I don’t even know what the story is.”

“This is a waste of time,” Tom chides. “I’ll make one thing clear: we are not friends.” The crazed stare has vanished, replaced by something eerily vacant. You’ve always wondered how he does that so quickly. “And I believe you’ve helped enough as it is, so if you’ll excuse me I’ll be seeing to my duties now.”

But he doesn’t leave, just crosses his arms and waits expectantly for you to turn away. To go.

You’ve helped enough as it is.

You have the sinking feeling that if you walk away now, you’ll be walking out of his life forever. 

We are not friends.

Your pulse races. How can he say all those joy-filled hours you so often look back on amount to nothing? How can he brush you off like you’re just another speck of dirt on his clothes?

Maybe, when it all comes down to it, he’s no different from the rest of them.

“What part of your duties, pray tell, consists of going into the girl’s washroom?” You demand incredulously, voice shaking and mind reeling because Merlin there is no way this was all a ruse and you fell right into it like a blindsided, delusional moron in lo—

Tom stiffens, and you watch, mystified, as the mask of calm falls off. His nostrils flare in anger and he takes a step closer to you, only this time it doesn’t feel anything like the afternoon under the tree. Only this time it’s threatening.

“Fine. I’ll spare you, is that what you want?” He laughs mirthlessly, long fingers running through raven curls. “Since you’re so insistent on pretending to care for me? Fine. It won’t touch you. You have my word.”

Your vision blurs, though from the exasperation or tears you can’t be sure.

“Spare me what?” Your books drop to the floor with a resounding thud. “My concern for you has never been a pretense. That’s ludicrous! You’ll never begin to comprehend how much I care for you. As a matter of fact, I...”

You can’t say it.

His eyes are on you, curious and searching and scathing, but all you can do is helplessly stare back at him. You dig half crescents into your palms.

This time when he speaks, you’re prepared for the flames that come with it.

“I don’t know what you’ve done to me,” Tom all but spits, and you’re wishing for the quiet to blanket you once again. He pauses, if only for a second, tone turning subdued. “The lightness in my chest, the nerves spiraling out of control, the…the…” He gestures wildly. “Floating feeling whenever you’re near.”

“I was satisfied with my perception of the world, so sure and unwavering in my decisions until you came along. You’ve turned all I’ve known upside down.” 

Your blood freezes inside your veins.

Tom frowns at his hands. “I’m suffering the consequences, even when you’re not near. Every waking moment is you running through my thoughts and I am not dramatizing when I say it is driving. Me. Insane. I’ve had enough. This ends now.”

Your despair falters just enough for a sliver of hope to take hold. “It doesn't have to end.”

“It must.”

It pains you, it does, but you say it anyway. 

“If that’s what you really want.” 

The rigidity on Tom’s face lets up slightly, though you could’ve sworn you caught a flicker of something akin to regret.

You squeeze your eyes shut and inhale. “Just...about what you said. I know feelings are daunting, but I promise whatever you’re experiencing is perfectly reasonable.” You think back to the memories you share, as if that’ll make saying the next part any easier. “In fact, Tom I think I—”

“Stop,” he whispers, dangerously calm, yet somehow you know the fury has returned tenfold. 

Your heart plummets.

“Get out of my way.”

And is it bad that you sense the undercurrent of something dark in his words? His intentions?

It doesn’t feel of your own accord when you rush to block his way back.

Tom levels you with a death glare, and you have only a second to ponder over whether you should be six feet under before his eyes are flashing a horrifying crimson. You give ground for every stride he takes towards you until a thump indicates that you’ve backpedaled to the lavatory entrance.

You watch in dread as Tom turns his attention to the inside, yearning written all over his features and for one harrowing second, you think he’s going to hurt you to get there.

But then he’s stepping away, away, and in the blink of an eye he’s gone.

And for the first time, you think there's more merit to your friends' warnings than you gave credit for.

You slump onto the floor. You wish you were in any condition to make sense of what transpired, but all you know is that it feels like your spirit has been zapped away. The strain on your chest persists even as you push it down, and then you feel a crushing snap before it all comes undone—caged sobs wrangle free from your throat and salty tears rain down upon where your smile had held just moments ago. 

Has it really only been a week since you and Tom had that conversation in the courtyard? Since you lent him that book?

You wish you could retrace your footsteps, find where it all went astray.

“Waaah!”

You almost jump out of your skin.

“Waaaaah!” The sound, high-pitched and lamenting, can only be coming from inside.

You rise to your feet. 

“Hello?” You venture from the doorway. Your voice ricochets off the stone walls. The place is well-kept, complete with four shiny sinks situated below a mirror and a row of wooden stall doors left fairly unchipped.

“GO AWAY!”

You may or may not be one stone’s leap away from hysterics (who’s to say?), but you think you’ve had enough scares in a day for the whole of Hogwarts. Besides, no one should be howling like their life is ending, and smiles make the world go round.

“Would you like to talk?” You goad gently, taking note of the leather shoes peeking out from under the far stall. "You can say the word again and I’ll leave you be.”

You cross your fingers behind your back, pray with all your being that this one won’t end in a full-blown lash-out session.

To your relief, the wooden door swings open a few moments later and a pale girl with long brown pigtails, round glasses and a blue tie steps out to face you. No older than fourteen, from the looks of it.

“Olive Hornby made fun of my glasseeeees,” she wails, and the noise grates against your ear. You wince.

“I’m sorry.” You place a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I, for one, am of the opinion that your glasses look just fine.” She flushes at that. “Although if this is a recurring thing, I’d like to talk to her for you—only if you assent, of course, but it’d give me peace of mind.”

Her puffy, bloodshot eyes light up and suddenly it’s as if she were five years younger, a hopeful child with stars in her eyes. “R-Really?”

You nod. “Really.”

Her sobs subside to sniffles and the pout on her face morphs into something bashful. “Thanks…”

“What’s your name?”

“Myrtle. Myrtle Warren.” She takes off her glasses and wipes at the fogged-over lenses with the fabric of her clothes.

“He comes in here often, you know.” She peeks at you from under her lashes. “Taps on surfaces and makes these strange hissing noises, like it’s a language he’s fluent in." Her tone turns wistful. "I stay silent and listen because it’s all so mesmerizing…”

“Who does?” You frown.

“You know who.”

“Wait. Don’t tell me...”

But Myrtle only giggles, brows lifting in amusement. “Good luck on your boy problems.”

Then she’s off.

You stare after her in shock.

You catalog the new information, an onslaught of burning questions and what-ifs invading your mind in a trice. 

One sticks out in particular. It’s afflicting and unnerving and you don’t want to consider it, but it prods and pushes at you until you’re forced to cave.

What exactly would’ve happened if Tom had gone in there today?

Nothing good, that’s for sure.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

The note comes a week—dense with radio silence and carefully averted glances—later, tied by a silken ribbon (high-end, no doubt about it) to the leg of a beautiful owl with raven feathers.

Now it rests, protrusive and unbidden in your lap as the root of your apprehension for the past half hour.

You pick it up and set it down again. Fidgeting in your beanbag chair has only fueled your restlessness, but now that the adrenaline’s gone you’re really out of options.

And if you’re being completely honest, not knowing is killing you more than anything. 

You slouch in resignation and raise the letter to your face. 

“Helga help me,” you whisper to the portrait above the mantelpiece.

It reads something about how he’s been awfully occupied with responsibilities and how he’d like to have a chance to make up for lost time and would you be so inclined as to accompany him to Hogsmeade tomorrow afternoon.

There’s a palpable, gaping hole in the place where an apology or explanation should be—or an acknowledgement of anything that went down, for that matter. You don’t know what you were expecting.

A week ago, you would’ve been delighted at the prospect of going on a date with the Tom Riddle. Squealing in ecstasy and bouncing on the balls of your feet. Now all that’s running through your head is maybe the rose-colored glasses you see with have only made you blind in the end.

Crackling orange embers engulf the parchment with a satisfying hiss.

You’ve never been one to hold a grudge, but If he wants your forgiveness—he’ll have to try much harder than that.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

The flickering radiance of a thousand candles floating overhead is a welcome sight after a particularly bad day of rigorous classwork. You take in the astounding view of the Enchanted Ceiling with its starry expanse of black skies and pale moon beaming through wisps of white clouds. Settling into your regular seat next to your housemate Alistair, you eye the heaps of food on your table with a content sigh.

With no time to waste, you dig in. 

"Alistair, this steak is weird.”

You cut off another piece and chew at it thoughtfully. Every bite elicits a rancid taste and while it's subtle enough to not be horrible, you're a little disappointed. This isn't quite up to par with the usually unrivaled, top-notch Hogwarts cooking.

He swivels in his seat to look at you. "Mine is delectable. I don't suppose you got on the house elves' nerves lately?" You shake your head.

He frowns, worry finding its way into the creases of his brow. "Maybe you should put the fork down."

"But I'm hungry," you protest, grinning at the unamused look on his face. "Hey, food is food. It's not like something's going to happen to me, right?"

Alistair relents with a sigh. "Yeah."

━━━━━━♡♤♡━━━━━━

No.

You’re hunched over a toilet in the lavatory, head reeling and stomach lurching with every new surge of nausea. The overbearing taste of salt coats your tongue and you’re praying to whatever higher being is above to please end your misery for fear that you’ll spill all your guts out. 

Or whatever remains of it.

Someone must have heard you because you’re flushing the toilet a few minutes later feeling slightly less disoriented, though still very much like you just took a Bludger to the stomach.

You wash up at the basin. 

Who would do this to you? 

Immediately a few names pop up off the top of your head. You scold yourself for being so stupid. Really, that first bite should have been a tell-tale sign that something was amiss.

Curse you and your insatiable hunger.

The sound of approaching footsteps jolts you from your thoughts. You realize with a twinge of panic that if someone spots you, you’re going to have to give a thorough explanation as to why you’re in the lavatory looking like a sad mess while everyone else is savoring their (perfectly safe to consume) dinner. You can wave your pride goodbye at that point. 

You barely have time to brace yourself before a familiar voice pierces the air.

"It isn't like you to run out so suddenly." Tom says as he comes into sight.

This is bad. Really bad. 

All at once your head feels heavy, as if a bowling ball has somehow replaced your brains. It isn't like you can even focus on feeling humiliated right now, but did he really have to be the one to find you in such a state?

"Well? What's wrong?"

Maybe it’s the burning shame, or the aftermath of the poison, or both, but suddenly your lips are sewed shut and talking seems a near impossible thing. You stare at the faucet, hands gripping either side of the sink as if it’s your lifeline, your only means of stability.

You hear Tom sigh impatiently from where he’s standing outside. A few quiet seconds pass, and you think you’ve turned him away with your lack of response until he strides in to close the distance. 

His thumb and forefinger brush against your chin and he lifts your face up to meet his gaze. You watch his piercing eyes flit to the sweat on your brow and then the heaving of your shoulders paired with your heavy, shuddering breaths.

You can practically see the moment his composure crumbles. 

"Who hurt you?"

Your eyes widen in alarm and you shake your head quickly in an attempt to dispel whatever assumptions he could’ve thought up in those two seconds.

A mistake. You clamp a shaky hand over your mouth. Vomit inches up your throat, this time the situation more unpleasant, dire. You see an inkling of realization dawn on his face. 

In an instant your mind is swimming and your knees are buckling and you’re stumbling to make it in time despite the fact that the world has dwindled to a dizzying blur. 

Tom wrenches the stall door open and you rush in, missing the concern that has snuck into his frown.

Maybe it’s your imagination, but you swear you feel a light hand rubbing circles on your back as you hurl into the toilet. Again.

Whatever did they put in your food?

By the time you leave the lavatory, you feel...drained. Fatigue has possessed your every muscle, and every burdened step feels like a descent into hell. You’re a ragdoll; pathetic and limp and seconds away from crumbling.

But when you do crumble it's in the comfort of his arms, and maybe that’s not so bad after all. Your head subconsciously droops onto his shoulder, body molding to fit his.

“Aguamenti,” you hear him murmur. You lift your head to see a jet of water filling up a conjured glass in his hand. He brings it to your parched lips. "Drink." 

You down it ravenously, the coolness of it soothing your lungs, revitalizing your bones. Whoever executed the whole plan sure did one heck of a job, because that was just about the most horrid experience of your life.

As if reading your thoughts, you feel Tom tense against you. 

“It's dragon poison,” he says, voice dangerously low, “in a water-downed form.”

You blink in surprise, but not because he knows about something like this. That part is nothing new. But the process to attain the substance is an arduous one, so to think that someone has enough of a vendetta against you to somehow acquire it—?

“Tell me who did it,” Tom demands. “I’ll make them pay.”

“I’m not sure,” you reply meekly. Irked as you are, you can’t pinpoint the blame on anyone just yet.

You know under any other circumstance Tom would goad you into giving him more information, but for now he lets you rest there against him under the dim light of the corridor. 

“Tom?” You shift on your feet. “That must have been pretty revolting. Sorry for—”

“You’re a fool,” Tom interrupts briskly. “A moron. Surely you should have been able to deduce that that was no ordinary steak.”

You know he doesn’t mean it, you know it’s his way of telling you that you ought to be more careful, but the remark still stings. You loosen your grip on his robes.

Tom sighs again. Then, much gentler, in a voice you know is reserved for you and you only, he whispers, “Never mind that. I’m still going to have to take you to the infirmary. Just to make sure that you’re— that you don’t throw up again.”

“Okay,” you mumble, warmth spreading where the emptiness was seconds ago. As long as you can be with him a little longer.

And yet, you can’t help but wonder if this incident has changed his view of you. You wonder if he thinks you’re pathetic for that pitiful display back there.

Perhaps you get your answer when he cups your face and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. You break into a smile. 

He doesn’t stop there, though—he kisses you a little more, kisses all the embarrassment away, the qualmishness and the apprehension until by the end of it all the remain in your stomach are butterflies.