#dark prince

The rain in Knockturn Alley didn’t wash things clean; it only turned the grime into a slick, obsidian lacquer. Inside Borgin and Burkes, the air remained stagnant, smelling of dust, dried rot, and the faint, metallic tang of dark enchantments.

​Tom Riddle slid the heavy iron bolt into place, the sound echoing sharply against the glass cases. He was twenty, possessing a face of such cold, aristocratic beauty that it often felt more like a mask than skin. His shift was over, and his mind was already miles away, drifting toward the Restricted Section of a library he no longer had easy access to.

​Then, he heard it.

​It wasn't a footstep. It was a sound of friction—a dry, rhythmic scraping against wood. A slither, but broken. Labored.

​Tom’s hand didn't go for his wand immediately; he didn't feel fear. He felt curiosity, which, in him, was a far more dangerous emotion. He turned slowly, his pale eyes scanning the shadows of the shop until they landed on a shipment of Cursed Skulls that had arrived that morning.

​There, coiled amidst the straw and the splinters of an open crate, was a snake.

​She was magnificent, even in her wretched state. Her scales were the color of deep bruising—violets and charcoal—shimmering with an iridescent oil-slick sheen. But the symmetry was ruined by a jagged, bleeding gash near her midsection, the flesh weeping a dark, sluggish red onto the packing hay.

​"A long way from home, aren't you?" Tom murmured. His voice was a velvet rasp, practiced and haunting.

​The snake’s head snapped up. Even wounded, her instincts were lethal. Her hood flared—not like a common cobra, but with a grace that suggested something more than animal.

​As Tom took a step closer, leaning into the crate’s shadow, the snake struck.

​It was a pathetic attempt. She launched herself with a desperate hiss, fangs bared and dripping with a clear, lethal venom. But the movement cost her. The wound in her side buckled, and she fell short, her snout striking the edge of the wood before she tumbled back into the straw.

​Tom didn't flinch. He watched her with a clinical sort of fascination. "A Maledictus," he whispered, the realization tasting sweet on his tongue. "I can see the human pride still burning in those eyes."

​The snake tried to coil again, her golden-slitted pupils fixed on him with pure defiance. She hissed a warning that translated in Tom’s mind as a jagged scream for him to get back.

​He reached out a long, pale finger, hovering it just inches from her head. She tried to lunge again, but her muscles simply gave up. A shudder ran through her long, coiled length. The defiance in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a hazy, grey film of exhaustion.

​Slowly, her head sunk into the hay. The frantic pulse in her throat slowed. She had fought until the very last drop of blood allowed it, and now, she was gone—not to death, but to the deep, dark pull of unconsciousness.

​Tom looked down at the broken creature. Most would see a pest, or a dangerous predator to be extinguished. Tom saw a mirror. He saw something beautiful, cursed, and trapped.

​"Well then," Tom said, his fingers finally brushing the cold, damp scales of her hood. "Let's see if we can't make use of you."

⋇⋆✮⋆⋇

​Tom’s flat was a testament to his discipline: sparse, impeccably clean, and dangerously quiet. It was a single room tucked away at the top of a leaning building in a nearby court. There was a desk piled with parchment, a small stove, and a narrow bed covered in dark, heavy linens.

​He laid her there, her long, heavy body taking up nearly the entire length of the mattress.

​He had gathered a bowl of warm water and a clean cloth, his movements efficient as he prepared to close the wound. He didn't use his wand yet; he wanted to feel the texture of the curse that had struck her. But as he knelt by the bedside, the air in the room began to hum.

​It was a sound like a low-frequency vibration, the kind that preceded a powerful magical discharge. The snake’s body began to ripple—not the movement of muscles, but a warping of space itself.

​Tom froze, his basin of water forgotten as he watched.

​The iridescent scales didn't fall off; they seemed to melt inward, turning into a fine, dark mist that clung to the skin emerging beneath. The thick, muscular coil began to split and lengthen. Hard, reptilian lines softened into the curves of hips, the length of legs, and the delicate arch of a human back.

​The transformation was silent and agonizingly slow. Within moments, the violet snake was gone. In her place lay a woman, pale and glistening with a light sweat, her breath hitching in her sleep. She was entirely unclothed, a vulnerability that seemed at odds with the ferocity she had shown in the shop.

​The jagged wound remained, now carved into the soft skin of her waist, weeping blood onto Tom's pristine sheets.

​Tom did not look away. He didn't feel the heat of a flush or the urge to cover her. Instead, he leaned closer, his dark eyes tracing the line of her throat, then the curve of her shoulder, before settling on the wound.

​"Fascinating," he breathed.

​He reached out, his cool hand pressing firmly against her hip to steady her as he finally raised his wand. He began to murmur a rhythmic, low-voiced incantation to knit the flesh. As the wound began to close under his touch, he watched her face—waiting for the moment those golden eyes would open and realize she was no longer in the shadows of a crate, but in the hands of a monster who found her far too interesting to let go.

As the day dragged into the night and onto dawn, you awoke not with a start, but with a sharp, violent clarity.

​The first thing you felt was the biting chill of a stone wall against your bare back. You had scrambled backward the second your eyes snapped open, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You clutched the dark, silk-soft duvet to your chest, your knuckles white, your breath coming in shallow, jagged gasps.

​Across the small, dim room, Tom Riddle sat in a high-backed wooden chair. He wasn't working. He wasn't reading. He was simply watching you, his hands folded neatly over his knee.

​"Careful," he said, his voice a low, steady chime in the silence. "The skin is still tender. If you strain it, you’ll undo my work."

​"Where am I?" Your voice was gravelly, unused to human vocal cords after so long in the coil. You didn't move an inch away from the wall, your eyes darting toward the door. "Who are you?"

​"You are in my home. And I am the one who decided you were worth more than a decorative rug for Mr. Borgin." He tilted his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. "Most would have called the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. They have... unpleasant ways of dealing with your kind."

​"I don't care who you are," you spat, the hostility flaring in your eyes. You felt exposed, not just by your lack of clothing, but by the way he looked at you—as if he were reading a book he had already mastered. "Let me go. Now."

​Tom didn't move. A small, cold smile touched the corner of his mouth. "You can barely sit upright without trembling, let alone walk down those stairs. You were dying in that crate, little snake. Blood loss, a curse-scarred side... you were a mess of scales and desperation."

​"I'd rather die in a crate than be a prisoner here," you countered, your body tensing as if you might try to strike him even in this form.

​"A prisoner?" Tom let out a soft, dry laugh. He stood up slowly, and though he remained several feet away, his presence seemed to expand, filling the cramped room. "If I wanted a prisoner, I would have kept you in the crate. I brought you here because I recognize talent. And beauty. Even when it’s covered in filth."

​He reached for a black silk robe draped over the end of the bed and tossed it toward you. "Cover yourself. If you truly wish to bleed out in the rain of Knockturn Alley, I won't stop you. But I suspect you have a deeper instinct for survival than that."

​You caught the robe, your eyes never leaving his. The distrust was thick enough to choke the air between you. He was too calm, too handsome, and far too comfortable with the sight of a half-dead Maledictus in his bed.

​"Why help me?" you whispered, your voice trembling despite your anger. "Men like you don't do things for free."

​"You're right," Tom said, his gaze dropping to the faint, shimmering scar on your waist. "I expect to be repaid. Eventually."

​He stood by the door for a moment, adjusting his cuffs with clinical precision. "I have a shift to complete. Stay. Rest. If you try to run, you will only end up bleeding on my doorstep, and I find a mess on the landing to be quite tedious."

​With that, he was gone, the click of the lock a sharp reminder of his control.

​Alone in the silence, you sank back into the pillows, the black silk robe clutched to your skin. Your body felt heavy, aching with the memory of the curse and the exhaustion of the change. You looked around the room—every book, every inkwell, every fold of the curtains was placed with terrifying intent. You were safe, for now, but you were also a bird in a very gilded cage. Survival, however, was a habit you couldn't break. You would wait. You would heal.

​Miles away, in the dim, cramped aisles of Borgin and Burkes, Tom was a shadow among shadows. He moved through the store with his usual predatory grace, cataloging a set of shrunken heads and a tarnished silver locket that pulsed with a dark, familiar energy.

​But for the first time in his life, his focus was fractured.

​As he polished a heavy obsidian mirror, he didn't see his own reflection. He saw the way the scales had melted into skin. He saw the gold-slitted eyes that had glared at him with such delicious, unyielding hatred. He felt the phantom pressure of her hip beneath his palm—a softness he hadn't expected.

​He realized then, with a jolt of cold curiosity, that he hadn't even asked her name.

​When Tom returned that evening, the flat was bathed in the orange glow of a dying sunset. He stepped inside and stopped.

​You were asleep again, but your rest was fitful. You had sprawled across the center of his bed, the heavy silk robe having slipped during your tossing and turning. It hung precariously off one shoulder, exposing the smooth, pale curve of your back and the long line of your leg.

​Tom stood over you, his coat still damp from the evening fog. He didn't look away. His gaze was slow, possessive, admiring the porcelain quality of your skin and the way your dark hair fanned out across his pillow. You looked like a masterpiece he had stolen—something rare that no one else was allowed to touch.

​A floorboard creaked under his weight. Your eyes flew open.

​In an instant, you were sitting up, your hands scrambling to pull the silk back over your body, your back hitting the headboard with a thud. "You," you breathed, your eyes wild and defensive.

​"Me," he replied coolly, stepping back to his desk. He didn't apologize for watching. "Your color is better. The healing has taken hold."

​"I'm leaving," you said, though your voice lacked the strength of your conviction.

​"No," Tom said. It wasn't an argument; it was a decree. He pulled out his chair and sat, his back to you as he began to unroll a piece of parchment. "Now that you can move, you will make yourself useful. I find I have need of an assistant—someone with... specialized instincts. You will come to the shop with me tomorrow."

​"I won't work for you," you spat.

​Tom turned his head slightly, his profile sharp and unforgiving in the candlelight. "You will. Because without my protection, you are merely a creature for the Ministry to hunt. And because, quite frankly, I won't allow you to leave."

​He turned back to his work, the scratching of his quill the only sound in the room. "Sleep. You’ll need your strength for the morning."

You hissed and moved further against the wall. You realised he was right. You had no choice, but that doesn't mean you'll completely give up fighting.

⋇⋆✮⋆⋇

A month in Tom Riddle’s presence was like living in the eye of a slow-moving hurricane. The world outside the flat and Borgin and Burkes felt distant, muffled by the sheer weight of his ambition.

​He was a meticulous teacher. He didn't just show you how to identify cursed jewelry or how to soothe the spirits trapped in weeping cabinets; he taught you how to feel the pulse of magic in your own veins. He spoke of your Maledictus curse not as a tragedy, but as a "unique resonance," showing you how to channel the restless energy of the snake even while in your human skin.

​But the proximity didn't mean peace.

​"Don't saw at it," Tom said, his voice tight with controlled impatience.

​They were in the small kitchenette of the flat, which Tom had converted into a temporary apothecary. A cauldron simmered between them, the beginnings of Felix Felicis glowing like molten gold. You were struggling with a slippery Murtlap Tentacle, the blade of your knife sliding uselessly against the rubbery flesh.

​"I am doing it," you snapped, your frustration peaking.

​"You're mangling it. You have to crush the bulb first to release the essence." Tom moved closer, his shadow falling over you. He reached out, his long, cool fingers intending to wrap around your hand to guide the blade.

​Before he could make contact, you reacted. You slapped his hand away with a sharp crack and let out a low, involuntary hiss that vibrated in the back of your throat—a remnant of the serpent that never truly slept.

​Tom froze. He looked at you unimpressed. He simply stared at his hand, then up at you, his dark eyes unreadable. After a tense beat, he rolled his eyes with a sigh of weary arrogance.

​"Fine," he muttered, stepping back and crossing his arms. "Mangle it, then. I suppose the luck will just be a bit... bruised."

​He let you finish on your own, watching with a mocking tilt of his head, though you noticed he didn't move to the other side of the room. He stayed just close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from him.

​The lessons moved from basic identification to the complex art of identity itself. Tom had decided it was time for you to learn the Polyjuice Potion—a tool he considered essential for "discreet acquisitions."

​"The transformation is painful," Tom warned, leaning against the counter as the thick, mud-like brew simmered. "It feels as though your skin is being pulled from your bones. But for our work, it is a necessary discomfort."

​He had sent you out to the market earlier that morning with a specific task: retrieve a hair from a stranger. You had returned with a coarse, grey strand from a local fishmonger, but as you stood over the finished cauldron, a flash of defiance flickered in your chest.

​When Tom turned his back to retrieve a crystal phial, you didn't drop the fishmonger's hair into your cup. Instead, you reached out and plucked a single, dark thread from the shoulder of Tom’s own wool coat.

​You drank the potion before he could intervene.

​The effect was instantaneous and agonizing. You buckled, gasping as your skeleton stretched and your features warped. When the smoke cleared and the coughing stopped, you stood up slowly, wiping your mouth with a hand that was no longer small and delicate. It was long-fingered, pale, and steady.

​Tom turned around and froze.

​He was looking at himself. You stood there, a perfect mirror of his aristocratic features, his cold eyes, and even the precise way he held his shoulders. The only difference was the black silk robe you wore, which now hung tight across your broader frame.

​"Change back," Tom said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low hiss. He did not like it. To Tom, his face was his greatest mask, and seeing it on someone else—especially someone he considered his to shape—felt like a violation of his very being.

​You, however, were delighted. You took a step toward him, mimicking his predatory stride perfectly. You tilted your head at the exact angle he often did when he was judging a customer.

​"Change back," you repeated, perfectly capturing the velvet rasp of his voice. You reached out, tracing the line of your—his—jaw. "I find I have need of an assistant... someone with specialized instincts. You will come to the shop with me tomorrow."

​"Stop that," Tom snapped, his pale skin flushing with a rare spark of genuine irritation.

​"I am a rarity," you continued, circling him as he had done to you so many times. You leaned into his ear, whispering his own words back to him. "It’s almost as interesting as the Horcrux, isn't it, Tom? The way the candlelight catches the gold in... my eyes?"

​Tom let out a frustrated growl and rolled his eyes, turning away to hide the fact that he was momentarily speechless. "You are insufferable," he muttered, though he didn't move to the other side of the room.

​You leaned against the desk, crossing your arms just like him. "Mangle it, then," you teased, your voice a perfect echo of his. "I suppose the luck will just be a bit... bruised."

​He refused to speak nor look at you for the remainder of the hour, occupying himself with a stack of ledgers while you lounged in his chair, enjoying the novelty of his height. Finally, your bones began to ache and shrink. Your features melted back into your own, and your voice returned to its natural pitch.

​The silence in the room became sharp again. Tom closed his ledger with a deliberate thud and stood up, walking over to where you sat. He didn't stop until he was looming over you, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, trapping you between his arms.

​"Don't ever do that again," he said, his voice no longer annoyed, but cold and terrifyingly serious. He leaned in until your noses almost touched, his dark eyes searching yours. "I don't like being seen. Especially not by myself. My identity is not a toy for your amusement, and my face is not yours to wear."

​He reached out, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip with a possessive force that was almost a bruise. "I allowed it this once because the potion was successful. But if you ever try to mimic me again, I will find a way to make sure your own skin stays on your body permanently. Do you understand?"

​You swallowed hard, the amusement from moments ago evaporating under the weight of his gaze. You nodded slowly.

​"Good," he whispered, finally pulling away. "Now, clean the cauldron. We have work to do."

​As he turned his back to return to his desk, you rolled your eyes at his retreating form. You waited until he was just out of arm's reach before twisting your face into a mocking, exaggerated pout, whispering under your breath in a high-pitched, nasally imitation of his aristocratic drawl:

​"nOw, ClEaN ThE CaUlDrOn. We hAvE WoRk tO Do."

​Tom’s shoulders stiffened. He stopped mid-step and began to turn his head back toward you, his brow furrowing with suspicion.

​In a heartbeat, your face went perfectly blank. You reached for the scrubbing brush and a bucket of water, humming a tuneless little melody as you scrubbed at the copper bottom of the cauldron with saintly focus. You didn't even look up when his shadow fell over you for a moment.

​He let out a sharp, annoyed huff—not quite a laugh, but the closest thing to it—and continued to his desk. He sat down and dipped his quill into the inkwell with a bit more force than necessary, but the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly before he returned to his dark, meticulous work.

​Now, the lesson was over, and the performance had begun.

​The air in Borgin and Burkes was thick with the scent of lavender water and mothballs, brought in by Hepzibah Smith. The elderly woman was draped in heavy silks, her fingers adorned with enough jewels to buy half of Knockturn Alley.

​Tom was in his element. He leaned over the counter, his smile radiant and seemingly genuine, his eyes fixed on the woman as if she were the only person in the world.

​"But surely, Madame Smith," Tom purred, his voice dripping with calculated charm, "a piece of such historical significance deserves a steward who truly understands its... weight. My assistant and I were just discussing how rare it is to find someone with your impeccable eye."

​He gestured toward you. You stood just behind his shoulder, dressed in a high-collared black dress he had provided. Your job was simple: be the silent, striking shadow that lent him an air of mystery and prestige.

​"Oh, Tom, you flatterer," Hepzibah giggled, patting her curled hair. She glanced at you, her eyes narrowing with a touch of envy before returning to Tom’s handsome face. "And your little helper... she has such a singular look about her. Quite exotic."

​"She is a rarity," Tom said, and for a split second, his gaze flickered back to you. It wasn't the look of a shopkeeper showing off an employee; it was the look of a collector showing off his most prized, dangerous possession.

​He leaned closer to the old woman, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Show her, darling. Show her the locket we were talking about. I think Madame Smith is the only one worthy of seeing it."

​You reached into the velvet-lined box on the counter. As your fingers brushed the gold, you felt the dark, oily thrum of the artifact. You caught Tom’s eye. He was waiting. The trap was set, and he expected you to help him spring it.

​The "heist" had been bloodless, a victory of manipulation over force. Hepzibah had been so enamored by Tom’s attention—and your carefully timed, silent nods of approval—that she had practically handed over the cursed goblet Tom had been hunting for months.

​As they walked through the damp, narrow streets of London toward the flat, the adrenaline of the success still hung in the air. Tom walked with a bit more spring in his step, the velvet-wrapped item tucked securely under his arm.

​"You played your part well," Tom remarked, his eyes glancing at you through the fog. "Better than I expected. You have a natural talent for silence."

​He paused, the silence stretching between them until it became heavy. "Tell me... in all this time, I’ve given you a home, taught you to channel your magic, and saved you from a crate. Am I ever going to get to know your name?"

​You stopped walking. The streetlamp above flickered, casting long, skeletal shadows. "No," you said, your voice cold and final.

​Tom stopped as well, turning to face you. "No? A month of living in the same room and I'm to call you 'Assistant' forever?"

​"My name belongs to a girl who died in a circus cage," you said, your chest tightening. "It reminds me of the taste of iron and the sound of people laughing while I bled. I don't want it. I don't want the past that comes with it."

​Tom watched you, his expression uncharacteristically neutral. He didn't offer comfort—he didn't know how—but he didn't push. He understood the desire to kill one’s past better than anyone.

​You turned your head away from his piercing gaze, your eyes landing on a small, dingy storefront across the street. It was a wizarding pet shop, its windows fogged and grime-streaked.

​Inside, stacked in the shadows, were rows of cramped cages. A large owl beat its wings uselessly against iron bars; a litter of kneazle kittens huddled in a space far too small for them; and in a glass tank at the bottom, several snakes lay coiled in stagnant water, their eyes dull and defeated.

​The sight hit you like a physical blow. You saw yourself in every one of those cages—trapped, displayed, and waiting for someone to decide your value. You felt the phantom itch of scales beneath your skin, the urge to strike at the glass until it shattered.

​"They're just animals," Tom said, noticing where your gaze had fixed.

​"They're prisoners," you whispered, your hands curling into fists. "Just like I was. Just like I am."

​Tom looked from the shop back to you. He saw the way you were trembling, the raw hostility returning to your eyes. He realized then that as much as he had taught you magic, he hadn't yet learned how to control the one thing that made you truly dangerous: your heart.

⋇⋆✮⋆⋇

The air in the flat had grown thick, charged with a static that made the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. For three days, Tom had barely slept. He had moved his desk to the center of the room, surrounded by candles that burned with a steady, eerie blue flame. In the center of the workspace lay the locket—the golden 'S' shimmering like a serpent’ eye.

​You remained in the shadows, a silent witness to a ritual that felt like it was tearing the very fabric of the room apart. Tom was attempting something beyond the curriculum he had taught you—something that tasted of ozone and ancient, rotting earth.

​A Horcrux.

​He was trying to tether a piece of himself to the gold, but the incantations were jagged, breaking against the locket’s own ancient protections. Tom’s face was a mask of strained concentration, his skin pale as parchment, sweat beading on his brow.

​Then, the air snapped.

​A shockwave of dark energy rippled outward, snuffing the blue candles and sending a stack of parchments flying like startled birds. Tom recoiled, his chair screeching against the floorboards as he slumped forward, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps.

​The locket sat cold and unchanged on the desk. A failure.

​Before the silence could settle, you were moving. You didn't wait for him to ask; you didn't wait for his permission. You crossed the room, your footsteps light, and reached for the pitcher on the small stove.

​"Drink," you commanded softly, pressing a glass of cool water into his shaking hand.

​Tom didn't snap at you. He didn't even look up at first. He gripped the glass, his knuckles white, and drained it in one go. You stood beside him, your hand hovering near his shoulder. You could feel the coldness radiating from him—the kind of cold that comes from reaching too deep into the void.

​"It... it rejected the fragment," Tom hissed, his voice cracked and raw. He slammed the empty glass onto the desk, his eyes fixed on the locket with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. "The vessel is perfect. The ritual is precise. Why?"

​"You're exhausted, Tom," you said, your voice a steady anchor in his storm of frustration. You reached out, and this time, you didn't hiss when your fingers brushed his temple, pushing back a stray lock of dark hair. "Your magic is fraying at the edges. You can't carve a soul with a blunt knife."

​Tom finally looked up at you. The usual mask of arrogance was gone, replaced by a hollow, predatory frustration. He reached out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist—not to restrain you, but to steady himself.

​"I am not like the others," he whispered, his grip tightening. "I do not fail."

​"You haven't failed," you countered, meeting his gaze. "You’ve just met your match in a piece of jewelry. Rest. If you break yourself tonight, there will be nothing left to put into that locket tomorrow."

​It took a surprising amount of effort to move him. Tom was taller than he looked, and his body was stiff with the remnants of the dark magic he’d unleashed. You guided him to the narrow bed, pulling back the heavy linens. He sat on the edge, looking uncharacteristically dazed, his eyes still fixed on the desk.

​"Lie down, Tom," you murmured.

​You pulled the blankets over him, tucking the edges in with a care that surprised even you. For a moment, his hand caught yours against the duvet—a fleeting, cold contact—before he let go, sinking into the pillows.

​You didn't go to your own makeshift bed on the floor. Instead, you moved to his desk. You cleared away the charred remains of the candles and pulled a fresh piece of parchment toward you. Your mind was racing. During the ritual, you hadn't just watched him—you had felt the magic. You had felt the moment the connection snapped, like a thread pulled too tight.

​You began to write. The resonance of the gold is too high for the initial severance... The blood-magic bridge is missing a stabilizer...

​The scratching of your quill was the only sound in the room. But as you worked, you felt a familiar prickle at the back of your neck. You didn't need to turn around to know he wasn't sleeping.

​"Sleep, Tom," you said, your eyes never leaving your notes.

​Silence. Then, a low, rasping voice from the bed. "I am watching you."

​You sighed, finally turning in the chair. Tom was propped up on one elbow, his dark hair messy against the white pillow, his pale face half-hidden in the shadows. His eyes, however, were wide and bright, fixed on you with a terrifying intensity. He wasn't looking at you as an assistant anymore. He was looking at you the way he looked at the locket—as a mystery he intended to solve.

​"Watching me won't fix the ritual," you said, trying to keep your voice level. "You’re drained. If you don't close your eyes, you’ll be useless by morning."

​"You didn't look away," he whispered, ignoring your advice. "When the darkness broke... you didn't flinch. Most would have run. Most would have died from the backlash."

​"I've survived worse things than a botched spell," you replied, turning back to the desk. "Now, close your eyes."

​"No," he said, his voice dropping to a velvet hum that sent a shiver down your spine. "I think I prefer this view. The way the candlelight catches the gold in your eyes... it’s almost as interesting as the Horcrux."

​You tried to focus on the parchment, but his gaze felt like a physical touch on your skin. He didn't speak again, but he didn't sleep either. He simply lay there in the dark, his eyes never leaving you, a predator watching its favorite prize finally start to shine.

The next day, the air had a taste of copper and old rain, just as it had for the last few days. Your skin felt too tight, a dull ache thrumming beneath your ribs that had nothing to do with the healing wound and everything to do with the beast coiled inside your soul. The Maledictus was scratching at the walls of your mind, demanding the cold, demanding the hunt.

​But Tom was so close. He was obsessed with the locket, his eyes sunken and his temper like a razor. You couldn't tell him. You didn't want to be a distraction, or worse—a failed experiment he might decide to discard.

​"Go to the market," Tom said, not looking up from a tome bound in human skin. His voice was distracted, distant. "We need more powdered moonstone. The quality of the last batch was... insulting. Don't be long."

​You nodded, wrapping your cloak tightly around your shivering frame. "I'll be back soon."

​The London market was a chaotic blur of noise and heat. Every shout of a vendor felt like a needle in your ear; every brush of a shoulder against yours made your skin crawl with the urge to strike. By the time you reached the apothecary stall, your vision was swimming in shades of green and violet.

​The change didn't happen slowly this time. There was no warning vibration.

​A sudden, agonizing heat flared in your spine. You gasped, clutching a stone wall as your bones began to liquefy and reform.

​"Help? Miss, are you—" a merchant started, reaching out a hand.

​"Get away!" you rasped, but the voice that came out was half-hiss.

​You turned and bolted into a narrow, filth-ridden alley, collapsing behind a stack of empty crates. The agony was total. You felt your legs fuse, your skin hardening into scales that tore through the black silk dress Tom had given you. You weren't in control; the snake was taking its pound of flesh.

​"Over there! Look at her!" a voice shrieked.

​A young boy had been playing near the crates. He was staring at you, eyes wide with terror as your human face elongated into a snout, your screams turning into the terrifying, rhythmic rattle of a giant serpent.

​"A monster! A Maledictus!" the boy’s father yelled, running into the alley with a heavy wooden crate-slat in his hand. "Call the Aurors! Get the beast-catchers!"

​You weren't fully conscious, but the instinct for survival was screaming. As a massive, violet-scaled snake, you slithered desperately over the trash, trying to find a drain, a hole—anything to escape the light.

​THWACK.

​A heavy stone struck your midsection, right where the old scar was. You let out a pained, vibrating hiss, your tail lashing out and shattering a wooden barrel.

​"Look at the size of it! Kill it before it bites someone!"

​More people gathered at the mouth of the alley. They weren't just scared; they were angry. A stray spell—a bright, stinging Reducto—blasted the brickwork inches from your head, showering you in hot dust.

​You were bleeding again. You were cold. And as you slithered through the mud of the London gutters, pursued by the shouts of a mob, your mind could only flicker to one image: the locked door of a flat and the man who told you that without him, you were nothing but prey.

​You slithered away, dodging the barrage of spells as best you could, but you couldn't dodge them all. A searing pain cut through your flank, and the world began to tilt. You tried to fight the monster inside, to hold onto the girl who sat at Tom’s desk, but as the mob cornered you, their faces twisted with a self-righteous bloodlust, something inside you finally snapped.

​You let go.

​The internal barrier holding back the curse vanished, replaced by a surge of raw, blackened wrath. Your body didn't just transform; it expanded. Your scales grew thick as armor, and your magic bled into the air like a poisonous fog. You grew in size, doubling, tripling, until your massive form burst from the narrow alleyway like a dark tidal wave.

​The wood and brick of the surrounding buildings groaned and then shattered under your weight. You weren't just a snake anymore; you were a force of nature. Your tail whipped through a storefront, sending glass and stone flying like shrapnel. The screams of the mob changed from anger to pure, unadulterated terror.

​You killed them. You didn't mean to, but the beast didn't care for intent. Anyone who was too slow to run was crushed or struck down by the sheer kinetic force of your agony. As you rampaged through the market square, the very ground cracked beneath you. Houses shivered. A cloud of soot and dust choked the air.

​You let out a cry—a sound that was half-scream, half-hiss—that echoed for miles. But the growth came with a price. The wound at your waist, the one Tom had worked so hard to knit together, stretched with you. The scar tore open, wider and deeper than before, spilling a trail of dark, shimmering blood across the wreckage of London.

​The sirens of the Ministry's emergency response team began to wail in the distance. The wizards were coming.

​Then, through the haze of smoke and your own blinding pain, you saw him.

​Tom Riddle was running. He wasn't fleeing like the others. He was sprinting toward the center of the destruction, his dark coat flapping behind him, his wand already gripped in his hand. He skidded to a halt amidst the ruins of a collapsed bakery, his chest heaving, his eyes wide as he looked up—up at the mountain of violet scales and the wounded, weeping beast that used to be his assistant.

The market square was a graveyard of splintered wood and pulverized stone. The air was thick with the smell of iron—the blood of the mob, and the shimmering, dark ichor pouring from your side.

​You were a mountain of violet scales, your mind lost in a red haze of pain and instinct. When Tom stepped into the clearing, you didn't see the man who had healed you. You saw a threat. You saw another hunter.

​"Stop!" Tom’s voice cut through the air, vibrating with a command that usually brought the world to its knees.

​You responded with a strike that shattered the stone pillar beside him.

​"§Listen to me, little snake§," he hissed, the Parseltongue sliding from his lips like silk. Usually, the language was a bridge, a way for him to bypass your defenses. But today, the beast was screaming too loud. The ancient, cursed magic of the Maledictus had drowned out his voice. You lunged again, your massive head swinging like a wrecking ball.

​Tom pulled his wand, the wood glowing with a fierce, defensive light. He could have ended it. He could have used a killing curse or a severing hex to protect himself. But for the first time in his life, his hand wavered. He didn't want to destroy the masterpiece; he wanted to save it.

​He saw the way your wound was tearing further with every thrashing movement. You were killing yourself. The rampage was a suicide mission, a frantic explosion of agony.

​"§Smaller!§" he roared, pouring every ounce of his will into a Transfiguration charm.

​The spell hit your massive flank, and the world buckled. Your size began to collapse, the magic forcing your cells to condense. You shrieked—a high, human-sounding sound—as you shrunk back down to the size of a common python, then further, until you were no larger than the snake he had found in the crate.

​Tom didn't hesitate. He dived into the mud and the blood, his expensive coat ruined as he tackled your thrashing form.

​"Enough!" he gasped, his arms wrapping around your cold, wet coils.

​You were a blur of muscle and teeth. You struck out, your fangs sinking deep into his forearm. Tom let out a hissed intake of breath, but he didn't pull away. He didn't cast you aside. Instead, he gripped you tighter, pinning your head against his chest, his heart hammering against your scales.

​"I have you," he whispered, his voice cracking with a rare, desperate emotion. "Stay still, you foolish girl. You're tearing yourself apart."

​He was covered in your blood. It soaked into his shirt, warm and metallic. He felt the venom from your bite beginning to burn in his veins, but he ignored the dizzying heat. He held you with a fierce, possessive strength, his chin resting on your head as the two of you sat in the center of the devastation.

​Then, he felt it.

​The frantic, lethal tension in your body began to falter. A soft, shuddering vibration ran through your length—not a hiss, but a sob.

​Tom pulled back just enough to look at you. Your golden eyes, usually so sharp and predatory, were clouded with a sudden, devastating lucidity. And through the slit pupils, he saw the glint of moisture. Tears.

​You were still biting him, your fangs locked in his flesh, but the pressure was gone. You were clinging to him the only way you knew how. Through the haze of the curse, you had finally recognized the scent of the man who had made himself your cage and your sanctuary.

​"I see you," Tom breathed, his hand stroking down your spine, ignoring the blood that slicked his fingers. "You're still in there."

​In the distance, the cracks of Apparition signaled the arrival of the Ministry. Tom looked at the blood on his hands, then at your broken form, and his expression hardened into something cold and terrifyingly protective. He wouldn't let them take you. Not now. Not ever.

But Tom felt the change in an instant. The lethal tension that had defined your body for the last month—the coiled spring of your muscles—suddenly vanished. Your weight became dead, heavy, and cold in his arms. The fangs that had been buried in his forearm slid out, leaving behind two jagged, weeping holes, as your head fell back against his shoulder.

​You were going limp. The vibrant violet of your scales seemed to dull to a sickly, ashen grey as your life’s blood continued to pour into the mud of the square.

​"No," Tom whispered, his fingers pressing into your side to staunch the flow. "Not yet. I haven't permitted this."

​The air around them suddenly filled with a dozen sharp cracks of Apparition.

​"Don't move! Drop the wand and step away from the beast!" a booming voice commanded.

​Tom didn't look up. He remained on his knees in the wreckage, cradling your small, broken form. He was a grisly sight—his face splattered with blood, his shirt soaked through, his arm pulsing with the heat of your venom.

​A circle of Aurors in heavy red robes moved in, their wands leveled at him. At the head of the group stood a tall, grizzled wizard with a jagged scar across his lip. He looked at the bodies in the square, the collapsed buildings, and then at the young man holding the snake.

​"It’s a Class X Maledictus rampage," the lead Auror stated, his voice devoid of pity. "By Ministry decree, the creature is to be neutralized on sight to prevent further loss of life. Step aside, boy. We’re ending this."

​Tom finally raised his head.

​The look in his eyes wasn't fear. It wasn't even anger. It was a cold, shimmering void—a level of dark intent that made the closest Aurors instinctively take a step back.

​"She is not a creature," Tom said, his voice terrifyingly calm, carrying across the silent ruins. "She is mine."

​"She killed civilians, lad. She's a monster. Move, or we'll be forced to stun you as well."

​"If you raise a wand against her," Tom said, slowly standing up while keeping you tucked securely against his chest with one arm, "not a single soul in this square will live to see the sunset. I will burn the magic out of your very veins."

​The Aurors hesitated. There was something about the way the air began to warp around Tom—a smell of ozone and ancient, forbidden power—that told them this was no mere bystander. The dark energy he had been honing with the locket was leaking out of him now, fueled by a raw, desperate possessiveness he hadn't known he possessed.

​"You're protecting a killer," the leader spat, though his hand was shaking.

​"I am protecting my property," Tom hissed, his eyes flashing a momentary, reptilian gold. "And I do not lose what belongs to me."

​He tightened his grip on your limp body, feeling the faint, stuttering thrum of your heart. You were fading fast. He didn't have time for a duel, but he was more than willing to slaughter every person in his way to get you back to the flat.

​With a flick of his wand that was almost too fast to follow, Tom unleashed a wave of shimmering, violet force—a mimicry of your own scales—that slammed into the Aurors, throwing them backward into the debris. He didn't wait to see them get up.

​He looked down at your closed eyes. "Stay with me," he commanded, his voice a low, fierce prayer. "§Live for me, and I will give you the world for a cage.§"

​In a swirl of black smoke and a crack that sounded like a thunderbolt, he disappeared from the square, leaving the Ministry of Magic to stare at the blood-stained ruins of a world he was no longer afraid to break.

He apparatus back home.

The flat felt too small for the weight of the magic Tom had about to unleash. He had slammed the door, the wood groaning as he layered it with every ward, every locking charm, and every dark shielding hex he knew.

​Outside, the stairwell thundered with the boots of the Ministry. "Open in the name of the Law!" a voice roared, followed by the heavy boom of a Reducto spell hitting his wards. The walls shivered, dust raining from the ceiling.

​Tom ignored them. He didn't care about the Law. He didn't care about the consequences.

​He laid your limp, snake form on the floor in the center of the room. You were so cold. The violet of your scales had faded to a dull, translucent grey, and the pool of dark blood beneath you was spreading with terrifying speed. You were slipping away—your humanity, your magic, your very breath was evaporating into the air of the cramped room.

​"You will not go," Tom hissed, his voice cracking. "I do not give you leave to die."

​He knew the locket had failed because he hadn't given enough of himself. He had tried to carve a piece of his soul into a cold, golden object. But you... you weren't an object. You were a living, breathing resonance. If he couldn't put his soul into the gold, he would put it into you. He would make you his anchor. He would make your life his own, so that as long as he breathed, you would have no choice but to do the same.

​The door groaned again, a splintering crack echoing through the room. They were almost through.

​Tom knelt over you, his wand hand steady despite the venom coursing through his veins. He didn't use the incantations from the books this time. He used the rhythm he had felt while watching you sleep, the resonance he had felt when you hissed at him in the kitchen.

​He sliced his own palm open, letting his blood—dark and hot—drip onto your cooling scales.

​"§Accept the fragment§," he whispered, the Parseltongue vibrating with a power that made the candles flare into white-hot flames. "§Stay with me. Live for me. Be me.§"

​The room exploded into a blinding, violet light.

​It wasn't like the failure before. This time, there was no rejection. He felt a sickening, agonizing pull behind his navel, as if his very essence were being dragged through a needle's eye. He screamed—a raw, guttural sound of a soul being torn in half—and he saw the golden light of his own life-force bleed from his chest and sink into your body.

​The transformation happened in a heartbeat. The snake’s skin rippled and tore, and suddenly, you were human again. You were lying in the center of the blood-stained floor, pale and still, your chest silent.

​The door finally burst inward. The wood shattered into a thousand shards as the Aurors flooded the room, their wands glowing.

​"Riddle! Hands in the air!"

​Tom didn't look at them. He was slumped over you, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hitched in his throat. He felt empty—hollowed out and cold—but he was listening. He was waiting for the one thing that mattered.

​Seconds passed. The Aurors moved closer, their shadows falling over the two of you.

​Then, your fingers twitched against the floorboards. A jagged, gasping breath hitched in your lungs.

​You opened your eyes. They weren't golden anymore; they were a deep, dark obsidian, mirroring the man who had just sacrificed his soul to keep you. You looked up at the ceiling, then at the blood on Tom's face, but your mind was a fog of dark, echoing whispers. You were alive, but you weren't the girl from the crate anymore. You were something else. You were a part of him.

​Tom let out a jagged, triumphant breath. He looked at the Aurors, a terrifyingly beautiful smile touching his lips even as they surrounded him.

​"She lives," he whispered to the room, his eyes burning with a dark, eternal fire. "And now, none of you can ever take her from me."

​Before the nearest Auror could utter a binding spell, Tom moved. It was a blur of violence—efficient, silent, and absolute. He didn't use the standard disarming charms. He used the raw, jagged power of a man who no longer had a complete soul to lose. Within seconds, the three men who had burst through the door were crumpled heaps on the floor, their eyes wide and lifeless. He didn't even give them the chance to scream.

​You watched it all through a haze of confusion, too weak to sit up. The world felt muffled, as if you were submerged in deep water. You felt a strange, humming warmth in the center of your chest—a presence that wasn't yours, yet felt more familiar than your own heartbeat.

​Tom turned back to you immediately. His movements were frantic but precise. He threw his cloak over your shivering, bare shoulders and began grabbing his essentials—the locket, his journals, the artifacts he couldn't leave behind. With a flick of his wand, his trunk was packed and shrunk.

​He scooped you up into his arms, pulling you tight against his chest. You were trembling violently, the cold of the room and the trauma of the ritual making your teeth chatter.

​"Tom..." you whispered, your voice barely a breath. "Did I... did I cause this? Are you going to leave me now? Because of the trouble?"

​The thought of being back in a crate, or alone in the rain of Knockturn Alley, was more terrifying than the dark magic he had just performed.

​Tom stopped. He looked down at you, his face splattered with the blood of his enemies, his eyes dark with a possessive, eternal fire. He leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead. The contact felt like a brand, the Horcrux inside you leaping in response to its master.

​"Leave you?" he murmured against your skin, his voice a promise and a threat all at once. "You are the only thing in this world that is truly mine. I will keep you for as long as I breathe, little snake. And since I intend to breathe forever... you are never going to be free of me."

​He stepped over the bodies on his floor and walked out into the night. Then, you whispered.

"Nagini..."

Tom barely heard it. He looked at you in his arms as he paused. You looked at him, your eyes on his.

"Nagini. Call me Nagini," she whispered.

Tom softened and nodded once before he continued walking, disappearing into the fog of London with his soul held tightly in his arms.

⋇⋆✮⋆⋇

3 months later.

The deep forests of Albania were a world of emerald shadows and ancient, suffocating silence. Here, miles away from the prying eyes of the Ministry and the grime of London, Tom had built a sanctuary of stone and secrets. The air was thick with the scent of pine needles and the heavy, electric hum of the dark magic that now radiated from both of them.

​Inside their small, secluded cabin, the hearth glowed with a low, pulsing amber light. Tom sat at a rough-hewn wooden table, his face thinner and more angular than it had been a year ago, his beauty sharpened into something cold and ethereal. Before him lay the locket, finally glowing with the same dark, oily rhythm as the girl who stood behind him.

​He had succeeded. Two Horcruxes now existed in the world: the gold on the table, and the woman in the room.

​You moved from the shadows, your footsteps silent. The Maledictus curse no longer felt like a predator scratching to get out; since the ritual, it had settled into a quiet, obedient power that mirrored Tom’s own. You stepped behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pressing your chest against his back.

​Tom didn't move, but you felt the tension in his spine ease ever so slightly. He was staring at the locket, his eyes reflecting the 'S' in its center.

​"It's done," he whispered, his voice a low vibration that you felt in your own ribs. "I am beyond death now. We are beyond it."

​"You've been staring at it for hours," you murmured, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the side of his neck. The Horcrux within you hummed in resonance, a warm pulse of belonging that anchored you to him. "Come back to bed, Tom. The locket isn't going anywhere."

​Tom tilted his head back, his eyes catching yours. The obsidian depth of his gaze was no longer just a look—it was a connection. He reached up, his long fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled you down for a kiss that tasted of iron and silk.

​He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the stone floor. Without a word, he guided you toward the bed, the heavy furs waiting to catch you. He pushed you back into the softness, his body followng yours, looming over you like the shadow of a mountain.

​As his hands moved to undress you, his touch was no longer clinical or distant. It was hungry. He trailed a path of searing kisses down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder before he settled on the curve of your neck. He bit down—not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a mark that would bloom like a dark flower by morning.

​"You are mine," he rasped against your skin, his voice thick with a possessive, terrifying love. "Every scale, every drop of blood, every thought. You belong to me, Nagini."

​You arched into him, your fingers digging into his back, pulling the man who held your soul closer. "I am yours," you whispered back, the words a vow that had been written in the blood of a London market and sealed with the fragment of a broken soul. "I've always been yours."

​In the heart of the forest, as the wind howled through the trees, Tom Riddle held his most precious Horcrux close, finally content in the knowledge that he had built a cage so beautiful, the bird would never want to fly away.