jessi 🦇

“Cursed ring,” you tell him after a moment of having to catch your breath. “It renders a person blind when worn.” 

Tom takes the wooden box in his hands and opens it to peer inside. A beautiful red ruby stares up at him. He hovers a finger over the jewel, feeling the hum of magic within. 

You were Borgin and Burkes best hunter for cursed objects. 

There were several ways they acquired the objects they sold within the shop, most of which were shady and usually always illegal, but there were some wizards who’d merely stumbled upon them. Family heirlooms they didn’t know what to do with. Gifts from odd wizards. 

You were always their most solid player yet. 

Almost every week, you’d come in with something new to sell. 

The wizarding world was old; there were countless cursed objects out there, old and new ones being made every so often. Hunters could look for the entirely of their lives and there’d still be more for others to find. You just happened to have a knack for locating them. 

Tom had always been curious about you. He remembers when you two attended Hogwarts together, before you had gotten expelled in your last year. He knows it is why you’ve turned to this lifestyle. Why you cannot find a proper job amongst the wizarding folk. You were an outcast, a liability. 

All the more reason you were perfect for the job. 

No one paid attention to you. No one dared spare a second glance at the girl who’d murdered a student at Hogwarts, and gotten away with it. 

“Where did you find this?” Tom asks as he closes the box. He knew better than to touch it and you knew better than to warn him. 

You swipe at the weeping wound on your cheek, but this only causes you to streak it further down your skin, along with a smudge of dirt from your hands. He never did like when you’d show up in such a state. It made him feel almost a weird sense of pity for you. He never minded the sight of blood, but yours always had him feeling a little sick in the stomach.

“New Zealand, in the mountains,” you say. “Had to take a shoddy Portkey that dropped me two hours away, and then I hiked my way in.”

“That explains why you are so…” Tom eyes you up and down. There was even dirt in your hair. He almost wants to offer bringing you a towel to wipe down with, but it has been something he’s offered to you before, and was turned away like you’d been offended.

“No. The room was underground, and it started caving in on me the moment I removed the ring from its place. I had to crawl out.”

Tom makes a noise of acknowledgment. It is a wonder you’re still alive. Others have died escaping lesser traps.

“I will throw in an added bonus, then,” Tom tells you. “For your efforts.”

You give a nod, and that is all. 

It isn’t until another week and a half later that you come in again, but this time you’re not on the verge of collapse. 

You stride in with a small bag in your gloved hands. 

Tom pauses from talking with a customer to watch as you come closer, movements controlled and confident in a way that he has seen from you a hundred times over, but never fails to have him completely captivated. 

There is always a sort of elegance to how you’d dress. A danger that had him intrigued. 

Tom favored objects that were of use to him. He always had an eye out for anything that could be posed as a threat, and he usually found that in cursed items. But you held that same feeling, whenever he looked it you, it was the same type of thrill he’d get out of staring at a rare artifact he wanted for himself. He had quite the collection at home. You’d be a good fit there, amongst the magical entities that could kill you if handled wrong. He’s sure you held the same type of power, one wrong move on Tom’s part, and you’d throw a curse at his head.

“My, my,” says the lady he’s helping. She’s older, nicer than his usual customers. She had an item she wanted to sell to him, and he’d been extremely interested until you had walked in. She catches sight of you and a knowing smirk touches her lips. “Maybe I should be on my way. It seems as though something more valuable has just caught your attention.”

For a brief moment, Tom does not know what to say. His perfect mask as a cursed objects salesperson had slipped. 

He picks it back up with ease and pleads, gently, for her to stay. He knows what to say, how to act, when he is negotiating for something he wanted. He was quite persuasive. 

The woman sells him the item with little to no convincing. She had merely wanted his attention, but it had been rather hard ignoring your presence in the shop, even though you had slipped into the back. He felt your energy there like a warm breath on the back of his neck.

“Didn’t just crawl out of a hole this time, I see,” Tom says as he enters the back of the shop. He’d flipped the sign to closed and locked the door, least another customer bother him while you’re there.

You’re lounging at his desk, feet propped up on the table as you toyed with a dagger in your hands. It had been sitting on his desk awaiting to be examined. He hadn’t been able to tell or not if it was truly cursed, but you seem to have done the work for him as you twirl it between your fingers.

“This is a dud,” you tell him, not paying his comment any mind. You toss it in the air briefly, testing the weight, before turning towards him. 

Tom forgets himself, his magic, as you launch it in his direction. He stumbles back as the knife imbeds itself into the wall directly beside his fucking head. 

“How dare you,” Tom snarls. He rips it from the wall angrily, and tosses it onto his desk. He knocks your legs to the floor. “Have some respect. Sit up.”

You scoff, rearranging yourself on the chair. “Yes, mom. Lighten up, Tom.”

“You just made a threat upon my life. You are lucky I do not curse you where you sit.”

“That was not a threat to your life,” you say, head tilting to look up at him. “You would know if I had meant it as one; I would not have missed.”

“They teach you to throw knives wherever it was you went after Hogwarts?” Tom says snidely. 

He leans onto his desk, arms crossed. He waits for your reaction. He knows it is a soft spot for you, you almost always flinch at the very mention of the school. It is a low blow, but you had just thrown a knife at him. You deserved it.

And a reaction you give him, as you scowl at him, gone is the cocky attitude you’d had before. 

You grab at the bag you’d brought in and dig inside, producing an golden necklace. 

Tom recognizes it almost immediately. 

“It can’t be,” he breathes, reaching for it, but you snatch it away with a tsk. He wears the same scowl you’d worn earlier, your expression now one of smugness.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say in a condescending tone. “I thought you’d want this rare, magical Time-Turner you’ve mentioned before, but since you want to curse me instead, I think I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

You stand, moving to leave, but Tom blocks your path. 

The Time-Turner was one of the magical items he’d been after. He’d mentioned it to you before, offhandedly, not thinking you’d actually find one. He watches it sway in your hands, transfixed. 

It is the last time he ever underestimates you again. 

“Name your price,” Tom tells you.

“What will you do with it?” You ask, feigning innocence to his question. You touch the precious metal with steady hands, toying with it like it wasn’t a delicate instrument of time travel. One wrong move and you could suck yourself into another timeline. 

Tom grimaces as you dangle it in the air. “Careful with that,” he warns. 

“Oh, do you think I don’t know how to use it already?” you ask, almost offended. 

“My mistake,” Tom says, because he would be foolish to think that you hadn’t tested it for yourself. His eyes find the delicate piece of vintage jewelry on your neck. “You’ve gone back in time for… a necklace?”

You touch at the necklace with a small gasp. “This is not just any necklace, Tom. This is Cartier."

The name is not familiar with him, but it comes to no surprise. Tom had no interest in fashion, but you did, and the necklace seemed as valuable to you as the pocketwatch to Tom. You always did love a good designer brand. 

“I said, name your price,” Tom repeats through his teeth. He wanted to hold it. He wanted it in his hands. 

“You know my fee. Double it.”

Tom doesn’t think twice as he agrees. 

You finally give it to him, and it feels heavy in his palm. The magic is practically dripping down his skin. It would do nicely upon his shelf with the other items he’d collected.

He is a little at odds with himself as he admires the object He knew you were good at finding things, but he had no idea you possessed the power to find something like this. The cursed objects you brought in were all prizes in and of themselves, but this was something Tom himself was actively seeking out. 

And you had brought it right to him. He had only mentioned it maybe a few weeks ago. It had taken you two weeks to find it - Tom has been searching for it for months. 

“Where did you find it?” Tom asks curiously.

“That is a secret,” You say.

Tom doesn’t push. He hadn’t answered your question, either. He has never revealed to your his master plans, he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t think you’d be against him, as you were from a pureblood family of your own. He keeps that part of his life a secret, but he has been thinking time and time again to recruit you. And this only further cements that idea. 

You were good at finding things of value. Who knows what else you could bring him, if only he asked.

With a wave of your hand and a small bow, you bid him a goodbye.

Only, Tom stops you this time. He catches your arm as you head for the door, and your eyes widen when you meet his in surprise. He rarely touches you, if ever, only to do things like bumping you aside, removing your feet from his desk. 

“I would like to properly thank you. Join me for dinner,” Tom finds himself saying. He wanted to know more behind your process of finding hidden objects. He had his methods, but yours have proven time and time again to be ten steps ahead of his own techniques.

You stare for a moment too long, and Tom drops his hand from your arm. He burns a little in embarrassment. He’d gotten ahead of himself. 

“Alright,” you agree after what seemed to be heavy consideration. “What time do you get off?”

“7pm. Meet me at Deluca’s at 8. Do not be late.”

“When have I ever been late?” 

Never, even if you’d show up dirty and half dead, you showed up at the promised times when a delivery was to be made. 

“There’s always a first time for everything,” Tom says.

“Ever the optimist.”

“Do not make me change my mind. Deluca’s. 8 o’clock.”

“It’s a date,” you say, and you disapparate out of the shops before Tom can get another word out.

The rest of Tom’s shift drags on, slowly, painfully. He glances at the clock every ten minutes. It is hard to concentrate on anything at all the next few hours, his mind else where. 

Deluca’s was a nice place. He’d have an hour to apparate home, get ready, and be there on time. 

He wonders what you’re going to wear as he polishes the display window. He’s seen you in a few dresses, but this was different. You weren’t simply stopping by to make a delivery; you were to be his guest at a fancy restaurant. 

You’d said it’s a date. It might as well have been, but Tom knows you hadn’t meant it that way.

Still, he cannot help but sweat a little at the idea. 

Tom has never been on a date, much less kissed anyone. He didn’t have time for such things. He’d never wanted anyone in that way before.

But then you’d showed up, one day, striding in with a cursed object you’d claimed to have found out of pure luck. It had been a slow descent down into madness, for Tom, after that. He’d been hooked from the very first reunion. Your entire demeanor had completely shifted from when he knew you back at Hogwarts, he only saw glimpses of your old self during certain moments, quiet, drawn out sighs of exhaustion. Some days you were more of your older self, happier, even going as far as to joke with him. Other days, you were in a mood. 

Like when you had thrown a knife at Tom’s head - he knew not to test you on those days.

Tom also wonders who he’ll get tonight, as he finally makes it home. He showers, brushes his teeth, and changes into a suit more appropriate for tonights dinner. His date? Not a date. Whatever it was.

He arrives at Deluca’s with five minutes to spare. 

Just from the outside, he was dazzled with the amount of magic that was poured into the place. The walls were shimmering, paintings of all kinds moving in the background, the ceiling a perfect picture of the night sky. 

“You’re early.”

Tom turns to find you there, and his stomach drops to the floor. The dress you’re wearing is mouthwatering, with skin showing in the right places, tight to the curves of your waist. It was primarily made of lace, a fabric you favored, having shown up to the shop multiple times wearing all different colors of lace tights beneath a well styled outfit. And it was his signature color, how could he not love it. 

Though, you have shown up on multiple occasions in tattered clothes, ripped and stained with your blood, and he thinks you looked just as good as you did when you were more put together. 

All in all, you could show up in a burlap sack and he’d think you looked stunning.

“You look…” Tom stumbles over himself as he cannot find the right word. Nothing that came to mind seemed good enough. 

“You look good too, Tom,” you say knowingly, a teasing grin on your lips. 

He swallows hard, defeated for the time being. He merely offers a nod and moves for the door, opening it for you and gesturing for you to enter the restaurant.  

“Such a gentleman,” you comment as you pass by him, giving him a small pat to the chest. 

Inside, it was just as overwhelming. He smoothly tells the hostess he has a reservation, and you are seated a moment later, at the best table in the house. 

“How did you manage this?” you ask him in surprise.

He knew that you were aware of how hard it was to get a reservation to such a fine restaurant on short notice. It was the most sought after place to have dinner on this part of town, sometimes it took weeks just to get a table.

Tom doesn’t tell you how that he hadn’t needed to do much. The owner was a follower of his; all he’d had to do was merely ask.

“That is a secret,” Tom says.

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be,” he tells you. “It was nothing. What you have done was far more impressive.”

You tilt your head at him, brows raised. “Tom Riddle is impressed by me? What have I done to deserve such an honor?” you ask, again in the same condescending tone that has him narrowing his eyes.

“Careful, before I take back what I said.”

“Can’t take it back, Tom. That isn’t how things work.”

“I could merely obliviate you into forgetting.”

“Obliviate me? Your favorite treasure hunter?”

Tom stiffens. He cannot deny it, because you were right. He watches you as you happily lean back into your seat, having won another round and rendering him speechless. He didn’t like that you knew of his favoritism towards you. But here you two were, in the nicest restaurant in town, on an invitation he had extended to you. It was obvious. It was not every day Tom Riddle dinned with just anyone.

The waiter comes and takes your order before Tom can really fire anything back. He’d already known what he was getting even before he’d arrived, and it seemed you did as well. You order two drinks without giving Tom room to deny it, and they arrive quicker than he’d been expecting. 

Tom did not drink. It made him loose. Weak, and not on full alert. He was not fully in control of his senses and he had no interest in it. 

But, he allows it anyways. He had no big plans the next day, or tonight. He was free. So he drinks. He has one, and you order two more drinks to the table before he can even think to say no.

On his third drink, Tom is thoroughly more drunk than he has ever been. He barely remembers eating. 

The conversation had flowed with every drink he swallowed down. He’d talked more about himself than he ever has with anyone; he’d told you about Hogwarts, his studies, his obsession with finding cursed objects that would one day be of use to him in war.

“War?” you ask, relaxed in your seat. “What war?”

Toms mouth snaps shut when he realizes he’d almost said too much. He waves it off, quick to change the subject. 

The restaurant was growing to be too loud, and disorienting. Things were flying over head every second. Voices were roaring with laughter in his ear.

“I wish to leave,” Tom announces after his fourth drink. He is still lucid enough to know where he was, what he was doing, who he was with. He is stunned at your beauty every time he looks at you. His heart jumps up with every point of eye contact, and holds it until you look away.

The bad thing about being drunk that Tom hadn’t fully thought about, was that he was too drunk to apparate home. He hardly remembers how the conversation had gone, but he is suddenly being lead in a direction that is not familiar with him, every turn revealing a new part of the city he hadn’t known about, until he ends up in front of a door. He has to grab hold of the wall to keep himself up right.

“We’re almost there,” you tell him, just as drunk, fumbling with your wand to unlock the door. 

And a moment later, Tom is sitting upon a couch, in a room he has never been in. It smelled like you in here. Like flowers, and leather, and the shampoo you used. 

Tom blinks his eyes open, not realizing he had closed them, when you plop down beside him with another bottle of alcohol. He can only accept the chilled drink you hand to him, and he sips at it.

“I have not been this drunk in… I do not remember how long, actually,” you tell him, giggling. 

His ears prick at the noise. He does not think he’s ever heard you giggle before.

“I have never been drunk before, ever,” he admits out loud. 

This draws another giggle from your lips, and he absently smiles at that. He could live in that sound. 

“You never drank at Hogwarts?”

He shakes his head, blearily glancing to where you’re propped up to face him. “I never participated in such juvenile things. I had studying to do. Prefect duties. I could not… give in to childish drinking games.”

“Then you’ve never played truth or dare drunk?” you gasp out, eyes lighting up with an idea. “Oh, please, Tom, entertain me.”

He wants to shoot you down immediately, but you look happier in all of the months he’s known you. You have never worn such a smile, at least, he’s never seen it directed at him. You’re glowing in the drunken state. 

“Ok, ok,” you say, sitting up further “Tom, truth or dare?”

He scoffs out a sound of disbelief. “I am not -”

“Please?” you beg. “I have not played since I was at Hogwarts.”

That draws Tom’s attention. You never brought up anything from Hogwarts. It is the first time he’s ever heard of anything you mentioning anything you’ve done there, even if it was just about a stupid drinking game.

“Because we are not children anymore,” Tom tells you. The light in your eyes dims, your smile dropping, and Tom sighs out heavily. Without thinking too hard on it, he mutters, “truth.”

You make a noise of excitement, and then take a second to ponder on something to ask him. Tom would be as truthful as his drunken state allowed. “Oh, I have one. What is the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?”

Tom grimaces, because he knows. He tells you about when he’d first learned to ride a broomstick. He had been too cocky, having been the first one to get himself off the ground into the air, and then proceeded to fall and break his arm in front of the entire class. It had been one of his only slipup at Hogwarts. 

The hearty laughter it rips from you is worth the temporary discomfort he feels at reliving the memory.

“Alright, alright,” Tom says after you’ve had your laugh.

You chuckle out a few more sounds of enjoyment, wiping at your eyes to collect the moisture that had gathered there. “Now it is your turn,” you tell him.

Tom rolls his eyes. You were really going to make him say it. 

“Truth or dare?” he asks you.

“Hmm… I’ll choose truth,” you say. Tom catches himself from asking about your expulsion - that would surely ruin the mood. Instead, he repeats your same question, and you groan. “No, Tom, you can’t ask something I’ve already asked. That’s against the rules.”

“I was not aware there were rules in this game.”

“Oh my god, just ask me something.”

“How do you find the objects you bring into the shop?” he then asks, voicing what he truly wished to know. He is so curious about your methods. It is what he invited you to the restaurant to find out, after all. He might as well ask, even if he might be too drunk to remember your answer.

You sigh. “That is so boring, bringing up work now. But if you must know, I do research. I read books upon books, but ultimately, it is intuition. Sometimes I just… know where it is. Words stand out. Locations on a map glow.”

Tom is fascinated by this. He wished to possess such an ability, but then you would become useless to him. And he liked that you served a purpose. That you had something that not everyone else had. He wanted you, so badly, in the moment. The space between you felt entirely too big. He unconsciously moves closer, his leg pressing into yours. 

Your eyes drop down to the point of contact, but you do not bring it up as you go on to ask him, truth or dare.

“Truth,” he says.

“Predictable,” you moan, drawing an exasperated noise from Tom.

“Do you want me to play or not -”

“Fine,” you snap, the frustration he’s grown to know appearing for a moment before your frown smooths over into a drunken grin. “Hmm… have you ever had a crush before?”

“What are we, 13?” Tom huffs. 

“Just answer the question.”

He sighs out in annoyance. He was growing tired of this game. But you were so into it, and with every question, it was like you were moving closer and closer. 

Just as Tom goes to answer that no, he has never had a crush - your hand drops down to rest on his arm and his stomach flutters down into the couch cushions. 

“Yes,” Tom answers without meaning to. He immediately bites his tongue, and forces himself to take a long swig of his drink. 

You gasp out, and your hand leaves him to wave excitedly in the air. “Who was it? Was it someone from Hogwarts?”

Forgetting the rules of the game for a moment in a drunken stupor, Tom tells you, yes. She had been from Hogwarts.

“Did I know her?” is your next question.

“Yes,” he mutters, before he jerks back into his own head. He turns to scowl at you. “That is not how the game is played, Y/n.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, but you have never opened up to me about anything before, and it is wonderful to talk to you,” you confess. “I… do not talk to anyone much these days anymore. It is quite hard, with what happened. It is like everyone knows who I am. Like at the restaurant.”

Tom sits up a little, sobering in the slightest at the dip of your tone. “What happened at the restaurant?”

“Everyone was staring at me,” you tell him, struggling a shoulder. “I am surprised they didn’t kick us out.”

That is news to Tom - he must have been so enthralled with you that he hadn’t even noticed anyone else. He feels of flood of anger for not realizing it, and putting a stop to it. 

“I was not aware,” Tom says.

“It’s alright. I have grown used to it. A - anyways. It is your turn.”

The mood is heavier, less playful, as Tom asks you, truth or dare. It is no surprise that you choose truth. It was like you were both too scared to allow the other the true power of a dare. Truths seemed easier. 

“Did you enjoy our… date?” Tom asks, using that word only because you had earlier, in hopes to lighten the mood. The last chug from his drink has also left him feeling a bit bold.

“Then, it was a date, after all?” 

Tom watches you for a paralyzing moment. He forces himself to take a steady breath. “Did you want it to be?” he questions, quiet, nervous. He shakily brings his drink to his lips and gulps down a mouthful, waiting for your reply. 

You have him nearly shaking in his seat as you take a second to think on it, taking a sip of your own drink, setting it down, before turning to him with a poorly concealed grin. “That is not how this game is played, Tom,” you say. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

Like you had been expecting it, you’re quick witted with saying, “kiss me.”

Tom does not know what happens to the glass in his hands. All he remembers is that he finally, finally, closes the distance between your bodies. The soft crooning noise you let out when he kisses you has a vicious pull tugging at his stomach. His hands trace lines of fire up your body, not sure if it was him or you shaking at the contact. 

It must have been years since you’d felt the touch of another, and it showed, with how you melted into the palm of his hands. Tom folds just as easily when you bring your hand up to cup his face.

You both were drunk, and would most likely regret this come tomorrow morning. You would regret it, maybe, but to Tom, it is like you are bringing him another cursed object for him to have - but it was yourself, this time. The greatest treasure of them all. The object of his desires. 

Every movement, every gnashing of teeth, is a little sloppy, drunken noises flowing between you two as Tom pushes you back into the couch. 

You go willingly down onto your back, with Tom raising himself up to curl over your body. He steadies himself with a hand on the back of the couch, but even then he is a bit wobbly. 

“Have wanted you,” Tom breathes out between a kiss, no need for a truth or dare to reveal his inner most thoughts. “For months - since I saw you -”

Tom groans out a low sound when you cup him through his suit. He has never been so hard before, he has never been drunk before, both feelings so new and driving him wild. He trembles as you unbuckle his belt, drunken hands reaching into his boxers as he moves to press between your legs, beneath your dress. You both gasp out at the contact. 

“I dare you to fuck me,” you whisper into his ear, stroking him at the same time as he rubs circles into your clit. He’s breathing heavily into the crook of your neck, fighting to restrain himself, but at your words, he gives in. He was too drunk to think of the consequences. All he knew, was that you wanted him so desperately in that moment, and he was more than happy to comply with what he had been dared to do.

And Tom fucks you, right there on your couch, too carried away to notice your bed only feet away. He only wishes he wasn’t so drunk so that he could remember more of it.

He is quick to remove his pants while you hike up your dress, and pull down your underwear. You both were heavily intoxicated, but your actions were fluid, Tom coming back to you and you welcoming him with outstretched arms. Your mouths meet in a blurred hole in Tom’s memories, not recalling the initial moment he’d first penetrated you, but he comes back in the middle of fucking into you with a passion so intense that he is sure he will remember once he is sober. 

Your fervid moans of his name mix in with his own cries of your name, echoing off of your walls. 

Tom does not know how much time passes, but every drunken minute is bliss, all up until the moment he comes with a bodily tremor that rips up his spine. He almost blacks out when you finish, his arms barely able to keep him up any longer. He crawls back onto the couch, breaths heavy, but he is at least able to pull his pants back up and rearrange himself before settling down.

He does not recall what happened next.

Tom assumes you both continued drinking, laughing into the night, because the next thing he knows, he wakes up with a pounding in his head. 

He realizes all too quickly that he was not in his apartment. He sits up slowly, still a little drunk, squinting at the brightness of the morning. 

So he had ended up on the bed, after all. Your sleeping body laid next to his. 

In that moment, Tom feels a singular strike of panic ignite in his chest. 

He had just crossed a line with you that he had never even thought was possible. He never thought anything would ever happen with you, because he had known himself. Or, he had known what sober him would’ve done; which was nothing. Drunk Tom hadn’t been made aware that he was not supposed to have sex with you. He was not supposed to give into what he had been truly desiring.

Furthering your relationship would only cause problems in the future. Tom didn’t want problems to arise between you. Your work relationship functioned as it should. You brought him things of use, not much was said, and that was that. 

Tom brings a hand to your cheek, and runs it down the length of your skin. He would remember that night forever. It would haunt him in the quiet moments of the day.

Without waking you, or leaving word, Tom gathers his things, and apparates home. 

His chest is sunken in with dread within the days that follow. He does not hear from you, or see you, at all, for a month. He cannot imagine how you’d felt waking to an empty apartment. 

No deliveries are made. No letters in the mail promising you’d be there on a certain day, at a certain time.

It is not until another few weeks pass that you come by, only it is not as smooth as past visits.

Tom is tidying up in the front, rearranging shelves to display new items, when a crashing in the back has him going still. It could be a number of things, but none of them were good. He is quick to lock the entrance, and slowly makes his way towards the source of the noise with his wand raised. 

A groan comes from within the room.

In the corner, you are laying in a heap of crushed boxes and broken glass. It was only you, making a crash landing from escaping another quest by the skin of your teeth. He lowers his wand. 

You have done this before, this kind of crash landing. Only, this time, you’re not quick to get up and dust yourself off with a laugh. This time, you remain where you lay.

“Y/n?” Tom slowly comes closer, wand to the ready. 

You were a hunter of cursed objects, it could be that one got ahold of you. He is cautious as he crouches down to inspect you further. His stomach drops when he spots a blooming patch of red across your side. It is a heavy shock to his system, because it is the first time he has seen you in almost two months, and you are bleeding out into the wreckage of ruined boxes. It is so different to how he’d left you.

“That hurt,” you manage with a weak croak. 

It didn’t seem like you were possessed, so Tom drops his wand to use both hands to lift you up with ease. His stomach swims at the close proximity, but he pushes that aside. You were hurt. You needed aid.

Shrapnel falls as he carries you over to his desk, where he sets you down carefully in his chair. You smack at his hands when he attempts to peel back your coat. 

Tom huffs. “Let me see.”

“No,” you groan. “I’m fine. The cursed object is in my pocket, let me just -” 

A pained cry slips from your mouth when you move to reach into your pocket, forcing you back into the chair. Tom waits for an agonizing moment for you to finally meet his eyes, and gesture for him to continue. 

When he exposes the injury to the air, Tom sucks in a sharp breath. A jagged wound was cut deep into your side, bleeding heavily into the materials of your torn shirt. A curse had done this. 

Someone had dared to curse you. 

Tom shakes from anger, but he cannot think on it too long. “Wait here,” he tells you.

“Don’t think I have much of a choice,” comes your mumbled reply.

There is a small bathroom where Tom gathers towels and a bowl of water which he heats till its steaming. The water in the bowl sloshes around from how quickly he moves back to where you’re barely clinging to consciousness, the bloody wound an angry red against the monotone of the shop. 

“Keep still.” 

Tom makes quick work of cleaning the wound of the dirt and blood. It is still bleeding heavily, but he’d cleaned it mostly of the black ash that had been smeared into your skin. He brings his wand up to the wound, movements careful, stitching the gash together back as gently as he can. You’re biting into your knuckles to keep from passing out. 

When the injury has been healed, then only does Tom sit back and watch you carefully. He is waiting for what you say next. He isn’t sure where to go from here, but he knew you needed rest. He did not know where you lived, too drunk to remember, and you were in no state to teleport yourself home. It is a wonder you’d made it back here at all. 

“Thanks,” you say after a heavy moment of breathing through the pain. “I should… leave.”

“And go where?” Tom stops you with a hand to your shoulder. You wince, but allow him to gently push you back into the chair. “You cannot walk. You cannot apparate alone.”

“Then what do you suggest I do? You do not know where I live,” you say, then quieter, “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

Tom makes a decision, in that split second of you glancing up at him in agony. “Then we will go to my place,” he says, leaving no room for you to disagree as he stands. 

“What?” you blurt out, but he’s already left your side.

Locking up the shop takes all but 2 minutes. He leaves the display cases undone - he would come in early tomorrow to finish up. 

“Tom, I don’t think -” your weak protests are silenced as he throws you a look over his shoulder. You sigh out, and slump back into the chair. 

When Tom is ready, he is slow to help you to your feet. He has to sling your arm over his shoulder, and keep it pressed firmly into your waist. He feels a sting of possessiveness over you when you unexpectedly grab hold of his arm. He would kill whoever had hurt his treasure hunter.

Apparating home is quick, but the spell has you nearly crashing into the floor again if Tom hadn’t kept you upright. You’re the weakest, and most vulnerable Tom has ever seen you; has seen anyone. He’s never helped anyone in need before. He simply didn’t care for it. 

But this was… different. You weren’t another nobody wizard that fell at his feet. You were an outcast, a reject from wizard society. You have been the closet anyone has ever gotten to Tom. And you’ve helped him in more ways than you will ever know. It was his turn to finally help you.

If you let him.

“I can do it myself,” you grunt out when Tom tries to help you walk. He is frustrated to no end, but you had to learn yourself, he supposes. 

When he lets go of you, your balance is immediately thrown off. Tom is quick to steady you when you sway on your feet. You mutter out a string of curse words that he ignores as he leads you to the bathroom. 

You were still covered in soot, and whatever else you had dragged into his pristine home. You were not allowed in his bed unless you were clean. The wound would hold up under water, but he had to be careful not to move you too quickly. It could just as easily tear open again. 

“I can bathe myself,” you snap when Tom has finished running a hot bath. You were not steady enough to stand on your own two feet without a hand holding you, but sitting in a tub was easy. 

Tom is startled that you’re acting so… well, so rude. He is offering you aid, and you are treating him like scum for doing so. His eye twitches in irritation. He supposes it is only fair for how he’d left you, two months ago.

“Have it your way,” Tom mutters, flicking water into the tub after he had made sure it wasn’t too hot.

When you move to undress, Tom goes completely still. He watches as you unbutton your blouse to reveal the black lacy bra underneath. Even on a quest where you could die, you were dressed to the nines.

The tips of his ears flush as he is quick to look away. “I will… leave you to it,” Tom says. 

Tom does not go far. He sits outside of the bathroom in case you fell, and needed his help. He sits and listens as you stand, the splash of water when you get in the tub, and the gentle swishing of water as you clean yourself. He waits until you call out his name. 

Popping a head into the bathroom, nervous in his own home, Tom finds you curled up in the tub. The water was murky with blood and dirt.

“Could I get a towel, and some clothes?” You ask, adding on a quiet, “please,” as an after thought.

With a wave of his wand, Tom sets a clean towel and a stack of clothes on the sink. He returns to his spot on the floor, waits and listens as you stand, dry yourself off, and slowly, ever so slowly, dress yourself. It takes quiet a while and Tom could’ve done it for you with magic, but he guesses you wanted some form of control in this new environment. 

You’re waiting for him on the edge of the tub when Tom comes back into the room, after you’ve called him in once more. 

“I cannot stand much longer,” you admit, voice warbled around the edges. He could see you were losing strength. You must be exhausted from the blood loss. “I am so dizzy, it is a miracle I dressed myself.”

The intimacy of having you in his apartment makes Tom feel strange as he guides you to his bed. He’s never had anyone over before; he’s never even helped anyone before. He had tried his hardest to be gentle, but he was as gentle as a sharp edge on a table that you bump with your hip. He wasn’t made for softness. He was a hardened force fated to take over the world. He didn’t know what he was doing with you here, easing you into his bed.

“Silk sheets,” you comment absently. “Of course Tom Riddle has silk sheets.”

“They are optimal for the best sleep. Sleep is important.” 

“I think so too, and I do not own silk sheets.”

“No,” Tom agrees. “But you do own far more clothes and accessories than I do, when you could spend the money on something more useful.” 

You frown at him. “What is more useful than a good outfit? I’ll have you know, certain pairs of clothes have saved my life on quests. Do not doubt a well put together uniform.”

Tom does not have it in him to carry on such a useless conversation. You must be on the borderline of delirium, with how many words you’ve spoken to him despite still being mad at him. 

He apparates into his kitchen to grab a glass of water, before appearing at your side again. He pushes the glass into your hands. “Drink. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“It is not the worst injury I have sustained,” you inform him, but drink the glass down ravenously. 

He cannot think of anything worse than the large gash across your ribs. Anything worse, especially if you’d treated it alone, would’ve cost you your life. Tom burns with anger at the thought of you alone, bleeding out, having to take care of yourself on the verge of death. It was hard to think about, but you were probably used to dealing with such things alone. 

“Thank you, Tom,” you say once he has brought you another glass. You drink it slower this time, contemplating, as he watches from the foot of the bed he’s settled on. “I… am not used to help. It is strange that I am being treated this way, especially from -”

Tom knows you were about to say, especially from him. 

Like you, he had a reputation. He knows what others think of him. He never let it get to him, as he knew none of their words truly mattered. Not when he had his plans. He was the Slytherin head boy, cold and calculating. He was highly favored by his teachers, but he had no real friends or relationships to speak of. 

Tom remembers you, before you’d been expelled. You had been so different compared to the husk of a person you are now. You’d been happy, bright eyed, wanting to make a difference in the wizarding world. He remembers you were always wickedly smart in any of the classes you two had. But the person you were died along with Myrtle Warren. You’d been the one who found her, so naturally you were accused of doing such a thing. 

Rumor spread fast. You’d been labeled a murderer, and cast out of school merely a few days later. Your reputation had been ruined, and nothing could repair it. Not even your innocence. 

Tom knew it wasn’t you, but unlike the other few students who believed you had nothing to do with it, he had proof, because it had been his fault she’d been killed. 

Now, you were cold. Angry. Kept everyone at a distance, just like Tom did. He saw himself in you, after you’d been cast out. Alone. He wonders if maybe he was the closest thing you had to a friend, although he didn’t know much of your life outside of work. Maybe you did have others, than just Tom at Borgin and Burkes.

“I owe you, I suppose,” Tom says. He takes the glass once you’ve finished it, and you tuck further into the mattress. Your eyelids grow heavy, head resting into the pillow. Tom is almost kind in the way he brings the blankets up to cover your chest. His apartment got cold at night. He didn’t want you to get sick. “Rest.”

Tom moves to leave, but he freezes in place when you’ve grabbed hold of him. He turns, expecting a request for another glass of water, but he is surprised to find that you’ve already fallen asleep. He glances down at your hand holding his; you had done it unconsciously. 

He sits down on the bed, allowing you to hold his hand until the sunrises. He does not move. He thinks that maybe you needed it, the contact. Skin on skin. Maybe he needed it too, but he pushes that thought away as quick as it comes. He watches you sleep throughout the night, whenever you stir, drawing his attention from the book he’d picked up. 

You do not wake until the sunrises. 

The first beams of light hit your face, seeping in from the curtains Tom hadn’t had a chance to draw. He hears the first deep breath you take upon regaining consciousness, and he prepares himself for what lies ahead. 

Your hand rips from his and you sit up in alarm, scrambling up against the headboard. The sudden movement must pull at your still healing wound, as you hiss out a low sound of pain.

“Calm down,” Tom snaps. “You are safe.”

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you squint at Tom in the soft morning light of his apartment. Your hand touches at the healed wound. Like him when he’d woken at your apartment, you recall the events that lead up to you waking up in Tom’s apartment - Borgin and Burkes, Tom bringing you here, helping you. 

Your chest rises and falls with a deep breath, and you settle against the headboard in surrender. “I remember now,” you murmur, almost ashamed. 

Tom can see you’ve begun to start shaking, and he feels an edge bite into him. He didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. Waking up here must feel incredibly awkward. Receiving aid from the very one who had hurt you, not long ago.

“You are free to leave,” Tom says. “I am not keeping you prisoner.”

You nod shyly, fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. 

After no attempt is made to leave on your part, Tom pops into the kitchen, and returns a moment later with another glass of water. He should’ve hydrated you more last night, but two glasses of water seemed all you could handle before you’d fallen asleep. He forces you to drink two more glasses before he tells you to sit tight, and don’t move, as he apparated to the store to pick up things for breakfast. 

When he returns, you are indeed in the same spot. He hadn’t meant it literally, but it seems you’d taken it that way. 

Only when he unpacks the ingredients do you quietly get up to use the restroom. Tom stops what he’s doing to make sure you’re able to get there on your own, hypervigilant of your light footsteps, wobbly but otherwise fine. 

Once you’re out of the restroom and back in bed, Tom continues. He was waiting for another crash. Another call of his name. It hadn’t come.

You move with a certain timidness that has Tom a little on edge. You’ve been watching him, skittish, like he is going to kick you out for breathing too loudly. 

Tom finishes breakfast with a quick wave of his wand, serving up a pile of eggs and bacon, and a side of toast. It feels incredibly domestic, incredibly odd, as he sits across from you at his dinning table he doesn’t think he’s ever used. Not even once. He didn’t entertain guests, and he ate all his meals outside of the house.

Not much is said other than your gentle thank you’s, more subdued and willing to accept his help than the day before. He can see that your fork is trembling in your grasp with every raise and fall of it to your mouth. 

“What happened?” Tom finally asks, once you’ve cleared your plate, still across from him. He’s been wanting to know since you’d apparated into the shop. 

He needed to know who he’d be hunting down.

“I was attacked,” you supply dryly. When Tom clenches his fist, you go on hurriedly, “I think they were following me. I must’ve tipped them off, somehow when I had passed through a town, and when I got close enough, they started firing at me. I’d just managed to retrieve the item before I’d been hit.”

“And what is it that you nearly died for?” Tom uses his wand to pick up your coat, and finds a small piece of something tucked away in the coat. He motions for it to be brought to him, and once it finds its way into his hands, he is struck by a cold grip wrapping around his heart. 

It had been another cursed object he had been looking for.

You’d been hunting it for Tom. It is why you’d gotten hurt. He hadn’t known you’d actually go looking for it, much less find it. It was highly sought after. No wonder you’d nearly died for it. He had told you about it that night before he’d left you in your apartment, alone, and it’s taken you months to find it. Following up on leads, tracing down passages of it written in books. He would never fail to be surprised at your abilities.

Tom looks up at you, not knowing what to say.

Your eyes are down, unable to meet Tom’s gaze that holds a rare moment of emotion. He is a little choked up that you’d go to such lengths for him, even after he had abandoned you. He has admirers, followers who would worship the ground he walked on, but none of them mattered. They were all below him. None of them held even a flame to his powers.

But you, it was like you were on his level. Your magic, your smarts, everything. It is a shame you’d been expelled from Hogwarts. You would’ve made a fine Auror.

“You’ve proven yourself of use to me, time and time again,” Tom says, after gathering himself. “Anything you wish, ask for it, and I will provide.”

You give a somber laugh. “Unless you can change my past, then there is nothing I want from you, Tom.”

“There must be something you want.”

“I want… companionship,” you say, head shaking a moment later at the pitiful request. “I - I don’t know. There is nothing I want.”

You’d said companionship - Tom could provide that, to some degree. It is exactly what he had been running from when he’d left that morning, but it seems that it has found him yet again. And he could not turn you away this time.

“Stay with me,” Tom tells you, and only then do you look up. He can see you’re going to shoot him down, so he adds on, “just for a few days, until you’re fully recovered. Then you may leave if you wish.”

You think on it for a second, before agreeing. 

Those few days are the strangest, and most wonderful time Tom has had maybe in all of his life. You’re there from the moment he wakes, to when he goes to bed. You’re there waiting for him when he comes home from work, and you greet him with a shy smile that he unwittingly returns. He has always found peace in his solitude, but he is almost excited to get off work with every passing day, knowing you’ll be in his bed reading. 

The first day he’d arrived home from work, he is almost startled to find you still there. He had nearly forgotten. It is a delightful surprise when he apparates home, and you’ve just emerged from the kitchen with an apple between your lips. You’re both shocked frozen, until Tom takes off his jacket, and you ask about his day. 

Routine falls into play, after the first tense, almost timid first day and night. 

Another thing - Tom didn’t have anywhere else to sleep. His couch was too small to fit on comfortably, and he valued his sleep. He would not force himself to sleep on something so uncomfortable. He’d been in a strange dilemma with himself, almost regretting the offer to have you stay, when you’d patted the space next to you on the bed that first night. Inviting Tom to come sleep on his own bed. He was thrown by your almost cute gesture for him to join you. 

Both of you were adults. It was possible to sleep in a bed together without anything out of the ordinary happening. 

Only, something did happen, but Tom hadn’t spoken of it the next day and neither had you. And it happened every night since you’d started sleeping in his bed. 

Tom was never big on any kind of physical touch with anyone, he’d been disgusted by even the smallest touches, but in the middle of the night, you’d scooted up against him. He had woken immediately at the feeling of your warm body against his. He figured you were cold from how chilly his apartment got. Tom was a person who slept on his back, finding that it was the best position, usually with an arm thrown over his eyes to block out the little light that came into his apartments. 

You’d taken the opportunity to then lay your head on his chest, your arm coming to rest on his waist. 

Again, he hadn’t slept. At least, for the first hour you’d cuddled up against him. His body was pumped full of adrenaline at the weight of another’s head upon his chest, the feel of your hair tickling his nose. He should’ve pushed you off; you were effecting his sleep. But he eventually drifted off, and when he’d come to in the morning, he felt as though he’d gotten some of the most effective sleep he’d ever had. 

Strange. 

It was all so strange to him, these new found feelings at every turn with you. 

Tom wondered if he was the only one feeling it. Surely it wasn’t just in his head. 

And on the 5th day you’ve been staying there, it is made known to him exactly how much he wanted you to stay, when you’d brought up going home. 

“I have been here for a while,” you tell him after dinner. He’d been cooking everyday since you’ve been staying with him. He actually had food in the fridge, fruits on the counter. It was a stark difference to the fridge merely being there for decoration. “I’m healed enough where I can be on my own. I think it is best if I… leave.”

Tom unintentionally swallows what he’d been chewing before he was finished with it, and for a moment, it gets caught in his throat. He has to sip a mouth full of water to keep himself from choking on it. He sets the glass down slowly, trying to come up with a reason, anything, for you to stay. He had grown used to you being there. It hadn’t even been a week, but he wouldn’t have minded if you were there for another. And another. Possibly forever. 

He did not want to go back to how things had been for the last two months. No word on if you were alive or dead.

“Unless,” you say apprehensively, bringing his fiery glare up from scorching a mark into the table. “I could, perhaps, stay a little longer?”

In order not to give himself away, Tom has to force himself to pause for a moment and not jump to agree right away. He pretends to think it over, watching how you anxiously press your lips together in a line, your hands coming up to nervously pick at the table, before he accepts. 

“I suppose you could stay,” Tom says in a nonchalant manner, even though his heart is a volcano erupting inside of his chest. The possibilities this could bring; more nights of you sleeping against him, days where you’ve already prepared dinner him when he comes home, mornings where you both agree only five more minutes just to curl up with each other and drift off again. 

“Really?” you exclaim, startling Tom as he raises his fork to his mouth. He blinks at you in surprise at your outburst. He’s amused when you shrink back, embarrassed, that you’d reacted in such a way. It is like you hadn’t expected him to agree in the slightest. “I - I mean, um. Thank you.”