#tom x reader

“Now, now,” Slughorn drew the attention of students just walking in with barely concealed excitement. “A special lesson, just in time for the season of romance! Today, we’ll be studying the most powerful love potion—,” a ripple of giggles spread across the room, “—in existence,” he finished with a grin.

“Purely academic, of course,” Slughorn had declared, lip twitching along with his mustache in delight as he presented the shimmering contents of his cauldron he had prepared himself before the beginning of class. “One must understand the theory of such things in order to defend against them. Amortentia, my dears — the most powerful love potion in existence. Banned to distribute in Hogwarts, naturally, but perfectly permissible to brew under supervision according to the curriculum.”

As if that was a plausible excuse.

The potion glimmered like liquid mother-of-pearl on the wooden workbench, spirals rising from it in hypnotic coils. One by one, the students (mostly consisting of girls) leaned over to inhale, unable to help but be pulled in — as was the nature of the brew. Amortentia carried a different scent to each person. You watched some of your classmates continue to crowd around it eagerly, faces flushing, expressions turning curious. Some laughed whilst some went oddly quiet in consideration.

You didn’t think much of it personally, staying in your seat, wafts of clean linen and chocolate drifting in your direction. Love potions were rather grotesque things — manufactured obsession masquerading as affection. There was something fundamentally wrong about them, no matter how pretty they looked or how good they smelled. You still felt it was wrong that they weren’t outlawed, or that they were sold in shops at all, making them accessible to the public.

Knowing how reckless some teenagers were and how insidious the minds of some worked, it made itself an easy solution in order to prey on the vulnerable. It was — “naturally” — a recipe for disaster.

Completely and utterly barbaric, in your opinion.

Now, the classroom buzzed with chatter and the scrape of ladles against cauldrons as students got to work. Your peers talked over one another, arguing over measurements or comparing notes in low voices.

The potions professor wandered around the room, observing each student at work and complimenting a few on his way through. His waistcoat strained over his stomach as he waddled between tables. “Observe the pearlescent sheen — yes, exactly! That’s what we’re aiming for. And the steam should rise in spirals. Spirals, Mister Avery, not— oh dear.”

You wiped your hands on a cloth and leaned over your own brew. The cauldron in front of you shimmered faintly, the surface of the Amortentia swirling with a soft, luminous glow. It was beautiful in a way that made your skin crawl. You leaned in closer despite yourself. The steam brushed your face, warm and sweet with notes you were very pleased with.

Decadent and creamy white chocolate, the scent of cleanliness, your favorite perfume, sugar, and obviously more sugar. Your mouth curved slightly, both in satisfaction at your successful potion making skills and amusement at the predictability. You liked simple comforts. You liked things that made you feel safe.

You swallowed and straightened at the insidious prospect of that.

“I bet you smell a candy shop,” your best friend, Cadence, murmured from where she stood beside you, leaning over your shoulder.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m saying,” she smirked, “that anyone who ends up giving you sweets may have a chance,” she sang.

“Or they could try a conversation,” you shot back lightly, throwing Cadence an unimpressed look and an arch of the brow.

“Ah, yes. Conversation. How revolutionary.”

You rolled your eyes. Around you, students were murmuring and nudging one another. Giggles broke out near the Hufflepuffs. A Ravenclaw boy turned pink to the ears as he stirred quietly. Even a few Slytherins were smirking more than usual as they hovered close near their cauldrons, unable to resist the temptations. No one seemed particularly concerned about the fact that what they were brewing was so dangerous that it was prohibited to use inside of these walls. There were different types of love potions, but Amortentia was the most potent.

“Honestly,” muttered a flushed Gryffindor, stubbornly, in hearing range. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she peered into her cauldron, “what possessed him to teach this now? It’s practically Valentine’s.”

What possessed him indeed. Slughorn was clearly having way too much fun with this lesson, doing rounds and asking each student what they smelled, smiling knowingly at the flustered ones who stumbled over their words as if this all had been a ploy, a gentle nudge to some to confront their feelings for a special someone right before the holiday of love — which he would deny and deem it was for research purposes only, of course.

“I think it’s romantic,” the Gryffindor girl’s seat mate sighed almost dreamily.

You almost snorted. Romantic wasn’t the word you would’ve chosen. Your potion reached completion faster than you expected. You glanced up, searching for Slughorn to signal that you were finished. The man was currently bent over another station, fussing over someone’s “almost adequate” consistency before going to the next batch, circling like a pleased bee.

Your gaze wandered mindlessly now that you were done with your brew, and you knew it’d be a while before Slughorn made his way over here. So, you slowly dragged your eyes over the students around you before they collided directly with another’s.

Across the room, through rising steam and flickering torchlight, a boy stood at his station. His sleeves were neatly rolled to his forearms, revealing pale skin and long, steady fingers guiding the ladle through his potion. His Slytherin tie was perfectly knotted, robes immaculate as always. There wasn’t a single fleck of ingredient out of place near him. Even here, in the damp heat of the dungeon, he looked composed — untouched by the chaos around him.

And he was staring at you.

Tom Riddle was staring at you.

His expression was calm, almost blank, a void that sent shivers down your spine. It was unlike any expression you’ve ever seen him make, completely unnatural on a face as handsome as his — not that you’ve watched him much. His eyes did not falter even when you met his unblinking gaze, not flustered whatsoever at being caught gawking so noticeably.

Riddle didn’t look away. The steam rose between you like a thin veil and still — he held your gaze.

The noise of the classroom seemed to dull, your pulse stuttering. For a moment, you forget to breathe, his dead stare like a hand on your throat.

This look wasn’t one of interest in the way other boys sometimes looked at girls. There was something unnerving there unlike the easy charm he wore so well, the one that he showed professors and students alike.

This felt almost… predatory.

Creepy.

Your fingers tightened and whitened around the edge of your desk, body frozen from the uneasiness that washed over you. Then, just as quickly, his gaze flicked away. Riddle adjusted the flame beneath his cauldron with a smooth, unwavering movement as if he’d merely been lost in thought, face now taut in concentration.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, though you weren’t sure why.

He probably zoned out, you told yourself. People stare without realizing it. It doesn’t mean anything, right? Why would he be looking at you? It was easy to drift in a class like this. And you had never spoken more than a passing word to him. You weren’t one of the girls vying for his attention. You didn’t trail after him in corridors or sigh when he walked into a room.

If anything, you made a point not to. You barely paid him mind beyond the general awareness everyone had of him. It was impossible not to at least notice someone like him. Riddle was top of every class. Professors adored him. Students either worshipped him or resented him for numerous reasons.

And yes — he was handsome. Painfully so. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. But admiration from afar was one thing; interest was another. You preferred to know someone before you decided how you felt about them.

Even if he had dark hair that fell just slightly yet perfectly over his forehead. Blessed with sharp, aristocratic cheekbones and tiny beauty marks on pale skin that added to his devilish looks. Pink lips that seemed permanently on the verge of a polite, measured smirk that made girls swoon. Riddle was the kind of boy that had them whispering and preening and inventing foolish excuses just to brush arms with him in corridors.

But at that moment, he looked like he was out for your blood. Like you were nothing more than an animal in the wild and he was the hunter, pinning his sights on you.

You had better things to think about. So, you forced your attention back to your station, exhaling slowly and capping the flame beneath your cauldron. You willed your shoulders to relax with the release of breath before you frowned faintly to yourself.

You wondered, annoyingly, how long he had been staring before you had even noticed.

Across the room, Professor Slughorn beamed, hovering near Riddle like always.

“Splendid, Tom! Simply splendid. Textbook perfection. A natural talent, as always. Twenty points to Slytherin!”

Different reactions swept the room — admiration and heart eyes from some, irritation and jealousy from others. Riddle only inclined his head modestly, unbothered by all the attention. “Thank you, sir.”

His voice was smooth, distinct from everyone and anyone else’s, and positively heart throbbing in itself. You risked another glance at Riddle, just to reassure yourself that you’d been mistaken.

He was no longer looking at you, thankfully. Slughorn stood at his side while Riddle wore that soft smile that made people melt. He nodded his head at precisely the right moments, listening attentively as the professor praised the clarity of his brew of Amortentia, how it was the perfect viscosity and shade. He didn’t even seem all that delighted, more so expectant like he was used to it and confidently knew he would’ve had the best one in the room before walking in; like clockwork.

Nothing about his demeanor suggested he had just been staring at you like he wanted to devour you alive. You felt faintly foolish for thinking like that. Perhaps, you hadn’t seen him properly? After all, the abundant amount of steam in the room did make it rather difficult.

Lost in your thoughts, you briefly think about what Riddle must have smelled. Tom Riddle had never shown any interest in dating anyone in all his time at Hogwarts, much to the dismay of many pretty girls. Maybe he had a muggle girlfriend outside of school?

You remembered, faintly, a memory from a few months ago.

A girl you knew, Wendy, had asked him out and like always, he politely let her down. He had declined each and every love confession he had ever received with courtesy. And yet, people still had the audacity to be slighted, as if they were entitled to him and his feelings.

She had regaled to you and a few other girls the story in the library. You were all supposed to be studying, but the topic eventually drifted, like always — to boys.

“And then he said, “Thank you, but I’m afraid I’m occupied.” Occupied with what?!” Wendy scoffed, clearly hurt that she decided it’d be better to gossip badly about Riddle, red in the face.

“Honestly, he acts like he’s above everyone. It’s exhausting. And not natural.” Then, her eyes widened in realization. “You don’t think he’s… you know?”

It had bothered you, what she said.

You don’t know why to this day. Maybe it’s because you imagined a boy talking about you like that just because you didn’t feel the same way, and how it wouldn’t sit right with you, how it wouldn’t be fair for them to speculate. That you shouldn’t be forced to like specific people because that’s what was socially acceptable.

So, you defended him without thought.

“Or maybe he just doesn’t want to go out with you specifically,” you mutter, flipping a page.

Three heads turned toward you.

“That’s not the point,” Wendy scoffed, offended by your words but trying not to show it. “It’s rude. He acts like no one’s good enough for him.”

“Or,” you started, “he isn’t obligated to entertain you.”

“You defending Riddle now?” A familiar voice asked in an amused tone after a moment of silence — your best friend, you realized, when looking up from your book at last.

“I’m just saying, you can’t call someone arrogant for having boundaries.”

“We’re just talking,” another one of them snapped, some girl you didn’t know the name of to this day.

“So talk,” you replied calmly. “Just don’t act like he owes you his attention.”

A few of them exchanged glances. One shrugged. Then, the conversation shifted.

You shook your head faintly, dismissing your thoughts. It wasn’t your concern.

The bell chimed faintly in the corridor beyond the door just in time — five minutes to the end of class. Slughorn clapped his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “Time, my dears! Cap your potions, label them, and leave them on this table right here. And remember — no sneaking a sample. I’ll know.”

That resulted in a few groans and bits of laughter.

Students began tidying their stations, including you — corking bottles and wiping spills. Slughorn’s back turned as he hurried to inspect a few remaining students brews of the love potion. In the chaos — with robes swishing, chairs scraping against the floor, chatter rising — no one paid attention to Tom Riddle.

His back was angled toward the class, body shielding his cauldron from view. Slughorn was still preoccupied, none the wiser.

Tom moved with hurried precision, covered by the ruckus and cluster of students. One hand slipped into the inner pocket of his robes. The other lifted his ladle. A small, glass vial appeared between his deft fingers. He tilted the utensil ever so slightly and a thin ribbon of pearlescent liquid slid into the container. Not enough to be obvious and change the level in the cauldron, the right amount for him to take.

He corked it carefully and quietly before it vanished into his robes. By the time Slughorn turned back around, Tom busied himself with packing up his things unhurriedly; entirely innocent. He gathered his books neatly, cleaned up his area with a flick of his yew wand, and stood waiting for dismissal like the exemplary student everyone believed him to be — even bidding a polite farewell to the Professor like he does at the end of every class, receiving an oblivious smile from the man in return.

Slughorn clearly did not know.

Soon enough, you’re next to step out into the corridor with your friends.

As you walked with them, curling a strand of hair behind your ear whilst complaining about your next class — behind you, footsteps followed at a distance.

Tom Riddle was staring at you again.

And you walked away, unaware.

Valentine’s Day arrived like a fever spreading inside Hogwarts.

The dormitory had been awake before dawn. You awoke to whispers around you and the rustle of tissue paper. The sharp, sweet scent of perfume clouded the air. Ribbons were tied, taken down, and then retied into hair to perfection. Girls were already sitting cross-legged on their beds in silk nightgowns and perfectly brushed hair, opening velvet boxes and parcels tied in satin ribbon. One girl squealed while another flushed and tried to pretend she hadn’t been waiting for this day all week when opening her package. Someone even shrieked when an owl tapped the window with a parcel of sugared candies.

You rolled onto your back with a sigh, lying still for a moment, staring up at the canopy above your bed as you listened to the excitement around you.

It wasn’t that you cared about today or longed for a boy. It was your decision, countless times, to not have a boyfriend. And you wouldn’t want just any boy approaching you today with trembling hands and a rehearsed declaration of love. In fact, the thought of a public decree made your stomach tighten since you would have to gently decline — and that was humiliating enough for one party. You had no desire in entertaining feelings you did not share like some of your acquaintances.

Still.

It would have been… nice. To be chosen.

You smiled when appropriate as other girls showed off their Valentine’s gifts; a small, traitorous pang in your chest. Ridiculous. You weren’t interested in anyone. You shook it off, rising from the mattress to wash up in the restroom and get dressed for classes that day.

Your uniform was pristine like always, white blouse pressed and colored tie straightened. You smoothed your skirt over your thighs, stockings reaching just below the knee, shoes polished. You brushed your hair until it shone and left it down before fastening your cloak. You dabbed a faint touch of your everyday perfume on your wrists because for you, it was just another day.

When you made your way into the common room, you saw girls clutching bouquets of all different types of colors and chocolates wrapped in boxes.

The corridors were no different, buzzing like a beehive. And by the time you reached the staircases, the castle was alive more than it has ever been — even during the Christmas holidays. Enchanted cupids flitted about and abundant laughter echoed against the stone walls of the castle.

You adjusted the strap of your satchel and eventually met up with your friends at your usual spot, walking towards the Great Hall together, their chatter echoing around you about the latest drama: who got what and from who or who hadn’t gotten anything and ended up splitting on today of all days. You tuned them out until a different name cut through the noise.

“Did you see him?” a pair of Slytherin girls hissed in hushed excitement as you passed. “With a whole bouquet of flowers, I swear! And chocolates too — the expensive kind.”

“Who?”

“Tom Riddle.”

Your steps faltered before you could stop yourself.

The other girl gasped. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not! He was coming up from the dungeons. He had them transfigured so it wasn’t obvious, but I know what I saw.”

You didn’t turn your head. You kept walking before you could linger too long and appear obvious. You had no right to be curious. You barely spoke to him. And you most certainly were not one of the girls who trailed after him like moths to a flame.

Tom Riddle with roses.

With chocolates.

It was almost absurd.

It sounded absurd.

You truly hadn’t meant to listen, truly. Riddle had never shown interest in anyone publicly. He seemed the private type and further more, was single to the point he had never even been rumored to have dated anyone because everyone would know it to be untrue in a heartbeat. But, perhaps he did have someone this entire time. Someone worth keeping a secret of.

You found, to your irritation, that you were curious. It must be someone in school, then.

But who? Who had finally stolen his heart and had the Tom Riddle so enamored?

The Great Hall doors opened to an alive spectacle of owls swooping low through the high windows and dropping parcels into waiting hands, charmed doves fluttering between floating hearts that drifted lazily beneath the enchanted ceiling which had been charmed to a pale pink sunrise with pearly light despite the real one outside being dull and grey like it had been for the last few days, anticipating a storm.

The House tables were louder than usual, scattered with unwrapped sweets and floral arrangements that clashed with everything else in a nearby vicinity.

You scanned the Slytherin table without meaning to.

Riddle wasn’t there.

You exhaled harshly through your nose, annoyed with yourself for searching.

You took your usual place at your table — the same bit of bench you had claimed since first year with your friend group, the same place anyone could find you in the mornings. Predictable. Safe. Like everything you choose. You spooned whipped cream onto your waffles, adding sliced strawberries and a drizzle of syrup on them.

Cadence lightly nudged you with her elbow, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “If someone asks you to be their Valentine today — hypothetically — you’re saying yes, aren’t you?”

“I would hypothetically decline,” you retort dryly, cutting through your waffle.

“How cruel you are to every boy who would be lucky to have you.”

You lifted an unimpressed brow. “I have standards.”

She laughed. “You’ll end up alone at this rate.”

“I’m not afraid of being alone.”

That much was true.

You were about to take your first bite when a shadow fell across your plate.

You looked up, pulse jumping.

A Slytherin boy stood there. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him before. Cute, but not your type. And he looked… nervous. His fingers flexed at his sides with a kind of strained urgency. For a fleeting, mortifying second, you imagined him clearing his throat and announcing — loudly — that he would be honored if you would accompany him today. In front of all these people.

Your heart gave one uncomfortable thud.

Please don’t let him do this here.

“Yes?” you asked slowly, lips drawn in a tight line, already preparing the polite apology on your tongue.

He swallowed. “Er— sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” you said, your fork hovering midair, frozen like a statue as you wait for the inevitable.

“Professor Slughorn would like to see you.”

Relief washed over you instantly, your features softening and shoulders relaxing. Thankfully, it wasn’t a love confession. Still, your brows knit together. “Now?”

“Yes. In the courtyard.”

You glanced instinctively towards the staff table. Slughorn wasn’t there. Though, a flicker of doubt continued to brush against your mind.

“What for?” you asked, turning your head back to the boy.

He hesitated. “I-I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

Your friend chimed in. “That’s odd.”

You agreed.

Still, there was no obvious reason to refuse. You hadn’t done anything wrong. And if it were truly important, you couldn’t very well ignore it. Maybe it was about schoolwork. You set your fork down with visible reluctance, eyeing your plate with mild mourning and a pout. The whipped cream was already softening into the waffle, syrup pooling at the edges.

A waste.

“If I’m not back in ten minutes, eat that,” you told your friend, gesturing with a tilt of your chin.

“So selfless,” one of them replied solemnly.

“I know.”

You rose, smoothing your skirt, adjusting your cloak over your shoulders before leaning down to grab your bag from the wooden seat and hook it around your shoulder. The boy stepped aside at once to let you pass, relief evident in his posture — as if he had been afraid you might refuse. Though, you can’t imagine what was so frightening about Slughorn that made him tremble so.

The corridors beyond the Great Hall were quieter now, the morning frenzy thinning out as you stepped out into them.

Chatter faded behind you, replaced by the echo of your own footsteps against the stone hallways of the castle. Light filtered through the high windows as best it could with dark skies as you walked further down. When you made your way to the courtyard however, your steps slowed at the sight that greeted you.

You stepped through the arched doorway into the open space. The cold bit at you at once, stealing the warmth from your cheeks. The fountain at the center trickled faintly as water spilled over marble into its basin. Grey clouds sagged overhead, heavy with unshed rain, the stones beneath your shoes damp.

It was completely vacant.

There was always a student or two loitering around, but now, it was unnaturally silent. Not like the peaceful kind you preferred. And there was no Professor Slughorn bustling about. You frowned, uneasiness coiled low in your stomach and sliding beneath your ribs. The courtyard was never empty — even on a day like this.

You shifted your satchel higher on your shoulder, glancing toward the archways as if the professor might appear from behind a column.

You found yourself almost turning back. For reasons you couldn’t explain, you wished you were still at your table in the Great Hall, surrounded by your friends, scarfing down sugary waffles. Thunder clapped overhead like a bad omen.

“I’m glad you came.”

You startled violently despite yourself, breath catching, spinning around too quickly. It unsettled you more than you cared to admit that you hadn’t heard him approach at all.

That voice was unmistakable.

Tom Riddle stood a few paces behind you as though he had always been there. Your heart leapt traitorously in your chest.

Riddle looked striking and flawless as always. Dark hair combed neatly with a curl falling deliberately over his forehead. His Slytherin tie was perfectly knotted, robes falling straight and sharp along his lean, slightly muscular frame. The faintest flush from the cold touched his pale skin, but he did not seem to feel it.

In one hand, he held a box of chocolates wrapped in ribbon. In the other — a bouquet.

Your favorite flowers.

Your breath caught.

It could be coincidence, you told yourself. Flowers were flowers. Anyone could like them. Perhaps he had chosen them at random. Perhaps he was waiting for someone else and you had merely wandered into the scene by accident. Your mind scrambled for reasons because you had a feeling this situation was headed a certain direction that you weren’t sure how to deal with.

Riddle held your gaze steadily, as if he could see each frantic thought as it passed through you.

“I’m waiting for Professor Slughorn,” you said too quickly, the words tumbling out before he asked anything. “He sent for me.”

Why were you explaining yourself?

You avoided his eyes, studying instead the collar of his robe, the way his fingers curved around the base of the bouquet. You felt awkward and absurdly aware of how alone you were with him. Riddle’s gaze rested on you, assessing. There was something faintly amused in the curve of his mouth — and not the warm kind. More like, he knew something you didn’t.

“I’m afraid,” he started gently, “that Professor Slughorn will not be joining you.”

The words prickled at your skin like a bite.

You blinked, looking up at that.

“What?”

“I asked Nott to fetch you.” He tilted his head slightly like he had a habit of doing, studying your reaction with dark brown eyes, ones that felt too intense on you. “I wanted a moment alone.”

For a second, you could only stare at him.

“You lied?” The accusation left you before you could soften it.

Riddle did not falter. If anything, that faint amusement deepened on his gorgeous features, dark and unfairly perfect brows lifting a fraction. “Would you have come if I had asked you myself?”

Your lips parted automatically, ready to retort with something sharp or clever, that he didn’t need deception or to intimidate someone enough to do his bidding — but the truth remained stuck in your throat.

Because no. You wouldn’t have.

You didn’t know him. Not really. You had exchanged perhaps a handful of words in passing. If Tom Riddle had approached you openly in the Great Hall, with half the school watching, you would have declined out of instinct alone.

You pressed your lips together in defeat.

Riddle’s smirk deepened with satisfaction.

“I thought not,” he murmured. He stepped closer, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you could feel his intensity.

Then, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said suddenly.

It wasn’t a stammering confession you had braced yourself for from some nervous boy. His voice was steady, like a statement rather than a request. He extended the bouquet and chocolates toward you, waiting.

The gesture was immaculate, private, considerate. Exactly the sort of confession you would have preferred without a spectacle or an audience.

The courtyard felt even quieter. Somehow, you couldn’t even hear the single chirp of a bird.

You were acutely aware of the space between you. The way Riddle’s eyes did not leave your face, as if he was deciphering your every thought just from your expressions like how a snake would assess its meal before lunging. He seemed entirely certain of himself.

Then, it hits you that he must have been the one to clear the courtyard. Of course. Who else could have that type of power? Your pulse thudded in your ears, heat creeping up your cheeks. He had orchestrated this entire thing.

And he had done everything right.

For a tiny moment, you imagined accepting. You imagined walking back into the castle at his side, flowers in your arms. You imagined the looks. Too many looks. Too many whispers. Because Tom Riddle was always being watched. Either out of admiration or envy. If you stepped into his orbit, you would not be permitted anonymity again. There would be jealous girls, speculation, and endless scrutiny from every direction. The resentment from those who had tried and failed to get close to him. Your life would no longer be quiet at school.

And beneath that practical reasoning, there was something else — the simple truth being that you did not know him.

And under that, the memory of that look in class — the way he had stared at you through the steam as if claiming something that did not yet belong to him.

And Tom Riddle did nothing without purpose.

So, why you?

You were not one of the girls who trailed after him in corridors. You didn’t blush when he entered a room. You didn’t whisper about him.

Perhaps… that was precisely why.

“Tom,” you began carefully, fingers tightening around your bag’s strap like a lifeline as you swallowed. “Riddle, I mean,” once you realized how familiar you sounded unintentionally. You noticed he straightened a little at that. “I-I’m sorry.”

And you truly meant it. But the next few words caught in your throat when you saw the flicker of the same expression from the dungeon — the one that had frozen you in place. His cold eyes sharpened with displeasure and something possessive. A chill shot down your spine. But, then it was gone, vanishing almost instantly — as if it’d never been there. The polite mask slid back into place so seamlessly that you almost doubted you had seen his other face at all.

“I can’t accept this,” you finished softly. “I didn’t know… I mean, we’ve never even—” You huffed, frustrated with yourself. “It wouldn’t be right.”

A silence so deafening stretched between you.

You couldn’t meet his eye. Riddle hadn’t moved at all from your peripheral. But then, he spoke at last, “I see...”

Surprisingly, he hadn’t looked embarrassed or wounded. There was not a hint of a tremor in his voice or a trace of bitterness — and somehow, it unsettled you more than pure anger might have.

“I appreciate your honesty.”

He sounded thoughtful. So, you found your shoulders loosening.

“I hope there aren’t any hard feelings,” you added carefully, brows furrowed.

“None,” he assured you with a flutter of his dark lashes, polite and unbothered as ever like the proper gentleman he was. Then, almost as an afterthought, Riddle lifted the box slightly to you. “At least take these.”

You hesitated.

“I know how fond you are of them,” he continued, tone mild. “It would be a shame to let them go to waste.”

Your brows drew together faintly. “How did you—”

He gave the smallest shrug. “It isn’t a secret.”

It wasn’t. You were rarely without something sugary in hand. Anyone observant enough could notice. And Tom Riddle was observant. You studied him one last time before slowly reaching out and accepting the chocolates, the edge of the box cool against your sweaty fingers.

“Thank you,” you said, offering a small, apologetic smile. “Truly.”

His gaze dipped briefly to your hand as it closed fully around the container of chocolates, a small smile on his lips.

“You’re welcome.”

“And… I am sorry,” you added once more for great measure.

Riddle smiled reassuringly. “There’s nothing to forgive.” Then, he adds with a tone that sounded innocently hopeful, “But, if you do happen to change your mind, I’ll be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. I hear the stars will be rather exceptionally beautiful tonight.”

The statement seemed so casual that it hadn’t even hit you that it’ll be storming all week, that the skies wouldn’t be visible for the next few days. But, you nodded anyway just to be nice. You had just rejected his feelings after all…

With a step back, hands folding neatly behind him, the bouquet remained there, hidden from your view. He inclined his head with quiet courtesy. You nodded in return, already turning, eager for the warmth and noise of the Hogwarts corridors. With each step away from him, your lungs seemed to fill more easily. You slipped the chocolates into your satchel and adjusted the strap over your shoulder. By the time you reached the archway, you had almost convinced yourself the entire encounter had been harmless. Unfortunate, perhaps — but civil.

You were lucky Riddle was so understanding.

As you walked off, behind you, Tom did not move. He watched you until the stone walls of the school swallowed you from sight as if he could still see you through them.

The polite expression dissolved the instant you disappeared. His jaw tightened, broad shoulders becoming rigid beneath his robes. And behind his back, his fingers tightened around the stems of the bouquet until his knuckles turned white. They bent and snapped under his unforgiving grip. The pretty flowers blackened at an unnatural pace right at the edges before gradually bleeding inward at an alarming speed. The delicate petals wilted, reduced to something lifeless and small.

Tom’s remained eerily calm other than that. A petal fell soundlessly, and he watched as it reached the wet stone at his feet.

He smiled.

Then, he threw the bouquet to the ground like dirt before turning, his cloak sweeping behind him.

Thankfully, the rest of the day passed by in a haze.

The castle’s Valentine’s fever broke slowly but surely. By afternoon, the romance had dulled. Very few couples still walked too close in the corridors, smiling and holding hands. Girls with broken hearts huddled with blotchy eyes while their friends stroked their hair and whispered assurances. The enchanted decor had long since tired themselves out.

You drifted through it, lost in your own head as your mind wouldn’t stop circling back to him.

Tom Riddle had wanted you.

It still felt crazy, but you knew it now. That in Potions, he must have smelled you.

“Are you even listening?” A friend hissed at you during Transfiguration, nudging your knee under the desk.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze, quill hovering uselessly above parchment, dripping ink from the tip in large blots and ruining your work. “What?”

She stared. “Professor Merrythought just asked you a question.”

Heat flared in your cheeks, eyes darting around the class and then apologetically to the Professor.

“Right. Sorry.” You forced your attention forward, ignoring the low ripple of snickers.

Your mind felt like it was moving through syrup, and you kept it all to yourself. In Arithmancy, you lost track of numbers you usually handled with ease. In History of Magic, you stared through Professor Binns as if he were smoke.

You had never truly noticed how many classes you shared with Tom Riddle before today. Now, it felt excessive. Potions, Transfiguration, Defense, Ancient Runes. He had always been there — but you had never catalogued the frequency of his presence until now. Riddle always sat with his back straight. His quill moved with elegant strokes as he took notes. He answered every question asked of him and was always correct.

And he did not look at you once.

Not even once.

A part of you bristled.

It bothered you more than if he had glared across the room because he was unbothered as ever. It was as if the courtyard had not happened. As if he had not offered you your favorite flowers and waited for your answer. Why ask if he did not care?

You caught yourself watching the side of his face during Transfiguration, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, the faint hollow beneath it, the way his long and skillful hands worked his wand. You noticed he liked to fidget with it a lot — running his fingers along the side, caressing, holding it delicately like it was an extension of himself. Riddle suddenly shifted slightly in his seat, and you looked away at once, heart pounding madly in your chest.

You should be grateful. This is what you wanted, you reminded yourself. You would have hated his scorn. You would have hated whispers and pointed stares. This was the better outcome. You didn’t want to be known as the girl who rejected Tom Riddle even when your chest tightened unpleasantly each time he gathered his books without so much as glancing your way.

So, why did it feel like something was terribly wrong?

By the time late afternoon crept in and you finished your classes for the day, you were already making your way to the Hogwarts library.

It was quieter than normal. Valentine’s Day had drained the castle of its usual studious population. Lamps glowed in warm, cozy pools of gold across long wooden tables. The smell of ink and old books welcomed you like an embrace. The tall windows were darker than they were before now. And most of all, it was silent in the way you liked. The library had always been your refuge.

You passed a few stragglers who also had nothing better to do on Valentine’s Day as you made your way to the back of the huge reading area, shrugging off your cloak and draping it over the armrest before sinking into a wooden chair.

As the minutes passed, books started to accumulate around you on the table. You diligently studied for your next exam, burying yourself in the library as evening settled over Hogwarts. The light outside the tall windows dimmed so slowly that you hadn’t even noticed until you took a glance and realized how much time had passed. You rolled your shoulders, flexed your aching fingers, and leaned back over your notes. You read the same line three times, finding yourself unable to focus as hunger gradually gnawed at your stomach.

It hit you that you had not eaten at all today.

Your plate at breakfast had gone unfinished, and you skipped lunch entirely to come here. The dining hall would be closing soon. You considered getting something from the kitchens later. Though in truth, your appetite had vanished after the encounter with Riddle, your mind preoccupied with other things.

Then, you remembered.

The chocolates.

You stilled, hand hovering over parchment. A small feeling of guilt bloomed in your chest. You had nearly forgotten about them.

At least I won’t starve, you thought dryly.

Thanks, Riddle.

When you reached into your satchel, your fingers brushed against something smooth and rigid. After a second of hesitation, you drew out the box. It was elegant, with dark packaging and a perfectly tied ribbon. It felt nice and cool against your warm fingers that had been working for hours.

You set it on the table, undoing the carefully knotted bow, and lifted the lid almost excitedly. You loved chocolate, and you were always curious about the taste of different ones. A container like this would surely hold varying types that you were interested in trying. Some could have a filling of jam, or caramel, or a different flavor chocolate inside. The possibilities were endless.

Where others sought spontaneity in their real lives, you found it in chocolate. Because chocolate was the one thing that could never hurt you.

When you set the top aside, you saw that inside lay neat rows of white chocolates, each one ornate and delicately crafted, faintly glossy under the light. Your breath caught at how stunning they were, and you inhaled. A smile curled onto your lips despite yourself, giddy in your seat like a child.

They smelled exquisitely divine. They looked like the sweet and rich type, very expensive — just as the Slytherin girl from this morning had claimed. Too pretty you didn’t even want to eat them. You didn’t question how he knew of your preference. Because you rarely went a week without white chocolate; anyone paying enough attention could have noticed.

And Tom Riddle paid attention.

Your stomach gave a sudden, sharp pang at the enticing scent.

With the grace of an eager child, you picked one up and brought it to your mouth. The smooth chocolate melted instantly on your tongue, silky and decadent. A soft, pleased moan escaped from your lips before you could stop it. Embarrassed heat rushed to your cheeks, and you glanced around.

Merlin.

You hope no one heard that.

You swallowed quickly, your hunger starting to satiate bit by bit, before your fingers reached for another without thinking. The second tasted even sweeter. A warmth like no other continued to spread in your chest, like something had been wound tight and was now loosening itself. You leaned back slightly in your seat, tilting your head and humming in satisfaction as your eyes shut for just a moment.

Tom’s face suddenly surfaced in your mind with startling clarity, but not with the typical unease that came with it before.

You only remembered the charming curve of his soft, pink lips. The single, adorable curl that always falls over his forehead like it’s dying to be tamed, fixed back into place by your gentle hand. His strong, broad shoulders and the confident, attractive way he carried himself. The way his voice had dipped almost sensually, eyes smoldering when he told you Happy Valentine’s Day.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the box.

Why had you said no?

You were confused.

Tom had been awfully considerate earlier today. He had known exactly what you would prefer. He had arranged everything so carefully. The lie, the empty courtyard, the timing to give you peace of mind.

Your pulse quickened.

Tom had looked at you like you were the only person in his world.

A soft, almost aching pressure built beneath your ribs. You could picture him so vividly now that it made your breath shallow. He was extraordinary. Brilliant in every class. Admired by professors. Feared, even, by some. There was something absolutely magnetic about him — something no one else had.

And he had chosen you.

A sharp wave of regret washed over you, sudden and consuming. How foolish you must have seemed. How cold. You had rejected him without even trying to understand him. You wanted conversation, you told yourself. You wanted to know someone first.

Tom had been trying to give you that chance.

And you had hurt him.

The realization struck with surprising force.

He had stood there — perfectly composed — while you rejected him. Tom had offered you your favorite flowers and you felt a pang of regret now at not taking them when you had the chance.

Your heart began to race in earnest, a dizzying rhythm that made your fingers tremble slightly. The warmth in your chest deepened, spreading into your throat and then to your limbs like fire. You felt unsteady and lightheaded. The thought of him alone somewhere in the castle, alone because you had sent him away—

No.

The idea of it twisted painfully in your heart like a knife.

“But, if you do happen to change your mind, I’ll be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. I hear the stars will be rather exceptionally beautiful tonight.”

You glanced toward the tall windows of the castle library. The sky outside was darkening rapidly, clouds thick and dark grey. It might storm soon tonight. Tom had said the stars would be beautiful. But perhaps he had only meant it as an excuse. An offering. It didn’t matter.

You had been so careless. Of course you had feelings for him. How could you not? Every glance he’d ever given you now felt charged in retrospect. Potions class — earlier, you figured out he had smelled you. That was why he’d stared. Tom was drawn to you. He hungered for you.

You released a soft gasp, your heart thudding harder.

Better yet, he understood you like no one else did. You were sure of it now. He had watched quietly, learned your preferences and your habits. The thought of him doing just that, of staring at you for long periods of time without you even realizing just to understand you made your heart soar, a flush blooming on your cheeks. Taking his time, he had waited for the right moment to confess. You pressed your fingers lightly to your lips, trying to steady your rapid breathing that sounded almost like panting.

You needed to see him. A need that felt important above all else.

You needed to go. You needed to fix this. Not tomorrow. Now. He must have thought you didn’t care. He must have believed you dismissed him as easily as the other boys who tried.

Standing abruptly, your chair scraped loudly against the floor. A few students glanced up from distant tables, annoyed — you even earned a soft shush from somewhere to your right — but you barely registered it. Your pulse hammered in your ears now, loud enough to drown out reason. Every thought circled back to him — his voice, his eyes, the way he had said your name.

How had you not seen it before?

Tom was perfect.

Handsome. Intelligent. The very idea of him made your stomach flutter and your pulse quicken. Of all the girls who trailed after him, who whispered about him, who would have fallen at his feet if he so much as glanced their way — he had only looked at you.

A soft ache spread beneath your ribs. You had mistaken him. He hadn’t looked unbothered today because he didn’t care. Tom was giving you space.

Your throat tightened.

Tom was waiting for you.

He had said he would be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. It was evening. He might leave. The idea filled you with an unreasonable urgency. What if he thought you truly meant your refusal? What if he decided you were not worth pursuing? What if someone else—

No.

Your stomach twisted at the notion.

Your books and parchment lay forgotten as you close the lid of the chocolate box with careful, trembling hands and slipped it back into your bag, clutching it close as though it were something precious. You didn’t even bother with your cloak. The thought of missing him made your chest constrict. He would understand. He always seemed to understand. Tom was always so understanding.

You loved him.

The realization felt less like a question and more like an admission of truth you had been avoiding. It explained the awareness of him and the irritation at his composure. You had been afraid of wanting him. But he wanted you.

And you wanted— needed to see him desperately. If you didn’t, you think you’d die. You may have wasted the day, but you won’t make the mistake of wasting the night. You belonged with him. And you would not let him slip away.

The staircases seemed endless.

You didn’t remember leaving the library. You barely felt your feet striking stone as you ran, the slap of your shoes against stairs you nearly missed, fingers clutching freezing stone banisters to swing yourself around corners. Students cursed with startled protests as you shoved past without apology; one boy nearly dropped his books.

Someone may have called your name. You weren’t sure. The only thing you were sure of was Tom. Nothing mattered in the moment except him.

The castle was extremely chilly after sunset. Cool wind slipped through narrow slits, raising goosebumps along your bare arms through your thin blouse, yet heat pulsed under your skin — feverish and burning. You had left your cloak draped over the library chair. It did not occur to you to go back for it. So, you had forgotten it. Forgotten your books. Forgotten everything except him.

Tom.

Every minuscule and unimportant thought curved back to him. Your mind whispered his name like a prayer. Your breath tore in and out of your lungs as though you had been running for miles. Up spiral staircases. Through corridors and past suits of armor. The storm had begun outside; you could hear it building — wind battering the windows, distant thunder rolling like a warning.

None of it mattered.

There was only one fixed point in the world, and it was at the top of the Astronomy Tower.

You took the final staircase, breathing shallow in uneven gasps, heart rate frantic and desperate — fingers gripping the metal railing to steady yourself. The tower door loomed ahead, iron latch glinting at you mockingly. You shoved it open with strength you weren’t even aware you possessed just to get to him.

The wind struck you fully at once, brisk and furious, carrying the faint scent of rain washed stone. It whipped your hair around your face, but you paid it no mind. The sky was ominous and frightening, nothing like what he had promised.

Yet, amidst it all was your North Star. Your guiding light. Funny, wasn’t it? That he was in the Astronomy Tower of all places.

The clouds hid the heavens, but Tom glowed as he stood in the dark of night at the balcony’s edge, facing the horizon with his back to you, hands resting lightly on the railings. The storm swallowed the sky, but in your vision he was lit from within. The only thing illuminated. The only thing that mattered. His dark robes stirred with the breeze, the fabric clinging and releasing against his lean frame. You could only see the elegant line of his neck and the sharp angle of his jaw. He looked carved from shadow and pale marble, perfectly still against the raging weather.

You could only stare in awe.

He looked like he belonged to the night.

The beauty of what lay in front of your eyes made your breath catch in your throat.

“Tom.”

The name left you with reverence and breathlessness, almost disbelieving — like you had stumbled upon something sacred.

He turned.

At that moment, thunder cracked overhead. Lightning split across the sky in a violent flare of white, bathing Tom in a sudden light. For a heartbeat, your world froze with that flash. He looked like an angel. The light carved his high cheekbones, hollowed shadows beneath them, kissable lips curved in something that was not quite surprise.

His brown eyes found yours instantly before the faintest smile touched his lips — and somehow, you felt like you could breathe again. Like your entire world had rightened itself under your feet. Because Tom looked so happy to see you.

Rain began to mist in the air, cool against your flushed cheeks.

“I wondered how long it would take,” he finally spoke, voice carrying easily through the harsh winds. Your heart trembled at the melodious sound.

The implication in his tone flew right over your head. You only heard his voice, smooth like velvety chocolate on the tongue. It wrapped around you like warmth which you were in desperate need of.

Tom knew you would come. And he waited, so patiently. He knew you better than you knew yourself.

You stepped toward Tom before you even realized you were moving, like he was a magnet. Then again. And again. The distance— the separation between you felt unbearable.

And Tom watched closely the entire time, tracing over you slowly in a way that made you shudder from the intensity. He took note of everything, studied you. The lack of a cloak and your thin blouse which did nothing against the chill as if you had rushed over here. The flushed cheeks and your heaving breasts. The wild shine in your eyes. The way your hands trembled slightly at your sides.

Tom’s gaze darkened with something akin to pleasure.

“You’re cold,” he observed, though his voice carried no real concern.

“I don’t care,” you whispered.

Every step closed the space and yet it was never fast enough. The wind tangled your hair across your face, but you did not brush it away. You could not look anywhere except at him.

“You were right,” you choked out, your voice unsteady. “About the stars.”

Tom paused for a moment, faintly confused before his lips tugged at the corners in amusement at your state of delirium. It was, after all, an effect of the Amortentia he put in the chocolates you took from him this morning. It was also the last thing he had said to you in parting, and so, it wasn’t surprising you would be fixated on it.

“I’m usually right.”

You know that now, down to your marrow.

“You’re beautiful,” you breathed instead, unable to help yourself from commenting on it. Up close, he was overwhelming. And that smile on his face was devilishly handsome. It gave you butterflies. Satisfaction flickered in his eyes — eyes like dark chocolate. You loved chocolate and you loved Tom.

You reached for him to steady yourself as though you had been falling all along. And the second your fingers touched the fabric of his robes, the world narrowed to that single point of contact. He was real. And he was yours. Tom stood at the center of your universe — like the stars, burning and eternal.

“I—” Your voice trembled suddenly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see it,” your words tumbled over one another. “I didn’t understand earlier. I was foolish. I thought— I thought I didn’t know you. But I do. I must. I just— didn’t want to be… like the others.”

A huff of amusement came from Tom.

“You are nothing like the others.”

By the look on Tom’s face, he seemed to be telling the truth, so sure of himself and what he had spoken to you. Of course he was. Tom would never lie to you. He did earlier today, but that was because he knew you’d be too stubborn to listen then. Again, an example of how well he knew you.

Another roll of thunder swallowed your words.

You closed the final, treacherous inch between you and collided into him like a supernova, fingers fisting into the fabric of his robes, pressing yourself against his chest as though proximity alone could steady the storm inside you. Your arms wound around his waist, clutching him tightly as though he might vanish into a black hole.

Tom went rigid beneath your touch.

A subtle tension rippled through him as if your unrestrained contact took him by surprise. But it was gone almost instantly. His arms came around you with one hand settled at your lower back, the other sliding possessively at your nape, fingers threading lightly into your hair.

You melted into his burning touch. His hands felt like a furnace on a cold night. You took advantage of the situation, inhaling the scent off his clean clothes. And God, he was the best thing you ever smelt — better than chocolate. Better than the ones he had given you that tasted sweeter with every bite you took. You wondered if Tom’s lips tasted the same.

“I thought I didn’t need anyone,” you continued, your voice breaking as hot tears streamed down your cheeks. “But when I left you this morning, i-it felt like I couldn’t breathe.” Your fingers tightened in the fabric at his back. “It felt like something was crushing my chest.”

Tom’s hand at your neck flexed with subtle pressure, guiding you closer. His chin lowered slightly — so tall, so tall — resting against the crown of your head. He did not hush you. He only listened. Oh, Tom. He was perfect in every way.

“Did it?” He murmured softly in return, voice near you ear. His thumb brushed upward along your spine in a slow, absent movement. Safe. You felt safe in his arms. You only nodded against him hysterically, fingers clutching at his robes, wrinkling the immaculate fabric.

Tom’s gaze lifted to the stormy, dark horizon in the background as you spoke into his chest. He had known you would come. The amount of love potion he put into the chocolates were enough to tilt you gently in the direction you were meant to face. Toward him.

“I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t think. I kept seeing you. And I realized…” Your breath hitched. “I realized I can’t be without you. I don’t want to be. I need you,” you finally confessed, cheeks hot, fisting his shirt. The words trembled as they came out of you, but they were certain. You were afraid for him to leave you, to be alone.

“I need you like I need air, Tom.”

The wind howled faintly around the tower, tugging at your hair and at his cloak with fiercer ferocity. The storm clapped mercilessly above, rain starting to pouring heavily into the balcony which you both stood near at an angle. Tom stepped closer inside to avoid being hit much by it, leading you backwards with him.

You barely noticed, eyes locked on his face like you couldn’t look away; entranced.

Tom tilted your chin up with two fingers. You looked at him through tear blurred vision, cheeks flushed, lashes wet, lips parted and wobbly. Devotion was written plainly across your face. Worship and unwavering loyalty. Tom’s gaze swept over you slowly, drinking you in. He couldn’t help but swallow, pale throat bobbing.

Perfect. You were… perfect like this.

“You want me? You need me?” He repeated very quietly, voice raspy as he cupped your cheek. It sounded like gospel to your ears. You leaned into his hand. Honestly, you could hear Tom speak all day. You almost hated yourself for having to respond because he went silent just to hear you. But Tom wanted you to talk to him, and you would do anything to make him happy.

“Yes,” you gasped, your response immediate and absolute.

Tom’s thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the edge of a tear as he collected it onto his finger. He examined the moisture on his skin briefly before letting his hand fall.

“I don’t give my attention lightly,” Tom hummed. “You know that.”

“I know.”

“And when I decide something belongs to me…” His eyes held yours, unblinking. You inhaled sharply. “I do not let it go easily.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

“I don’t want you to,” you whispered.

Tom’s hand slid from your jaw to the curve of your waist, fingers spreading there as though testing the shape of you, claiming you. You leaned into him further. He drew you impossibly closer than that, your body pressed against his fully now. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. It wasn’t beating erratically like yours.

Your fingers slid higher along his chest, curling near his collar. He doesn’t stop you.

“I want you.”

The statement hung in the air as Tom simply looked down at you.

“You have me,” Tom said at last, and your heart swelled painfully at that. He understood. He always understood. You buried your face against his chest again, tears barely dampening the front of his rain soaked clothes. His hand moved to the back of your neck once more.

“And you won’t run again,” he murmured, and it sounded like seduction.

“No.”

His thumb pressed lightly at the base of your throat, just enough to feel the frantic pulse there, tilting your head back up ever so slightly to meet his eyes.

“Say it.”

You swallowed, and he felt it against his finger. You were completely vulnerable in this position. And yet, your breath shook wildly, eyes dilated.

“I won’t run from you.”

The faintest hum left him, almost content.

“Good girl.”

Your breath hitched at the praise. Good girl. You wanted to hear it again and again until it was etched into your bones. Your lips parted instinctively as if asking for more without words. Lightning flashed again, closer now. The harsh breeze mauled at your damp hair, whipping it across your face again. He reached up and smoothed it back with unsettling gentleness.

“You belong with me,” you practically begged. “Don’t you see? I belong with you.”

“I was hoping,” he started carefully, pausing to look over your expression, “that you would come to that conclusion on your own.”

Your heart seized at that. He had believed in you. He had waited.

“I love you,” you hiccuped, the words tumbling out without hesitation.

Silence followed. Droplets of rain striked the stone around you.

“You couldn’t live without me?” Tom asked.

You shook your head helplessly, enamored with him and hanging onto his every word.

“No.”

A faint exhale left him — almost a laugh, but not quite. For all his contempt of love potions, Tom could not deny their elegance.

He had always despised them — weak little instruments for those too pathetic to command any type of devotion on their own merit. The irony of his own conception had burned that hatred into him early. A foolish girl from a crumbling line, infatuated with a filthy Muggle, desperate enough to drug him into counterfeit affection. A love potion slipped into a drink. A Muggle man ensnared. And from that humiliating farce — him. His mother had begged for love. And when it slipped through her fingers, she had withered.

Lord Voldemort would never wither.

Lord Voldemort would never be weak.

He would never beg a filthy Muggle to stay. He would never cling to someone who did not choose him freely. He would never lose control of himself the way his mother had. Tom did not feed you this potion because he lacked control over you. He brewed it because power — which was neither good nor evil — meant using every bit of magic available.

Tom Riddle was nothing like his stupid mother.

Merope had dosed Tom Riddle Sr because she feared he would leave. Tom had dosed you because you would not have the good sense to stay. Because you were stubborn in that infuriatingly, principled way. Because you required… encouragement.

And now?

His hand tightened subtly at your nape, thumb pressing into the pulse at your neck just beneath your skin as if testing it. You trembled for him. You burned for him. You had run through the castle, abandoned dignity, abandoned sense, abandoned warmth — because you needed him.

A memory flickered through his mind.

It would be months ago from now. He had not meant to linger in that aisle longer than necessary, running a simple errand for a professor before he heard his name. Now, Tom was by far not an uncommon name, he admitted to himself with bitterness. But, he recognized the voice. Out of pure instinct, he peeked through the shelves, curious and silent, gaze sharp through the narrow, emptied out spaces between spines of ancient books in the castle library.

Tom saw one of the girls who he had turned down the day before. Clearly, she was not as okay with it as she had pretended to be and would gladly tear him apart for sport in front of her pathetic friends. Not that he cared about such trivial matters. The concept of love was the least of his concerns. He knew what to expect. Tom could read people like an open book. Resentment and hurt; he had grown accustomed to nurturing it in others every time he said the word no.

But then, he heard you.

Defending him.

You hadn’t known he was listening. You had no idea he stood on the other side of that shelf, watching you. You had simply said what you believed to be true. That he owed no one his affection. That boundaries were not arrogance. You had sounded sincere, not a single trace of want in your tone.

It had stuck with him.

At first, he assumed it was typical teenage girl pettiness. A little rivalry using a clever remark to wound another for competition… until he realized you never once looked at him in class or in corridors. You did not smile at him shyly. You did not linger near in hopes of getting his attention. You did not even seem to care that he existed.

It wasn’t always obsession.

That was when curiosity took root.

Then, curiosity became irritation.

Tom Riddle was accustomed to being watched. To the whispers. To the desire and lust in other people’s eyes. But you — infuriatingly — refused to orbit him. Never preened. Never sought him out. You rejected boys without hesitation, as if their offers were minor inconveniences. Including Tom too, apparently.

What did you want, then? What standard did you hold that so many failed to reach? He couldn’t figure you out as easily as anyone else. And ironically, Tom Riddle hated riddles.

After closely watching you for months, he had figured out plenty about you. You lived quietly, guarding your privacy like treasure. You liked silence, he did too. But not the eerie kind like Tom did. You preferred the type that consisted of at least some natural noise. You disliked spectacles, stiffening at anything that would draw attention to you. Like him, you valued control. In some ways, you and him were not so different.

You tucked your hair behind your ear when irritated. You frowned faintly when concentrating, a look he’s seen many times when you never noticed him staring right at you. You were kind. Tom first saw it in the way you protected his name in conversations that did not concern you and he hasn’t forgotten it since.

And then, there was the chocolate — always white chocolate. It was your weakness. He had catalogued it months ago, when you unwrapped one absentmindedly. The faint smile you wore when you thought no one was looking, how you so easily lost yourself in it, brain going numb — the sight made him hungry in a way he never was growing up as a poor orphan. It made him want to ravish you where you stood. He had been looking. He was always looking at you. And you were blissfully unaware.

Tom had known you would eat what he gave you. Your sweet tooth was abominable. How could something so simple bring you so much joy? You lacked restraint when it came to sugar. He had measured the dosage of Amortentia carefully — enough to turn the tide of your stubbornness, not enough to dull your mind completely. He did not want a puppet. He wanted something that felt real, that sounded real — as real as a love potion can get.

Tom had given you the illusion of choice; in a manner of speaking. And when you still rejected him in the courtyard — just as part of him knew you would — cold fury had flared inside him, bright and violent, beneath his composed exterior. You had dared to believe there was someone better suited to you than him? How dare you find him insufficient? Who could possibly surpass him?

No one.

No one would have you.

He had orchestrated every detail to make you comfortable.

And still, you said no.

How ungrateful you were.

He had even planted the seed with Slughorn weeks before, during a late Slug Club gathering. It was a casual suggestion, an offhand remark about the curriculum timing what with Valentine’s Day approaching. Wouldn’t it be amusing to align love potions with the season? Slughorn had beamed at the brilliance of it, utterly unaware he had been maneuvered.

The pieces had arranged themselves beautifully. As they always did, the stars shone in his name — for he was the universe’s favorite. Everything would work out for Lord Voldemort in the end.

As you clung to him now, pliant, Tom felt no guilt. Only confirmation that you were not like the others — he had been right about that from the beginning. You had defended him when you owed him nothing. You had shown him something dangerously close to loyalty before he had even asked for it.

And loyalty deserved to rewarded.

In all honesty, your trust had always been your flaw. You defended him when you did not know him. You believed in goodness where others would not. You believed in him.

You were too good for your own good.

And goodness, in this world, required protection. He would be that protection. Deep down, even a god like him craved to be seen as a man from time to time. So, you would love him like one. Tom would show you how. And you would never stop.

Tom’s lips crashed onto yours with bruising force, a hand fisting in your damp hair. Deep and claiming, his tongue swept into your mouth like he was starving for the taste of you. Like he’d been starving for weeks, months, years. Like this was his first taste of life and death all at once. You gasped against him, overwhelmed — and Tom took the opportunity by deepening the kiss, your body arching instinctively into his chest, a hand gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.

He backed you against the stone walls of the Astronomy tower, thigh nudged between yours, pressure settling exactly where heat pooled most desperately. You whimpered, a broken sound swallowed by another searing kiss.

Tom’s hands were everywhere — rough, impatient, possessive. He shoved your skirt up past your hips without breaking the kiss, wand calloused fingers dragging over bare skin before finding your panties soaked with slick. He growled into your mouth at the feeling. A dark, satisfied sound that made you even wetter.

Tom didn’t let up, your whimpers going straight to his groin. He fed off every breathless sound you made, every tremble that ran through your frame at his touch. When he finally pulled back an inch, his brown eyes burned down at yours, flashing red almost. They were feral.

“So wet,” he rasped against your lips, tone thick with something between disbelief and satisfaction with you. “For me?”

You could only nod frantically as his thumb circled once over swollen flesh like a loving caress one would absentmindedly give an animal, a slow tease, before taking them away. Before you could complain however, without warning, Tom dropped to his knees before you on those cold stone floors drenched by windblown rainwater pooling near your feet and gently pushed up your soaked skirt once more. The second his cold, powerful fingers brushed your inner thigh, you shivered.

Tom looked up at you through dark lashes. Droplets of rain streaked down his pale face. His hands were steady, skillful— too calm for a prodigy that was about to do something so filthy on a magical tower where anyone could find them.

But then again, Tom had never cared about rules when it came to getting what he wanted.

And right now?

He wanted you.

With deliberate slowness, torturous, he hooked one long finger under your soaked panties before he pulled them aside. A cool gust of wind swept over your exposed heat just as his warm breath ghosted across sensitive skin. A soft gasp left your throat at the sensation before your lips parted further in surprise.

Tom had licked once — a long, slow drag straight up your slit — and groaned like it was honey on his tongue, the sound making you clench around nothing. He was starting to understand why you lost control of yourself when it came to sweet things.

All you could focus on was the mouth suddenly sealing over your core like a man possessed. His tongue worked in ruthless circles, relentless and straight to the point, plunging inside before licking back up again with just the right pressure to make your knees buckle.

You cried out, a high pitched and desperate sound as one hand fisted in his hair while the other braced against damp stone wall behind you. You wanted him. You wanted all of him. Anything he’d give you, you’d take in a heartbeat. The wind continued to howl around you, drowning out your noises, rain slashing sideways onto your faces — but neither of you cared.

All that existed was Tom’s mouth devouring you like ripe fruit offered to a god — the wet sounds obscene as he sucked at your clit between sharp nips of his teeth — a low growl vibrating from his chest and against your folds, sending shocks through the sensitive flesh every time another whimper escaped your lips.

Everything about this was borderline animalistic, something you never expected from Tom.

Tom.

Tom.

“Tom, Tom, Tom—!”

Your voice was a broken melody as you worshipped his name like it was the only word left in your world, dazed and drunk from the love potion’s magic. He was the only thought in your head. It confused you how you could love someone so much so suddenly. But you guess that’s what it meant to love someone so great. Each utterance of his name dripped with reverence, laced with the love potion’s haze and raw pleasure as his tongue worked magic between your thighs. And though he despised that name — Tom Marvolo Riddle — hearing it fall from your lips like this? Like you were praying to him?

It undid something in him. Tom reveled in it.

His eyes stayed locked on yours even as he feasted on you, dark pools of hunger and possession flashing with each clap of lightning outside. Rain slicked every inch of his face. His cheeks dusted faintly pink from exertion — but it hadn’t compared to how utterly wrecked you looked above him.

Fingers tightening further at your hip while the other curled under your thigh, lifting it effortlessly so he had a better angle. Tom was relentless. Every lick, every suck — each one was born to ruin you. His tongue dragged up your slick folds with agonizing slowness, the tip playing with your tiny clit just enough to make you whimper before pulling away completely and doing it again. And again; like he had all night.

It was just them, like it was always meant to be — the breeze whooshing around their bodies that were pressed together — and Tom was worshipping at the altar of your cunt like it truly was sacred ground only meant for him.

Tom groaned against you when you ground down harder onto his mouth, hips rocking helplessly as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly. One hand shot out instinctively to brace against his shoulder while the other still clung desperately to his hair — pushing his face deeper without meaning to.

The vibrations of another low growl rumbled through his lips straight into your throbbing bundle of nerves. You were so close, rutting against his pretty face in tandem.

“Tom,” you whined pitifully. Tom knew. He always knew.

He could feel it, from the way your thighs tensed to how your breaths turned into frantic little gasps that dissolved into moans. From the moment you tilted your head back, baring that delicate throat to the sky, breaking eye contact with him although he knew it pained you to do so. Because all you ever wanted to do was look at him now.

Without breaking rhythm, his tongue circled your clit while two fingers suddenly pushed inside you without warning, long and deft, finding that spongy spot deep within instantly, filling you up deliciously.

“Tom— oh! Oh God—”

Tom smirked up at you. Your back arched off the wall while thighs shook around his invading hand. It burned, stretched you too fast — but god it was good, especially when Tom curled them upwards just right. He sucked hard on your puffy little nub and the combination of everything all at once was too much.

A scream tore from your throat, his name ripping out of you in a sob as the orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. You didn’t even recognize your own voice.

Your back arched violently off the wall. Your hips jerked against Tom’s mouth and fingers like a delightful seizure as pleasure washed through every nerve ending in your body. You could see it behind closed eyelids — flashes of light, stars bursting across your vision just like he’d promised.

Tom didn’t stop.

He let you ride out your high, feeling every pulse of your pussy as you clenched tightly around his fingers, slurping gently now to prolong it while his digits kept pumping inside you at an achingly slow pace meant to wring every last drop of ecstasy from your trembling body. You let out a shaky breath, hands carding through Tom’s wet strands endearingly, the wet look making him look even more attractive.

From the rain or your juices, you didn’t know. All you could do was gasp for air and whisper his name again between shuddering gasps as Tom kept going until the last tremor had faded from your body, ignoring the strain in his trousers for now.

Only then did he finally pull his fingers free with a wet pop — lifting them to his lips and licking every drop of you clean without breaking eye contact. Your cheeks grew hotter, eyes glassy and dazed as you peered down at him, pupils dilated and practically the shape of hearts. His expression was pure sin, dark eyes heavy lidded and mouth glistening with your slick and cum.

“Delicious.”

You were still slumped against the wall, legs weak and breath ragged, completely wrecked.

But Tom was far from done with you.

In one fluid motion, he stood up — towering over you again before he yanked off his soaked cloak in one impatient tug. The fabric hit the wet floor with a heavy splash as rain dripped down every sculpted inch of him. His thick cock already painfully hard beneath his pants. Your gaze devoured him, tracking his bulge specifically as he begins to unbuckle his belt without breaking eye contact.

You barely had time to acknowledge how your back ended up on the cold stone floor, or how your clothing now lay torn in shreds, exposing your entire body to him — Tom looming over you like a predator about to claim its prize. His eyes looked wild and free. Your heart skipped a beat.

The cold stone bit into your bare skin but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off of Tom’s body when he blanketed yours, even when his clothes were soaked and you lay entirely bare in contrast before him. Rain pounded down harsher than before as he positioned himself between your thighs. His cock, his beautiful cock already glistening at the tip from precum, pulled out from between his zipper. It tapped against your soaked entrance before circling it almost teasingly. You don’t remember seeing him taking it out.

One hand gripped your hip tight while the other braced beside your head. Tom’s breath came ragged now too, control fraying at every second spent not inside you.

Tom didn’t give you time to overthink as his hand guided himself between your slick folds already swollen from his earlier attention. His mushroom tip pressed hot and heavy against your hole and you clenched involuntarily, eager to suck him in. It leaked precum onto your sensitive skin. So close. You could feel how big he was, thicker than your wrist, longer than expected — and a pit grew in your gut before it went away like it had never existed.

“Breathe,” he murmured, not unkindly. He must have sensed you were nervous. But, Tom was also impatient as he proceeded to press the tip inside without warning.

As his cock pushed in, stretching you impossibly wide — a groan, deep and guttural, was wrenched from his throat. You were tight. So tight it nearly stole his breath.

“Mmnn—”

You whimpered at the burn. Every inch of him was slowly sheathing itself in your slick heat, gooey walls fluttering around him like a heartbeat. Virgin cunt untouched until now. Until him.

His glorious cock speared into you further like a divine sword until he bottomed out inside you fully. Full. Your lips parted in a silent scream, brows furrowed and eyes fluttered shut. You never felt this good, this full, even though it stung a little in comparison, when you ate chocolate.

You were delirious, lost in your head. On top of you, Tom didn’t move again right away.

Couldn’t.

Just braced above you with trembling arms, your nails digging crescents into his pale skin, drawing a hiss that sounded unnatural for a human to make but it made you clench around him all the same. His forehead pressed to yours as rain dripped from his face onto yours like holy water. His hips twitched involuntarily — a shallow grind that dragged a whimper from your lips.

Then slowly. So. Fucking. Slowly. He pulled back, your head tilting as your eyes rolled back to your skull, toes curling, until just the tip remained before pressing in again.

Thunder and lightning clapped in your ears, splitting the sky in jagged bursts that lit your upturned face for a few seconds. The world above was chaos, black storm clouds swallowing the sky as the heavens raged. Rain hammered down mercilessly, turning the stone floor beneath you into a slick mirror. Your soaked hair splayed across the stone floor like a halo.

You stared up at that upside down horizon with hazy eyes, each thrust from Tom rocking your head back further against wet rock as he rutted into you.

And yet, all you could think about were those stars that you saw behind closed lids whenever pleasure crested too high — the ones only he had shown you.

You smiled dreamily.

Tom was right.

You had seen the stars tonight.

And they were beautiful.

Clop-clop, clop-clop…

A single horse carried a wooden cart filled with cloth covered barrels. You were sat at the coachman's seat right beside your master, Dr. Tom Riddle. Well, master wasn’t the right word; you weren’t his assistant nor were you a slave of any kind. You were simply his patient, one that required to be by his side at all times in order to receive your medication.

Without him, you wouldn’t know what to do, you had no where else to get treatment—and it was strictly forbidden to tell anyone in the village about your condition, otherwise they could possibly banish you from the town; you weren’t quite sure why they would go to such lengths, however, Dr. Riddle assured you that the townspeople would not take your illness kindly.

So, for the sake of your health and family, you had always ran to the doctor for healing; he never failed to do so each time, the everlasting pains would disappear right after his almost daily treatments. Which is why it was from your unwavering loyalty did you decide to refer to him as your master; no other human being within the country could ever heal you back to a hale and hearty physique quite like the doctor could.

Dr. Riddle was a man of few words, he only spoke when it was necessary, and when he uttered the occasional interjection, it was only the truth, whether it hurt the other party’s pride or not. And his appearance certainly wasn’t the most gentle. From the knee-high boots that clad his ankles to his broad shoulders, everything was covered by the long midnight hued coat he adorned whenever he was in the presence of other beings. And his face was always concealed with that awfully long crow-like mask, never have you even set sight on the skin of his chin.

However, let it be known that his odor was rather pleasant, a fragrance that whiffed across your nose whenever you were beside him, one that held contrast to the current surrounding smell of urinated puddles from horses of standby wagons. It was thanks to the bundles of lavender, mint and many other herbs that were confined within his beak—he once told you that these plants would protect him from disease and harm. And so this smell could only remind you of Dr. Riddle; out of the many men that you knew from your village, the doctor was the only one who possessed the most agreeable scent.

After sometime you even began to associate Dr. Riddle to that as noble as a saint. He gave his time to the ill without payment of any sort, but the townspeople never left him empty handed, they were always so eager to compensate him for his generous aids to the town.

He was a very patient man and you admired him for it; even as you stare at the cold metal of his beak, your gaze held the same adoration to that of a hero.

One would claim you to be obsessed, too loyal to a man that many knew nothing of; your parents warned you to keep your distance from the beaked doctor; after all, he appeared suddenly when a short epidemic broke out within a nearby hamlet.

Days later, word spread faster than any plague, everyone and their mother knew of the doctor with a beak, the healer that was akin to a priest; despite not being a true doctor many townsfolk had begun to see him as one, calling upon him when they acquired even a breathe of illness.

You adored him, you would follow Dr. Riddle everywhere even if you were void of any sort of disease; it was then when you awoke from your trance of thought when said admired doctor cleared his throat. “Where has your mind gone, young miss?”

A sharp inhale struck your lungs like a winter’s day—if there was one thing you could never get adjusted to, it was the low hum of his voice that chilled down your spine, a weird feeling that came to you whenever he woke you from your befuddled thoughts.

Despite his intimidating appearance, you were never afraid of him, but that is what confused you; if you weren’t scared of the doctor, why did your knees buckle when he approached closer, only an inch dividing the two of you. Why did your heart escalate when he only asked about your well-being, the vibrations of his voice echoing in the drums of your ears.

It was during these moments that your illness surfaced, tingles in the organ between your thighs; and now, every jump of the wagon hitting potholes in the unpaved dirt road added to the pressure you felt, legs pressed together as you answered the doctor with a strained smile, “forgive me, Master Riddle. I had simply thought about how kind the farmer was to supply us with these many herbal medicines,” gesturing towards the several cloth covered barrels filled with a collection of both fresh and dried greenery.

The aching inside you began to increase, the sound of a thoughtful hum filled your hearing, was he saying something else? You could barely tell from the dull throbbing distracting your mind; you couldn’t mention what was happening to you at this very moment, there was obviously no treatment room within sight, and it would be selfish to burden the doctor’s thoughts of the constant change in your condition.

How foolish of you to think he doesn’t already know of your current predicament, the shift in your position, the unsteadiness of your legs as they fidgeted under your beige gown, it was all noticeable signs that Tom could decipher within a matter of seconds.

He knew of your consideration to others, always putting yourself behind in order to avoid delaying his tasks; yet he had told you repeatedly to inform him when the “tingles and aches” began, so he could cure you for the day.

But for the moment, it was enjoyable to watch you squirm under his gaze, ass swaying uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat, hands pressed in a grip as your knuckles turned white; he’d leave you in your pitiful state, just for awhile longer, until you cried for his help. Begged for it in that sweet euphonious voice, whining for his healing touch to cease the pain within you.

What felt like hours on the rickety road in endless suffering was only twenty-five minutes, you hoped to wait until your next destination, however you could feel your condition worsen as each second passed, and you worried how bad it may get by the time you finally arrived.

You tugged at the elbow of your dear master’s coat till he finally faced you, staring at your soft features, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and air lingering in your chest, you were unable to look him directly in the eyes of his mask. “Master Riddle…” Squeaking his name in such an alluring voice, while your left hand gripped onto the cloth of your wrinkled skirt.

“What is it, my dear?” His concerned words had you feeling guilty for voicing your worries, how could you add more work on his shoulders, especially when he was expected to tirelessly heal the elderly and young at the next village.

Before you could spiral into more guilt ridden thoughts, the wagon began to slow down, the doctor had pulled the horse to a halt, his attention now centered on you.

“What is wrong, are you hurt?” His voice laced with absolute worry, but behind that dark honeyed voice was a man with sadistic desires, scanning your features under his mask, sight lingering at the way those gorgeous breasts grew in every inhale.

You shook your head, “I am sorry, Master… The pain has begun once again and it is unbearable!” Dear god, how he loved it when you called him that… He simply clasped your little finger tips that pinched his coat in large leather covered hand, “you’re experiencing the same pains once again, hm?” One hand slipped under the skirt of your dress, sliding over the pantalette as he tantalized your pudgy wet folds through the open crotch. “Hurts right here, does it?”

Oh, how innocent you were, gasping for air the moment, rough materials of his digits stroked the sensitive skin, eyes rolling to the back, your usual gentle touch was replaced with a trembling grip on his wrist, you could barely manage a nod to his question.

“Oh, my dear… You must have been suffering for quite some time,” his sugarcoated words pitied your situation, but what was he if not a kind doctor, “we mustn’t dawdle, you should undergo treatment right away.”

“But, Dr. Riddle-!” your sweet soul couldn’t begin to finish your protests when a single large leathery finger entered your succulent heat, mouth agape, moans choked at your throat as you hid your face in his cloak; little whimpers of his title dripping from your lips.

“There is cover in the forests, we may treat you there,” low whispers that granted you the mercy of his healing, shouldn’t you be grateful and accept his generous offer? It would be rude to deny his kindness, so you simply nodded weakly from your place beside him. You felt empty the moment he retracted his finger from the muscle, the underlying pains still persisting, but he wouldn’t leave you suffering for long.

In a single swift lift of his arms, he picked you up from your seat and stepped down from the cart. Carrying you with ease to a tree that was right beside the road—wait, was he planning to treat you right there?! It was practically in the open, the tree was just large enough to cover the span of his silhouette, if someone were curious enough, they could view the entire spectacle of Dr. Riddle’s medical procedure!

You hadn’t the time to ask the doctor to reconsider, when he set you next to the trunk. Without a second to waste, the waves of your skirt were strategically pushed to the top of your waist, your plain wool pantalette was now revealed to the chill wind of the forests. Quickly getting hold of the cloth and held them well to prevent it from getting in the way of the doctor’s process.

Anxiously waiting for the moment to come as he undid the decorated metal belt around his trousers, slipping his length out of the confinement of his undergarments; oh how it wasn’t incredibly long, but what it lacked in length, came through in width, the thickness of his cock was dressed with many veins along his girth; the stretch was painful in the beginning of every session, but you recently began to get accustomed to him.

You must have gotten lost thought as you gawked at his size, because your thoughts were stirred when he relieved a breathy chuckle to your dazed expression. “My dear, what thoughts might be plaguing you at this very moment?” the aches within you worsened at every vibration of his voice, the metal of his beak chilling your neck as your breasts heaved with each breathe.

The bare mushroom head of his length met the skin under your belly as his entire body towered over you like a dark shadow. Suddenly, gloved hands lifted your right knee to allow him access to your sore waiting entrance.

This position was rather new to you, during any treatment with Dr. Tom, he would lay you on the comforts of a bed and begin the process, however you didn’t know what to do in this situation; as you overfilled your little head with questions, Tom had lifted your entire body above the ground; and in an alarmed instinct you wrapped your legs around his waist to regain hold in this sudden change in posture, meanwhile your delicate palms rested at his shoulders.

“Oh my-!” you exclaimed quite loudly for the woods to hear.

“You must be quiet. Do you understand, little mouse? It is not right for a man within my profession to perform a medical procedure in the open.” He had to make it clear that this wasn’t appropriate, medical treatment inside the woods? It was uncalled for. So you would be an understanding patient and keep your sex-filled moans to a minimum while he abuses the walls of your delicious cunt.

Before you could reassure the doctor that you would keep your voice down, he entered the warmness inside you with precision, you were already dressed with so much arousal, immediately sucking him in at first contact. The stretching pains of his thick girth was there as always, your head flew back on the wooden support behind you, fighting every urge to release the threatening noises within your chest, lips bitten shut as he intruded your heat.

Plush thighs now adorned with pierced red marks as his veins caressed the sponge of your delectable pussy. In and out at a practiced motion, the sounds of squelches and skin slapping fouled the beauty of the forest, a vulgar act being conducted under the veil of nature.

Every thrust sent vibrations through your body, hair bun and blushing bosom bounced with each impact. Soft walls clenched around him as shining tears pricked at your lashes, staining your red apple cheeks. Darling you, unaware of his corruption to your innocence, your body entirely his as he turned you into his pet. At every plap, a guttural moan fell to your ears, cock drilling into his favourite toy as it tried to milk him dry.

Yet you don’t even know, oh dear god, how you felt guilty for putting your master in discomfort, the sounds of his pain echoing through your body, however, you felt almost pleased to hear him sound so human, so natural, like he too could feel emotions and pain. It was only during your treatment did you hear a voice that wasn’t monotone or quiet judgment, he was loud and full of emotion, he shook every part of you, releasing noises from deep within his chest.

His moans clouded your mind when Dr. Riddle surprised you with a sudden slam of his hips. Tip of his cock kissing your core, pounding into you at dizzying speeds; pulling out completely only to shut your hole full to the hilt. The sudden pace had waves of pleasure surge all over you, nails piercing his shoulders, sensual noises spilling into his ears as you could no longer bite back the wanton moans that screamed from you, lips now leaking blood from the abuse of your teeth. “Aaaah! ‘s too much!” “Doctor! Doctor, pleaaase!” Everything moved all at once, your vision, strange sensations coursing through your body, saliva dripping down your chin, and the large extension of his body protruding into you every half a second, it was all too much. “It was you who—plap—begged to be fixed—plap—you will take it without complaint.”

It enraged his cock with excitement, fucking you senseless under the eyes of nature, thoughts of someone catching the both of you in this disgraceful act infested his mind. He’d love nothing more than for word to spread all over many towns of how you were the doctors favourite slut, his personal scarlet woman. You would have no other choice to find refuge within his abode, all to him, nowhere else to escape.

Blinded by pleasure and the believed innocence of this act, unassuming of his intentions or perverted mind, you cried into his shoulders, your folds met his pubic hair with every smack, not for a moment did his rhythm halt or even slow; your vision blurred, thoughts scrambled as a weird pooling feeling overfilled the pit of your stomach, you became familiar with this strange sensation only after you met the doctor, according to him it meant you were very close to being cured for the day, and in just some time you would feel much better than before.

Your breathes grew irregular as you hid yourself in the crook of his neck, body jolting with each thrust, Tom pressed you against the tree to establish a better hold, his bulbous head aiming at your cervix each and every time, you could feel a knot inside you tightening by the second, and it did no better than to increase the volume of your screams, crying into the neck of his coat, drool dripping from your tongue, wetting the cloth at every noise.

“You love it, do you not? Won’t you—nghh!—thank your master for relieving you of your illness?” he filthed your mouth with words you hadn’t even uttered, but to his bidding you cried and whined the exact phrases he craved to hear.

“Aaaaah-hh, love it! I-I love it ‘sho much, ma-master!- Aaaaah!” Thrusts breaking your sentences into lust-full moans, “thank you! thank you—ah!—thank you!” chanting your gratitude for him over and over again, till you could no longer feel the voice within your pipe.

A few more impales filled your abused pussy and broke the knot inside you, a wave of ecstasy vibrated as your orgasm crashed over you in an instant, screams rising from your tortured vocals.

Your wondrous cream surrounded his cock in warmth, he pulled in and out of you to gaze at the stretch of your release, it was divine, it was delectable, he wanted to devour you whole, keep you away from all prying eyes, no man… No. No human should see you, an angel, unfold under them—it was for the eyes of your master only.

After coming down from your immense relief of pleasure, your body leaned limp, head laying at his shoulders, eyes unable to peep open. Despite the desire to sleep on your master’s comforting physique, he had to interrupt your peace.

“It isn’t the time for bed just yet, darling…” “You have yet to take your medicine.” Reminding you that it wasn’t over until you took your daily dosage. Of course, how could you forget—your master hasn’t released your precious cure yet.

He set your bare feet to the earth—slippers discarded somewhere on the dirtied ground—your body could barely carry itself, holding yourself steady by his coat. Small whines coming from below him as the droplets of your previous reaction glistened down your thighs.

"On your knees, my dear..." Breath shuddering at the loss of contact from your glossy pussy, only a minute from you, yet his cock still aching, twitching at the chill of natures breeze. "You mustn't let your medicine go to waste."

A few breathes in, you regained some energy, your head tilted towards his mask and weakly nodded a thank you for his kindness.

Finally, after the impatient waiting of his aroused soaked cock, your knees met the ground, skirt dirtying of mud and twigs.

The heat of your exhale touched his sensitive tip, shuddering at every sensation. His palm found place at the crown of your head, leading your luscious lips to him, wet eyes batting at him when you kissed the tip. You weren’t aware of how lewd your actions were, meeting his bare skin with your lips, knees to the floor, like it was a normal ritual, simply staring at him as a question to move forward with the process, allowing you to engulf him whole in your hot slimy mouth.

Unknowing of the truth behind your actions, petite hands wrapped around his base, just as you were instructed in the past, nice slow strokes of your palm while taking the rest of what you could past your red plump lips.

Languid licks from the roughness of your wet tongue brushed across his fat tip, the flavor of salty bitter precum staining your taste buds. In the beginning, you cringed at the taste of your medication, but dose after dose, you relished in the tang of his white stringy liquid, even chasing it the moment he leaked inside your mouth.

Cheek hallowing at every suck to his slit, your wet hot muscle circling around the throbbing veins. Bobbing your head to take in more of him down your throat—you only followed your master’s orders, completing each step to prepare his organ, so it releases the remedy for your illness. This was all part of the process, you knew that like the pretty little lamb you were; never questioning your master’s instructions, choking on his fat cock because it was good for you. Large amounts of saliva collecting under your tongue, stretching down his length, glistening around the redness.

“Haah… Good-good girl- you’re my good girl, aren’t you?” Rutting into your wet hole, digging his head deeper into your throat. With the inability to speak with a full mouth, your words were rendered to wet muffled noises as you gagged, his cock pushing well past the back of your tongue. Your mouth felt so good, so hot, fuck he was obsessed. Addicted to you. He needs more. And more. And-

The alarming sounds of another wagon could be heard from not too far from where Tom stood. In a haste, he shoved your body to the wall of the tree, mouth still stuffed with him. He pushed himself deeper inside, you began to choke, nails piercing his thighs, attempting to breathe from your nose, filling your lungs with the scent of spit and moss.

“Shhh… Stay quiet.” Sharply warning you from making any noise, otherwise outsiders could catch you in the act.

Strings of your bun snatched onto the crevices of the tree trunk behind, chubby tears spreading down your face as the aching in your jaw increased from holding him inside for so long, the meat of his dick hitting the back of your mouth.

Constantly patting his thighs, begging him to release you from this position, but he saw this as an opportunity, just as the wagon was in his line of sight, he demanded that you continue, “hurry along, my dear, we’ve wasted enough time as is.”

You were choking on his length, there wasn’t more you could do. You were practically useless at that point, unable to even swallow the globs of spit that spilled onto his skin, dripping to the floor.

Several horse shoes clapping against the dirt road became louder as it drew near, but the hand in your hair told you to hurry.

Muscles contracting whilst your tongue swirled around his impatient cock. Deep moans from above you vibrated all the way to the ground, he began pistoning into your sore mouth, a grip of hair keeping you in place as he fucked into his favourite cum-dump. The men passing by were no matter, they could barely hear the deeds happening in the woods due to the obnoxiously loud conversations they were having, however Tom enjoyed putting you in this situation, gives him all the more reason to keep your little lips shut and compliant.

Each thrust smacking the back of your aching esophagus, trying to breathe from your nostrils as fat tears streamed down your face, gagging on his size. “God… You will swallow all of it, do you understand me? Fuck—fuck! Better drink all of what I bloody give you.”

Few jerks later, spurts and ropes of his seed painted the walls of your muscular tube, massive volumes of salty bitter cum released inside you, flowing down as your frantically attempted to swallow it.

Finally released from his hold, your chest heaved raggedly, desperate pants, lungs burning from long emptiness. Harsh coughs scratched your throat, trying to regain air as you wheezed to the ground.

The sounds of clinks and buttoning from above prompted you to cease your exaggerated act, “If you are finished, we must be moving along now.” Long swift strides sauntered past you, as though the other had not been genuinely choking on the remnants of saliva and her remedy. Alas, it was your fault to begin with, making the poor sir stop to fix you to be as right as rain, his reaction was only natural.

You quite hurriedly stood from your place to run bare-footed after Dr. Riddle, shortness of breath still evident, however you could not leave him waiting, already wasting far too much of his precious time. “Forgive me–hah!—Dr. Riddle! I am here!”

He so generously lent you a hand, steadying your frame while you climbed to the seat. The man you held so dear found place right beside you, taking hold of the reins in the same hands that bared your entire weight, still lightly dampened from previous activities.

In spite of the choking matter—one that you thought nothing of—a rush of giddiness took over you, how your master would aid you even during the most unconventional moments. Perhaps he cared for you like no other patient, after all, you had never seen him go out of his way to treat one outside the roof of their own home.

Oh, my dear… you were blinded by innocence and ignorance; unsuspecting of the man to your right. How you could not realize the way he had manipulated your mind, instilling a belief that you were destined to be at his side; that your cure was within him, and to exploit said illness in your core, one had to invade the insides of your body, to stretch it whole with the hardened length at his disposal—but of course only with your master’s body could you be healed, it could only be him, always him.

ari's voice mail ୨ৎ I spent a loooot of time working on thiss one. This AU will be an official one in my character au list! This was an idea i had for so long and with kinktober being here, it felt like the best time to introduce him. I hope you enjoyed it! Skull-Web Divider by @viperify The divider used here is recoloured. Original colours are cherry red (webs/spider), bone white (skulls), and black (bats).

You had quite honestly forgotten about the brewing competition that Slughorn introduced a few years ago. You hadn't participated up until fourth year, when you understood that this could earn you something advantageous in the future. Although, it seemed he had only introduced such a challenge to prove to his fellow professors that he had competent, skilled students who could brew a decent potion most of the time. Despite what you assumed and claimed about his slight insecurity, he allowed any student to take part in it, whether it was a failing seventh year desperate to repair their grade or a second year who wasn't quite sure what Dittany did if added to a potion.

The prize usually consisted of a small vial of some potion such as Felix Felicis or a Girding Potion, and possibly a slightly larger vial of Blemish Blitzer for acne-prone fourth years.

None of these prizes necessarily came in handy for you, you hadn't used potions very much. The one that you had won in fifth year earned you a Pepperup Potion that now sits in the bottom of your chest collecting dust.

You'd beaten your competitor by a sliver of perfection, as Slughorn claimed. He had chosen your Veritaserum over Tom Riddle's notorious Invigoration Draught that he had practically perfected over the last few years.

His conclusion—as he put it—was that your brew appeared prettier, despite being an ugly, bitter yellow versus the unwavering, glassy look of his potion.

While you often considered your predicament as friendly competition, you began improving your brewing skills in second year, spending more time in the Potions room that you would've liked to admit. You studied ingredients and combinations for hours, hunching yourself over thick books lost to the library.

It wasn't your whole aim, but you were attempting to prove to professors that Riddle was in-fact not a childhood prodigy, but instead a highly accelerated learner. Anyone—if attempting hard enough—could be just as superb as he was.

You'd practically go to war with Riddle in everything you attempted if it meant that you could claim the title as victor. You were playing a one-sided game, though, he wasn't visibly bothered by your name above his. Deep down it had to irritate him just for a fleeting moment.

"I think..." You began, then trailed off. You were unsure of what you were going to do, as you had brewed all of your better potions earlier in the year, it would be incredibly difficult to impress Slughorn with a potion you previously concocted to perfection. But, you wanted to do something fun, something with a practical use that most people couldn't brew very easily.

"I'll do Amortentia," you established, eyeing a piece of a chocolate chip cookie that sat on your plate before taking a bite of it.

"Really? Can't find your soulmate yet?" your friend snickered, continuing to cram fork-fulls of pot pie into her mouth.

"Oh, please! I think we both have trouble with that," you laughed, finishing your bite of cookie before fitting another piece into your mouth.

"What does it smell like?" she inquired, looking at you with a smug smile at the corners of her lips as she tapped her fork on her plate.

"You tell me," you giggled, setting your cookie down and resting your hands beneath your chest, leaning against the edge of the table.

"I think it smells like...old books, like an evergreen forest, I guess? Maybe mint, and parchment."

"Merlin, you have that by memory," you laughed, feeling an odd bubble rising in your chest.

The last time you had smelled Amortentia, which had been sometime around fifth year after a horrific spill in the Great Hall, it had smelled like the same thing.

It was definitely peculiar that—out of everyone in Hogwarts—it was the same. It's possible that it could've changed in two years, perhaps Amortentia would be good for you to make, for research purposes, of course.

You knew exactly who it reminded you of—but now was not the time to admit that to yourself.

An awkward silence washed over the table and you cleared your throat as if it would help.

"I mean, I don't really know who it is, but I think it smells nice," your friend continued, shrugging, now spooning chocolate pudding into her mouth.

You nodded, looking off into the distance at the Slytherin table as you thought.

It wouldn't be the end of the world to have him in your Amortentia, since it truly only reflected what you desired. It didn't tell you your soulmate, though it would bother you just a teensy tiny bit.

You sighed, picking up your canvas bag from the bench beside you, adjusting your skirt over your thighs.

"I'm going to head up by Slughorn to confirm my potion, I'll see you tomorrow," you smiled, giving a small wave to your friend. She returned a mildly confused raise of her eyebrow, but waved anyway, and you turned on your heel and walked out of the large doors of the Great Hall.

The deadline was approaching quickly and you hadn't realized how little time you had. Procrastinating was not a typical trait of yours, normally completing everything in advance to be sure that it was well done.

Slughorn was often in his office until around ten, doing Merlin knows what. He was usually grading papers when you walked in, but usually you only came in right after dinner for a question on homework or about a specific potion ingredient.

You made your way down to the dungeons, passing at least two couples that were far too young to be snogging on the weathered benches at this time of night.

Sneaking off to snog had never interested you, though you were mildly envious of the genuine couples that weren't wholly devoted to grades like yourself.

You raised your arm and knocked lightly on the heavy wood, cracking the door open slightly before entering.

Slughorn sat at his desk under a dimly lit lamp that illuminated his face in an awful yellow glow, scribbling something on parchment in front of him.

"Hello, Professor!" you chirped from the doorway, walking in to stand in front of his desk as you put on your best smile and cheerful attitude.

You honestly treated him like a fragile grandfather, never dissipating from the excessive grins and obnoxious laughter that made him like you.

His casual smile grew on his face as he looked up over his reading glasses, recognizing your face in the low light.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Good to see you, I was just speaking to Tom about the potion competition! I assume that's what you're here for?"

Only now did you realize that Riddle stood at the back counter cutting an ingredient, likely for his potion. His shoulders moved with perfect precision, fingers deftly lifting and dropping as he moved each piece across the cutting board.

Though you could not see his face, you took in his stature, careful not to observe long enough to raise suspicion.

His less prominent features were still visible in the low light of the lantern beside him. His dark hair fell in perfect waves over his head, the back perfectly cut and gelled. He lacked a green hemmed robe, but his shoulders were covered by a gray sweater vest and white button up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar slightly bent out of shape. His gray slacks fell to his ankles, black dress shoes obviously freshly shined.

He was so incomparable to where he started seven years ago, a muggle-born learning his way in a magical world. In dilapidated shoes with ripped dress pants that barely reached the top of his ankles, his robes were faded and the seams broke every time he moved.

He had grown into an admittedly handsome man, an incredibly intelligent one at that.

"Hello," he said simply, his back still turned.

"Oh! Well, yes," you replied, turning away in silence from the boy across the room. You didn't respond to his greeting, but you mentally berated yourself for taking time to recognize his appearance.

He was simply a distraction in your competition.

Slughorn nodded happily as he pulled a sheet of parchment from under a pile of lost Potions books. It contained the list of names that were planning to participate in the contest, including their year.

A table of student names and competition potions were laid out in thin columns, and what seemed like a prediction of each student's performance was rated one out of five stars next to their name.

You noticed a girl in fifth year had four stars written next to her name, while a third year boy had half of a star next to his.

As Slughorn filled out your name on the paper, you watched as he scribbled four and a half stars next to your name.

The hastily drawn five stars next to Riddle's name caught your eye.

You had figured it would turn out that way. In Slughorn's eyes, Riddle was always one above you and a thousand above everyone else. His favorite student by far, though you followed in a close, heel-stepping second.

From what you could read upside down, a few students you knew decently well had picked easier potions such as a Wiggenweld potion or the Draught of Peace, but Tom had picked something you should have expected, but wished he hadn't.

Amortentia.

A considerably impressive potion as a last hurrah of his participation, you would declare this as your final competition with him, an end to the game you created for yourself.

Your friend would tell you to write a love letter and get over it, your obsession was far too strong. As she believed.

You cursed under your breath, earning a quizzical look from Slughorn as he questioned what you could possibly be throwing a minimal tantrum over right in front of him.

"Sorry!" you laughed lightly, swatting your hand as if it was nothing to worry about.

Slughorn laughed along with you, oblivious as he was, and took a quill from a cup of all different sorts of feathers, dipping it into the ink beside the cup.

"What potion do you plan on doing?" he asked, his hand hovering over your name slot.

Realistically, you could switch your potion right now and drop it, prove your own worth when finally not compared to him. The desire inside of you for first place burned brighter than your genuine reasoning, though.

Damn it.

You tapped your chin for a moment as if you were contemplating. "I was thinking about doing Amortentia."

You heard something drop at the table in the back where Tom was chopping ingredients.

"Are you alright, Tom?" Slughorn's head shot up to the noise, concern flashing over his face before he sloppily wrote 'Amortentia' next to your name.

You followed suit, twisting your head toward the sound.

He turned around, face neutral and without strain. Eyes alert and lips pursed, he spoke.

"I am alright," he said, lips quirking with a small grin. His declaration was loud and punctual, he was unfazed by your decision.

His lackluster reaction made your blood boil, a determining factor that you had to outshine him.

"I must get going now," you stated, clearing your throat and uncomfortably clutching your bag to your side. "It's getting a bit late."

"See you tomorrow!" Slughorn smiled, waving you off as you said goodbye.

Swiftly walking back to your dormitory, you listened to the clack of your heels echo off the walls, a repetitive and monotonous sound that wouldn't interrupt your thoughts. It fueled them.

Tom Riddle was complex—that you were well aware of—he had enough sides to feed a starving family.

Part of you wondered why success was detrimental to him, why first place determined life or death.

Nothing more than the tightening of his jaw showed his issue with struggle, an unrelenting process that left him exhausted, surely. He was a flawless being with everything to lose, yet a cacophonous creation of frailty.

You knew his ego existed, if anything, it was a visible being. He thrived off of it, fed his innate appetite for success, yet underneath it all, he was a simple muggle-born boy attempting to build a name for himself.

He was a diary hidden at the bottom of a chest fastened by combination locks, but opened as easily as the spine on a well-loved book.

His inconsistent personality drew you in against your will, heightened your need to be better than him. It all connected together in an abysmal medley fed by the nature of academic success that wouldn't let up until one of you forfeited.

He was charming, a handsome boy with a sharp smile, a friendly and poised demeanor about him that welcomed conversation. A force to be reckoned with and a scholarly mouth difficult to work with, he was everything and nothing all at once.

You loathed him and his whole being for making you feel inferior, but he never felt troubled by your presence.

You were a mere fly in his house, a bug he could squash with his finger. You buzzed in his ear until he swatted you to the floor, swept you into the trash and forgot about you.

He was unfazed and prideful, hard to decipher and a swell liar.

You sighed to yourself, shoving open the door to your common room, pushing past straggling students as you made your way to the girl's dormitory.

You opened the door to your room, revealing two of your four roommates awake and painting their nails on one of their beds, the other two nowhere to be seen.

"Hey!" one exclaimed, waving at you with her pinky and ring finger, the others occupied by the black cap of the nail polish.

You gave her an exhausted smile, the girl next to her concentrated on painting her ring finger, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth.

You dropped your bag onto your bed, deflating next to it. You kicked off your shoes and removed your stockings, then stood up to shrug your robe off and toss it over your bed post.

You fell into your bed, rolling to your side and propping your head up on your fist.

"Did you find a potion yet?" Your roommate asked, turning around to dangle her freshly purple painted toes off the side of the bed.

"I told Slughorn I was going to do Amortentia," you responded.

Your roommates were well aware of your excessive conflict with Riddle, but they quite often told you to let it rest or write a love letter, whichever came first.

"Oooh! I definitely want a sniff of that once you're done," she giggled. "What's Tom doing?"

You groaned, looking up into the bed frame above you before looking down to face her again.

"He is also doing Amortentia."

A gasp came from the girl still doing her nails as she whipped her head to face you.

"I know! I went to go tell Slughorn, and he was there. He has this sheet where he wrote everyone's potions down, and Tom must've told him earlier," you exclaimed, huffing in exhaustion. "I didn't even plan on doing the same thing!"

Your giggly roommate laughed—sort of a bark—before speaking. "You'll probably do better anyways, don't worry too much about it."

You smiled at her, the girl beside her nodding in agreement before turning back to her nails.

"It's just frustrating," you whined, thinking back to the earlier moment of what your friend had told you about the scent of her Amortentia.

She wasn't in the same house as you, so what did it matter if you told them about it?

"I was talking to this girl earlier at dinner, you know, the tall, blonde one?" you paused, allowing your roommates to put the pieces together before they both whispered a small 'ohh, her' and nodded.

You continued to tell them about what she had told you, the scent and how you had smelled the same thing the last time you'd encountered Amortentia.

Your roommate paused for a moment and twiddled her thumbs in her lap, nodding her head side to side. "It doesn't necessarily mean that it's the same person," she reasoned, "just very similar."

She leaned back onto her hands, taking a deep breath. "It really only suggests your type, but it's pretty specific," she paused. "So... if I'm being entirely realistic with you, it's probably the same person."

You nodded, biting your lip as you thought.

It shouldn't have mattered to you, yet it did. The thought of it would sit in your conscience and nag at you, yanking at the thinning strings of your sanity until it snapped them.

It won't be him, you pleaded with yourself.

Your involuntary desires clouded your mind and disappointed you—an admittance of your weakness that you tried so desperately to omit.

You stood up abruptly, startling your roommates as you stormed toward the door—you should've settled in for the night.

"Where are you—" One began, the slam of the door cutting off her brief interjection.

You walked briskly out of the dormitory, racing down the stairs and barging into the cool, dark corridor outside of your common room.

It was obviously late—you weren't sure how long you had been gossiping for—but the bodiless hallway proved that you likely shouldn't be out, a Prefect had free reign on you if you were caught.

Deciding you needed more time to think, you began a short journey through the corridors that led you to a random portion of the castle you didn't often travel.

You began to slow, the quick pace of your footsteps distracting you instead of aiding your thoughts. More cautious of your loud breathing and heavy footsteps echoing off the thick walls and high ceilings, you took a moment to lean against the stone and take a breath.

Why did you come out here?

You looked to the side to admire a painting when graceful footsteps sounded down the hall from around the corner.

You cursed under your breath, looking around with panic to find a janitor's closet, a dip in the wall, anything.

You hastily tiptoed down the hallway, flattening yourself against the stone adjacent to a glass case full of plaques and ancient looking Quidditch items.

Holding your breath, you listened to the footsteps approach the nearby intersection of the halls. If they turned right, you could avoid a detention—or they could turn toward you—and you hoped to Godric himself that they wouldn't reach you.

The footsteps were paused for what seemed like ages, the dank air filled with the sound of your shallow breathing and a lantern somewhere in the castle.

Not shortly after you caught your breath, the soft scuffling of dress shoes started down the hallway.

You should have known it would go this way.

Through the glass, you could see a glimpse of meddled deep brown hair. The blur of hundreds of fingerprints made it difficult to see, though you could make out a harsh jawline and a sharp nose.

You wished it was just an eerie lookalike that coincidentally had the same idea as you—but that was wishful thinking.

You resisted the urge to let out an obnoxious groan just to spite him, but it would most likely end in you getting some sort of write-up and tarnish your good reputation with your professors.

"We are going to Hogsmeade tomorrow," the voice echoed, an unwavering, concise sentence.

His forceful voice was shocking in the quiet hallway. You could feel his irritation grow as you didn't respond, the equivalent to the eerie silence of a child before they throw a tantrum.

"I suggest you go to bed," he reprimanded, the velvet of his voice overtaken by the vaguely reminiscent sound of nails on a chalkboard when he commanded you.

"You're not one to order me around," you snapped quietly, crossing your arms over your chest as you stepped out from behind the case.

You craned your neck gently to meet his eyes, though unable to fight the urge to take in his appearance, a quick glance skirting across his body before you stared back up.

You noticed the way his hair had fallen more onto his forehead, espresso colored curls resting just above his eyebrows. He had shed the woolen vest, leaving him in the somewhat see-through fabric of his untucked button-up, though not observable enough to be scandalous. He had fastened a button that was previously neglected, the connection of his collarbones and sternum jutting slightly out of the opening. His slacks were tight around his hips, black leather belt centered—whether or not it held his trousers up—they fell perfectly to his shoes, following the curve of his muscled thighs. His Head Boy pin glistened in the moonlight from the end of the hallway, a reminder of his status above you.

His impeccable manner had disappeared into the dead air, along with your self-control.

While you gazed awkwardly into his eyes, you watched the muscles in his jaw twitch out of your peripheral. A piece of you pleaded with him not to oblige to his orders for once, to let you off the hook just this time.

"I suggest you go to bed," he repeated. You could see the way his teeth grit when he spoke, an odd flash in his eyes had turned them darker—a hint of something you could not quite decipher.

"Must you command me?" you retorted, narrowing your eyes at him.

"Now is not the time to argue," he began, clasping his hands around his back, "your failure to comply will be reported to the Headmaster if you do not return to your dormitory."

A suck-up, you thought harshly, no less than a few words and he's already threatened to report you.

You bit your tongue and turned on your heel, shooting him one last glare as his eyes softened, a knowing smirk growing on his lips.

~ ✯ ~

Not long after your hallway encounter, the competition day had arrived on a cold, snowy day.

You were two weeks into January now, the holiday had passed with so much as a visit to Hogsmeade and cheap chocolates from your acquaintances, but the weeks had passed without words from your rival, a time you were ashamed to admit had bothered you.

You hadn't spoken with Riddle since that night. Despite the harsh manner of your exchange, his glances had remained mostly neutral with the exception of a few sneers when your hand brushed his reaching for a mixing spoon.

As much as you disliked it, you reveled in the darkness of his gazes, critical eyes narrowing into a gaze like a fishing hook that reeled you deep into his trance.

They were equivalent to how a snake views its prey, his pupils seeming to shrink the longer he looked at you. They tore holes into your chest, deep brown irises gazing at you with both pity and dissent. They distracted you, consumed you for a fleeting moment as you attempted to ward off the pink flush you felt rushing through your cheeks, and then he let go.

You needed to focus on your potion, though something was in your mind peeling back the layers of your attention span. You closed your eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, and then looking back to the table and into your cauldron.

The concoction was a pearlescent blue, not quite the ideal swirling white you were aiming for.

You reached to the other side of your mixing station, measuring roughly six heads worth of peppermint powder.

The recipe called for six complete bulbs, but you had learned that powder had been more reliable compared to the estimated weight of full bulbs or pieces of ingredients.

Stirring slowly, you watched as the liquid faded to white, the shimmer of the pearl dust billowing with the movement of your mixing spoon.

You let it simmer slowly for a few minutes before putting out the flame underneath your cauldron and wafting a small amount of it into your nose, inhaling the chalky scent of old books, used parchment, and spearmint.

It felt as though a spurt of electricity had hit you, shivering as it reached your fingertips and the tips of your toes.

Part of your heart dislodged in your chest. It smelled so sweet, strongly of your deepest desire, but the overwhelming sensation didn't overcome your realizations.

You turned your head to him, an inconspicuous attempt. His head was angled into his cauldron, pieces of chocolatey hair falling over his forehead as his fingers deftly dropped six uncrushed heads of peppermint into the abyss of his cauldron.

You tore your gaze away from the sight before you could take in his focused appearance.

You picked up a vial from the end of your desk, grabbing a ladle and slowly funneling the cooled potion into the glass. The liquid shimmered with a white glow, scent pungent before you corked it.

You began to tidy your station for a few minutes before Slughorn's voice rang out from in front of you.

"Everyone is finished, yes?" He asked, clasping his hands in front of him as he looked around the dim room.

You were entirely aware that you and Riddle were the center of attention for Slughorn—a couple older students knew that as well—but you couldn't help the embarrassment creeping into your mind for being so dedicated to a one-sided rivalry you had created for yourself.

Victory was your desire—especially against Riddle—though sometimes your obsession seemed overkill.

Slughorn didn't bother to give an introduction, stalking to the back of the room with a clipboard clasped in his small hands.

The aggressive strike of his quill could be heard throughout the room as you watched him make his rounds, a concentrated expression written on his face as he observed the vials, ingredients, and cauldrons at each station.

As he crept closer to you, his judgements became lengthier and the assault on his parchment died down.

You glanced to Riddle.

No eye contact was made, though you could see that his eyes were stoic and unwavering, the light from the lanterns in the room seemed to reflect off of him like repellent as he gazed toward Slughorn. His back was straight, shoulders held high, a powerful stance that diminished your confidence ever-so-slightly.

You looked back to your station as Slughorn turned the corner, soft eyes peering into your vial. He popped the cork and sniffed it harshly, nodding to himself as he scribbled a note on his parchment. He scanned your table for the labeled vials of your ingredients and utensils, leaning his balding head over the cauldron to observe the leftover potion.

He lifted his head and smiled at you—a toothy grin, rather—and walked off toward Riddle's station.

Your gaze followed him, watching from your peripheral as Riddle's posture straightened, jaw turning up as he watched Slughorn carefully.

His judgement wasn't very long compared to yours, his inspections shorter as if he had anticipated him to make minimal mistakes, if any at all.

Slughorn leaned on his desk to write something, then raised his head and cleared his throat.

"I have our winners," he paused, taking a pair of reading glasses off of his head and placing them on the bridge of his nose.

Your heart was practically running a marathon, hot blood pumping through your veins. It didn't take long for him to decide.

You hoped to Godric that you had outdone him once again, perhaps by the color or stronger scent. All that mattered to you was victory.

This could finally be your moment to one-up him, show him that you truly could be at his level without the favoritism of professors.

The suspense was painful, but it was quickly ended as Slughorn began to speak.

"In first, Tom Riddle with Amortentia."

Your heart dropped to your toes, devastation and bile quickly rising in your throat. You inhaled roughly, turning to Riddle.

As much as you resented it, a beautiful grin had taken over his face. His teeth showed through his lips, cheeks taut with pride and hands gently clasped in front of him.

You gathered your things along with everyone else as Slughorn announced the rest of the winners.

You should've known it would turn out this way. He always won by a miraculous sliver that you were never able to achieve.

Perhaps he was a prodigy, perhaps he was procured with perfection in mind. He was an unbeatable force with an aptitude for intelligence led by unwavering confidence and determination.

Whether you liked it or not, Tom Riddle would always beat you. He would always prove himself victorious with an unfaltering place above you when it mattered most.

You had earned second and a girl by the name of Margaret Greengrass had taken third with her Felix Felicis.

You left the classroom, canvas bag slung over your shoulder.

~ ✯ ~

Placing a battered book in your bag, you lifted your things off the chest at the end of your bed and exited the common room, heading towards the library.

You weren't exactly upset, rather thoroughly disappointed in yourself.

His victory was purely another example under his belt for his academic excellence, you knew that. It had nothing to do with you or your one-sided rivalry, it was simply a game you had made up in your head.

It bothered you more than it should've, practically the last opportunity to prove yourself had before graduation had been squandered by a mere ingredient difference.

You pushed open the heavy doors to the library, wood creaking on its hinges as it fell closed behind you.

The large room was still except for the flickering flames of candles and dimly lit lanterns, the only noise echoing throughout the room was the quiet flicking of pages and, briefly, an owl outside of the large windows on the second floor.

You wondered who could possibly be out at this time with no supervision.

You wandered through the shelves looking for the proper denomination, intending to find a book by a rather intelligent author that you enjoyed learning about in your free time.

You began to walk through the section of tables hidden behind the thick walls of shelves, fingers tracing along the spines of dusty books that surely hadn't been touched in centuries.

"Hello," a voice rang out as you passed an opening in the shelves.

You startled, gripping the strap of your bag as you backpedalled to the small section.

You turned to the table, taking in the shadowy figure in front of you.

"Hello, Riddle," you responded, bowing your head slightly at the dark-haired boy.

"What are you looking for?" He inquired pristinely, cocking his head gently to the side.

"Just a book on potions, that's all," you said simply, attempting to push the slight discomfort of his casual attitude away.

"Reading up for next time?" He teased, a small grin growing on his face.

"No, just something I'm interested in," you spat back, growing more irritated by the second.

"I can help you," he offered, "I'm not doing anything intriguing, after all," he gestured to the sprawled pages on the table illuminated by the white candle on the corner of the table, clearly enhanced by some sort of silly spell.

"I figured someone as stale as you would enjoy assignments like these," you jabbed back, leaning forward and pinching a sheet between your fingers.

"The effects of bone meal on essential potions," you read aloud, placing the parchment back on the table. "Very amusing."

He appeared unphased, though his politeness read as greed to you, coming off in waves of spite rather than a genuine offering. You were sick of his arrogance—intentional or not—especially when his attempts were practically effortless.

"You would have half a mind to leave me alone," you continued, venom lacing your words.

"I am only trying to help you," he retorted simply, "what book are you looking for?"

Almost as if it pained him to do, his jaw tightened slightly in the low light. You scanned the rest of his face, proud yet still cautious that you had dug under his skin ever so slightly. His stern eyes appeared black, the dim flickering of the candle beginning to lose its charm.

"I won't say it again, Tom," you paused, your heart suddenly racing aggressively against your chest. "I do not want your help."

From an outsider's perspective, referring to him by his first name versus his last name meant nothing, but you hadn't referred to him as Tom since second year.

Your eyes met his, a bewildered sense of frailty written on your face. His eyes were dark in the low light, appearance still performing yet the illusion was actively ripping at the seams.

Three buttons laid open against his chest, tie loose and robe discarded over the back of the chair adjacent to him. Sleeves pulled up to his elbows, his hands rested softly against the worn wood.

Silence hung in the air between you, your mild breakdown extremely uncalled for and sore like a bruise on your confidence.

"How long will you refuse this?" He asked, pushing himself off of the chair and stalking towards you, cool and collected in contrast to the loaded question he had asked you.

"What?"

You looked at him, jaw slack as you craned your neck towards him, meeting his eyes with a hesitant glare as his bore into you as if you were transparent.

This was something new, something unwritten and untold. Unable to decipher the emotion swirling in his eyes, you realized then that you hadn't considered that perhaps Tom Riddle was playing, too.

Your breaths mixed in the air, the sweet smell of spearmint hitting your nose as he lingered.

"I'm unsure of what you mean, Riddle," you replied, voice too loud and far too uneasy for your proximity.

"Do you give up?"

"There is nothing to give up on," you spat breathlessly, mouth open slightly as if you couldn't get enough air through your nose.

A man of few words, yes, a clash of grace and greed. A man capable of strong desire and determination, stopping at nothing to achieve the greatness he craved.

Somehow, you hadn't noticed that the aggressively perceptive boy might've realized somewhere along the way that you had made up a game for yourself, entertaining himself with the easy victories and achievements, fueling himself with the sick accomplishment of your repetitive losses.

Something loomed between you, a devastating realization that could send you into a state of insanity, yet you craved the unknown of the boy in front of you.

He smelled strongly of mint and dusty books, a scent you had tried to disregard since you became aware of it. The sight of him in front of you was overwhelming, a presence so powerful against you that you weren't sure if you could preserve yourself much longer.

"You are not in control, Tom," you murmured, voice much weaker than intended under the pressure of your interaction.

"Neither are you."

Of course you weren't.

You desperately wanted to be, to have reign over your emotions that you fought to keep away in order to focus on something other than him. He was a mere motivation for you, a light to lead you to your full potential, but you couldn't deny that he was the most alluring thing you had ever encountered.

You searched his eyes as if they held the secret to your irate behavior, but you found nothing except for his unreadable, barricaded mind.

His hand reached out in the darkness, nestling cold fingertips softly against your cheek.

The temperature was shocking, though he spoke silent words as they gently danced down your face and caressed the small curve of your neck.

Letting out a pained and hesitant huff, you pushed your lips against his with such intensity that you weren't sure you'd stay standing, hand reaching out to his shirt in a desperation you were ashamed to have.

His body caught you with ease, one hand tightening ever-so-slightly around your neck and the other resting itself lightly on the high of your hip.

As if his kiss had rid your troubles, you melted into his touch like gallium. You could feel your conscience fighting against your desires, screaming in the back of your mind that this is exactly what he wanted, for you to cave under his pressure and allow his triumph.

Admittedly, you had forgotten all about the game as the warmth of his lips clouded your mind and cradled your malleable body between the pads of his fingers, the hardness of his chest anchoring you to him.

His hand left your throat, dragging down your hips and to your waist as he pushed you gently against the bookcase behind you, fingers sliding underneath the thin fabric of your button-up.

He muttered something unintelligible as he slid his hands across the expanse of your stomach and to your small, lacy bra, beginning to gently knead your breasts through the cups as his lips trailed to your jawline.

You wanted to speak, protest his actions despite the fiendish craving for his touch ravaging your body, though the only thing that you'd managed to form was a gentle moan into the quiet air.

His lips kissed harsher and hungrier as they descended lower, teeth tugging at the sensitive skin on your neck as if he meant to leave his mark for others to see.

Your breath was shaky, processing the excellent feelings overtaking your body as you closed your eyes and allowed your head to fall back against the books with a quiet, relieved sigh.

His hands returned to the front of your shirt, deftly undoing the buttons and kissing along the exposed skin as he undid each one. Goosebumps quickly flooded your skin in response to the delightful mix of cold air and the warmth of his mouth.

"Tom," you pleaded, unsure whether or not it was in protest or desire.

He hummed in response, and you could feel the grin on his face against your skin as he came back up and bit gently at the base of your neck.

You whimpered softly, hands gripping onto his shoulders and migrating around his neck as you pulled him closer.

"T-Tom, I don't want your help—" you stammered, eyes fluttering in the darkness. You should've stopped it, but the pleasure shrouded your reasoning as you looked up to the intricate ceiling, a quiet moan escaping your lips and betraying your objection against him.

"This isn't about help anymore, darling," he cooed quietly against your skin, calm and collected as the words rolled off of his tongue, as if it wasn't the nicest thing he'd called you in seven years.

The name stung in your chest like a paper cut, cutting the surface just deep enough to allow the feeling to flow.

You began to succumb under his touch, knees beginning to give out as you allowed him to touch you in ways you'd only dreamt of—specifically the ones you'd woke up in a cold sweat after.

You placed your chin heavily against the top of his head, his fingers unclasping your bra and allowing it to fall from your shoulders.

Your hand traveled down from his neck, feeling the stringy muscles of his body as you trailed along, landing on the thick leather of his belt.

If you were going to lose this game, you'd lose it in furious pleasure with the person you loathed the most.

You began to undo his belt with one hand, allowing him to continue his mouth's rampage down your body. He grunted as you brushed against the harsh bulge in his pants, his restraint faltering as much as yours was.

Your hand stuttered as his tongue swirled around your nipple, fingers kneading the soft tissue, a surprised high-pitched whine forcing itself out of you at the heat of his mouth.

It was almost like he knew exactly what you were thinking without a signal, uncovering your desires as you thought of them.

You keened forward, the hand around his neck migrating to the thick roots of his hair and tugging harshly as his teeth chastely bit at the supple flesh of your chest.

Just as you'd thought of it, his mouth found yours once more as he began to tug your skirt upwards onto the high bones of your hips. Dragging down at a painfully slow pace, his thin fingers met the heat of your core and brushed gently across the wet fabric of your panties.

"How are you—" you began, gasping as he pressed into your clit through the thin lace.

"Hmm?" he murmured against you, kissing against your jaw and back up to your lips.

Embarrassingly enough, words felt too difficult to form and push out as his mouth tore you apart. You'd managed strictly his name at this point, as if it was the only thing you'd remembered. It felt like he was prying you open with gentle gestures and feather-light touch, something you'd never felt before.

You hadn't experienced much, but when you did, it was half-assed and hardly fun for you. But this was different, fueled by a disgusting desire you had tried to bury for years.

He pulled your panties aside slowly, the coldness of his fingers sending shivers down your spine as he invited himself between your folds, your hands now shaking and struggling to finish undoing his belt.

He pressed into your clit with pressure pleasant enough to make you drool, his pointer finger pressing at the entrance of your dripping cunt.

You quickly became a mumbling, babbling mess of whimpers and moans at his touch, no longer afraid of who might find out about the sinful truth that festered under the surface of your skin.

His fingers left your clit entirely, pressing two slowly into your sopping heat tantalizingly slow. The stretch quickly dissipated into delicious pressure against your walls, your body craving the unfamiliar sensation of something other than your own hands.

"Tom," you pleaded breathlessly, tugging at the nape of his neck. Your hand dropped from his belt entirely, the clasp now undone and hanging open, loose.

"You like how my fingers split you open, pretty girl?" he taunted, voice low and eyes practically slits. Dark and clouded with lust, his eyes followed your body up and down, pausing to watch his fingers disappear into your pretty cunt.

You nodded feverishly, head tipping back into the spines of old books with a small thud.

His fingers worked you open with unfaltering expertise, pushing deeper with each thrust until they disappeared inside of you, pressing into the sweet, mushy spot that worked a whine from you each time he touched it.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his free hand reaching up to grab hold of the sensitive skin of your neck and forcing your eyes onto his.

Sharp and narrowed, they bored into your face. His jaw clenched with restraint, his calm demeanor quickly ripping at the seams as you watched him come undone in front of you.

The restriction on your neck and the quickening pace of his fingers left little room for you to think clearly, your vision beginning to turn black at the edges as the coil in your abdomen grew tighter.

"Tom, I'm—" you choked out, your hand reaching up to clench on top of his.

You hadn't felt something this impeccable in your life, the delicious desperation between the both of you grew the tension in your stomach and made you even more eager to feel your release on his fingers.

His pace quickened without a word, pressing harder against your sweet spot as the coil snapped.

Your vision went white, the grip on your neck disappearing as you folded into his body, your face pressing against the thick muscle of his shoulder.

His fingers left your cunt with an obscene noise before he placed them in his mouth and licked them clean, a pleased hum leaving his lips.

"So sweet..." he whispered into your ear, tenderly pushing you back against the bookcases and away from his body once more as he scanned over the wrecked image of you.

You struggled to catch your breath, face turned up at him with a weak smile and flickering eyelids.

His hands traveled down to his trousers, pushing the silver buckle out of the way as he unbuttoned them, the black waistband of his underwear peeking through the top.

He reached down, pulling his cock free from the tight restraint of his uniform.

You couldn't help the slight drop of your jaw as you took in the sight. He was long and thick, the leaking pink tip still vibrant in the minimal light. You hadn't expected him to have such a desirable and appetizing look, though you'd figured he wouldn't walk around with confidence like that if he couldn't own up to it.

He pumped himself once or twice before he grabbed your forearm, pulling you back against his chest and flipping you around, pushing the fronts of your thighs into the table as he bent you over.

The tip pressed lightly into your already ruined cunt, teasing you with the idea of pain and pleasure as he ran his hands up and down the sides of your body, taking in the vision that he'd surely remember the next time he thought of you.

"Tell me you want it," he insisted with a brief slap against your ass, squeezing the soft flesh in his fist as he rubbed away the sting.

"Please," you whimpered against the wood, the mixture of his hands and the weight against your core simply too much.

"Good girl," he muttered before rutting into you with unbridled need.

You practically sucked him in with a scream, the excessive slick was enough lubricant to allow him inside, though not enough to weaken the pain of the stretch.

His fingers dug into your hips as his pace grew faster, the occasional tug of your hair or grope of your ass adding layers of pleasure that you were unaware you'd enjoy.

You were a mess of moans, head resting limply against the table as he pounded into you with the least amount of restraint you'd ever seen in him.

"More, please," you begged, hand reaching back onto his tight grip on your hips to ground yourself.

His pace rapidly became more sloppy as he pushed in and out of you, the sounds of his grunting, your pleasured babbling, and sticky skin slapping against each other was enough to lock the memory of his cock ruining you into your mind forever.

You felt the coil tightening once more, the tip bouncing into your sweet spot every time he pushed himself impossibly deeper, and your eyes closed as they rolled back into your head.

A puddle of drool was surely underneath you by now, your legs going stiff as you came undone and pulsed around him.

He groaned at the tightening of your cunt, aggressive pace becoming inconsistent and needier as he grabbed hold of your hips with a grip that would surely leave marks in the morning.

"Fuck," he groaned, pushing into you one last time with insurmountable force as he came undone inside of you, the sticky ropes of release filling you to the brim.

He pulled out of you with a wet pop, pulling your skirt back down over your thighs as he pulled you up, your back against his chest.

Your breaths mingled in the air as you both processed what you'd just done, bodies sweaty and sticky with sex as you pressed yourself against him.

You definitely weren't thinking clearly, the airiness of your head still present and clouded with enjoyment.

You turned your chin up to him, snaking your hand across the back of his throat and pulling him down for a soft, appreciative kiss.

"What did you just do to me?" you whispered against his mouth, legs still shaking underneath you.

He pulled away slowly with a cheeky grin, fingers brushing against your neck.

"Let me help you now, yeah?" he teased, looking down at you.

His hair was messy from your tugging, lips swollen and coated in a thin layer of saliva. His cheeks were a plushy pink, flushed by heat, and eyes hid a thankful, soft glance beneath pleasured clouds, the lust still evident in his blown pupils.

"Let me help you first, Riddle," you murmured, following his gaze down as you dropped to your knees.

Sure, you coughed the next morning—so many times, and yeah perhaps your body temperature was worryingly high, but you pulled through by swallowing a crap ton of garlic.

You swore you were fine.

Your roommates didn't seem to think so.

So now you were here, strapped onto the mattress, a wet piece of folded fabric settled on your forehead.

"Tom, I'm fine." You croak out.

Tom cringed, "No. You aren't. Stop lying to yourself."

"I'm already lying against my will." You deadpan.

Tom laughed plainly, each 'ha' a flat staccato as he narrowed his eyes at you. "Wow. You are SO hilarious." He said sarcastically.

You huffed. "I know I am." You mused, unable to control a smirk.

"Yeah, yeah, you stay there, I'll go get Matt." Tom said as he stood up, already heading for the door.

You hummed curtly. "Sure. Not like I can go anywhere else..." You grumbled as you turned to glare at the ceiling.

Great.

Maybe the others had finally went ahead and bought pills for you. You couldn't stand the sight of medicinal syrup. No. Ew. They all tasted horrible. Especially the vanilla ones.

...but knowing who your roommates were, you really couldn't rely on them…like at all.

And so for the first time in a long time, you started to pray to the one(s) above for patience and strength, and that you'll get this over with already. Goodness, you could already sense the footsteps of impending doom. May the lords spare you from your roommates' patronizing comments and that godforsaken syrup—!!

"Who's ready for a sticky mediiii???"

Oh god.

You gulped with dread as you watched Matt approach with a face that looked far too happy to see you in such a state. "Please no..."

"Nuh-uh-uh!" Matt tutted, clutching the syrup of despair right in front of your face, barely sparing you the terror. "Don't think we haven't noticed you wandering about so sluggishly these past few days, sister-mister. You've been worn down by that nasty job of yours no doubt."

You huffed, offended. "My job is NOT nasty, thank you."

“It so is nasty. I mean look at you!” He gestured to you—which—wow? Rude? You looked fine! Pale, perhaps, but fine.

“Hey, I look fantastic!” You retorted, “No one on earth could possibly pull off looking like a corpse like me…in a good, sexy way.”

Matt twirled the spoon. “Last I checked, you aren't Edward Collins,” he said, doubtfully.

“That's because he's not a corpse, he's a vampire.”

Matt blinked. “Oh yeah…well, nonetheless, your job sucks.”

You blew a raspberry in response.

As much as you appreciate Matt's concern, you really didn't appreciate the way he was low-key disrespecting you, or how he was waving the spoon at you like that.

Like ew.

The way it hovered over you like a slithering snake waiting to bite you. You could already imagine the syrup's rancid coppery taste, oh god. Oh god you weren't ready. OH GOD.

"Couldn't you have brought any pills with you instead—" You were immediately cut off by Matt's fingers clamping your lips closed.

"Tut-tut-tut. Shhhhhhh.. I'm helping."

You stared up at him incredulously, waiting for him to let go of your lips; but he began to open the bottle instead OH FUCK—OH GOD HE'S OPENING THE BOTTLE.

HELL NO. NO NO NONONONONONOONONONONONONONOONONO

"WAAH!! NO NO NO NO YOU CAN'T MAKE ME! RELEASE ME! NOW! HELPPP!" You began to thrash in your restraints, shrieking and screaming bloody murder. It was enough to get your other roommates to barge into your room, curious about the noise.

Edd peeked in, his expression of concern shifting into one of amusement upon realizing you weren't in any real danger.

You, on the other hand, were merged with a stress response between fight or flight. Flight and Fight…ffffff Flight (fl-ight haha).

"IT'S NOT EVEN THAT BAD!" You protested with all your might, pulling out all the strings for the slim chance of being spared from the cursed vanilla syrup. "I'M FINE! I'M TOTALLY FINE! IT'S JUST THE BLOODY NUCLEAR RADIATION FROM WORK! STOP STOP! GET THAT AWAY FROM ME!!! SCREAMS OF TERROR!!”

"AH-HAH!" Matt jabbed his finger onto your forehead, a triumphant grin settling on his features. "So it is that job of yours!"

"Wha—wait—" You paused. You blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. "Woah- Matt, wait, That's not what I—"

"AH-HAH!" Now it was Edd's turn to rejoice.

("The hell??? Since when did you get here???" You asked exasperatedly, you didn't even notice he was by the doorway.)

Edd bee-lined straight towards you, joining Matt on jabbing a finger onto your forehead which—owie? Ow. "I was right! It was the radiation!"

You frowned at them both. "Yeah, thanks Captain Obvious, but it wasn't mainly the radiation you know? It could've been a...bunch of other things! Maybe I contracted the fever from my coworker."

Edd arched his brow at you, a smug smile on his lips. "From work?"

You nodded automatically. "Yeah from work—wait NO! Not what I meant! Gah!" You couldn't believe this issue popped up again.

Your roommates, bless their irritating hearts, seriously did not know how to mind their business when it came to your job. Sure, you GET where their concerns were coming from considering you worked at a power plant, but they've gotten to a degree where they've just been actively sabotaging your routine to prevent you from going to work...when they have no reason for doing so!

Okay. You'll admit. You're over exaggerating here. They're not ACTIVELY sabotaging, but they sure were taking your attention.

Plus, It wasn't like you were all close.

You lot were just people living under the same roof. You were not part of their odd friend group whatsoever. All the shenanigans they've gotten themselves into? You weren't in any of it. At all. (Which hurts your ego a bit.)

The only time you've maybe gotten involved was when the zombie apocalypse came; even then, you didn't join, not even when Tord became the undead twice.

So imagine your surprise when they began butting in whenever you were getting ready for work…or even during work. They were spamming your phone like crazy for odd errands and questions.

Stuff like:

Can u buy me a cola 12 pack ASAP? Thx

Have you seen my underpants? 😔

can u do me a favor and steal something for me, ill give uuuu £10

Hey I know youre busy but can I use your car pretty pls

Hey [N/n] we are going to hell, wanna come lol???

Can I use your facial cream? I'll return it I swear it's for something urgent 🙏🙏

Can I borrow ur crisps? thx

Yo we used your bed for our movie hope you dont minddd if itll get scratches or smthn

[Name] come back edd fell off the roof and we don't know what to do! 😭😭

Yo dude can you pick us up from the museum its rainingg

And many. Many. More.

Obviously, being the decent roommate you were, you complied—at first. But the more and more they spammed you with texts, each one becoming more out of context and ridiculous by the next message, the more you were starting to think that they were doing this on purpose.

Old you wasn't far off on that guess.

And now here you were, strapped against your will, but at least the syrup wasn't open…yet.

“You see,” Edd began, lifting a finger like a freaking know-it-all, “this is exactly why you should quit that job of yours… before you grow a third arm and start naming it.”

Was Edd seriously going to lecture you about the cons of being employed right now? If so, wow, that's crazy.

“Edd, seriously, it's not that serious.” You sighed exasperatedly, “So what if I—totally hypothetically—lingered around nuclear waste for hours? It's just part of the job!...and I totally didn't do that! My job is completely irrelevant to the conversation!”

“Sounds convoluted.” Tom joined in the conversation, somehow. You had no idea when he got in also.

“Your mum’s convoluted.” You retorted back sharply, only to get ambushed via squeezing of the nose.

Uh-oh.

“Justice served.” Tom whispered to you, right to your ear, all with a smirk. Your eye twitched. The bastard.

…but DAMN IT! YOU LET YOUR GUARD DOWN!

You were forced to inhale through your mouth, a bad decision on your part since you were immediately force-fed (by Matt) with a spoon containing that DISGUSTING medicinal syrup. It wasn't like you could throw it up, not with your nose being blocked (by Edd).

You could only wrangle a nasally whine as you swallowed the slick, thick substance. Yuck.

Edd released your nose from its squeezed shackles, leaving a slight red hue on your flesh. You coughed, a few tears welling up in your eyes but you weren't gonna let them have the satisfaction of seeing you weak.

You cleared your throat, gagging slightly at the aftertaste. “That was terrible. Never do that again.” You seethed.

Edd flicked your forehead, “If you hate it so much, then don't get sick.” He scolded you.

“I can't help it if I get sick. It's not my fault that I've got the immune system of a goldfish.” Your lips tugged into a pout, your eyes squinted at his audacity to flick you.

Edd scoffed. “Obliviously. No one’s immune system can handle being exposed to nuclear waste.”

“Says you, green superman,” You grumbled, “—and again! My job isn't part of any of this! Why do you keep bringing it up??” You threw your head back against your pillow, as that was all you could do to express your frustration.

Edd sighed wearily. He loomed over you, his arms crossed, this time his face settled with a stern expression. “Because every time you get sick, you act like it's nothing.”

You rolled your eyes as you retorted. “Because it is nothing.”

“No it isn't.” Tom said quietly.

The room stilled.

You exhaled through your nose. You know, you would've appreciated the concern if not for the fact that you had been strapped to your bed against your will. And no, you aren't gonna stop mentioning that, they were stripping away your free will! (to lay in bed all day and rot until your sickness passes. Yes it's much worse but that's besides the point.)

Matt was the first to break the silence as he twisted the bottle cap back on with a concerned smile. “[Name], to be fair, you look like you're about two seconds away from collapsing half the time…and last week, you came home looking and smelling like a UKHSA violation.”

You blinked. You honestly didn't expect Matt (of all people) to notice your antics, let alone compare it to something like that. If you had your hands free right now, you would've applauded him.

But your pride overpowers your astonishment.

“Oh, c'mon. It wasn't that bad.” You shot back.

Tom blinked at you, unamused. “It is that bad when you come back coughing your lungs out,” Tom muttered, arms crossed. “Honestly, I'm with Edd and Matt on this one. Your job is basically a side quest designed to kill you.”

You groaned and glared at all three of them. “You're all so dramatic. I get sick one time and suddenly everyone's acting like I crawled out of a sewer.”

“One time?” Edd repeated, brows lifting. “You had a fever last month.”

“And before that, you lost your voice for three days,” Matt chimed in.

“And before that,” Tom added flatly, “you almost passed out because you forgot to eat.”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Damn it.

“That last one was unrelated,” You mumbled weakly, averting your eyes stubbornly.

Edd groaned, his hands waving and loosely gesturing at you. “See? Exactly my point.”

Edd really couldn't with you. He could hardly believe that someone was this stubborn, this hard-headed in the face of concern; but you just never cease to surprise him. Fuck, he just wants to grab and shake you back and forth to finally get you to see what you've been doing to yourself, but knowing you? You'd probably just brush him off, telling him to mind his beeswax.

He dragged his hand across his face before he went to flick your forehead again.

“Owie!” You yelped. “Stop that.”

“Be worried about yourself for once.” Edd said exasperatedly. “We're bringing it up and we're going to keep bringing it up because we're worried about you, idiot.”

For a split second there, Edd could've sworn he saw your eyes widen and soften; you immediately looked away before he could point it out though.

“You guys sure are bad at worrying.” Your glare lessened. Edd could count this as a win, no matter how tempting it is for him to bonk you on the head with a hammer to shatter your stubborn attitude.

“Well, sorry—” Matt cut through Edd's contemplation of violence with a light, joking tone, “Would you prefer if we held your hand and wept dramatically over your fragile little bird bones?”

You paused, shooting Matt a look. “Fragile little bird bones?”

“You do have bird vibes,” Matt shrugged. “Tiny—”

“—Am not!”

“—angry, always pecking at people.”

You frowned, baffled. “I do not peck at people.”

“You bit Tom once,” Edd said.

“Twice.” Tom corrected.

“That was self defense.” You quipped.

“Against what?” Tom asked. “Puns?”

“You don't do good puns, you do one-liners.”

“Excuse you, they're good one-liners.”

“Certainly not funny ones.”

“Ey!”

“Okay we're getting a little off topic here—” Edd butts in, sliding in between you and Tom, pushing both of your faces away from each other.

You laid your head back on your pillow, your face and temper seemed to be cooled down. But with frustration slowly fading away, a new feeling rose. Unease…and a migraine. You've never been in their presence for this long before...how long has it been since this started? A few minutes? Hours?

Either way, this was uncanny. Your weren't used to being stared at with that look of....gag...concern.

Your roommates watched as you awkwardly shuffled against the leather restraints into a more comfortable position.

Anyways, where were you? Oh right. Your job.

You looked back at them, your face looking firm. “But seriously…You guys can nag all you want, I can't just quit my job.”

The room was enveloped by silence once more. Tom and Matt shared a look of disappointment.

Edd clicked his tongue, clocking an eyebrow. “Why not?”

You could feel your nerves start to tingle with heat. Raging heat. Simmering. Was he seriously not going to give up?

“Uh? Because I need the money?” You stated the obvious—sharply, “That thing people enjoy having?”

“We have money!” Matt said almost immediately.

You stared at him.

Tom stared at him too.

Matt glanced at both of you with a pout. “What? We do!”

“You can't just say 'we have money' like you're a cartoon billionaire handing out sacks with pound signs on them,” You said in deadpan.

Matt perked up. “We could get sacks with pound signs on them!”

“Focus,” Edd snapped.

“Wow, you guys really aren't gonna stop biting my ass, huh?”

“Not until you give us a good reason why we shouldn't.” Edd huffed.

…Well fuck.

Your gaze shifted to your chest as you bit your cheek. “...I don't know. I just don't like depending on people.” You said quietly. You kind of hoped it went unnoticed, but luck clearly wasn't on your side seeing as the three shot up like meerkats.

You decided to find interest on the wall beside you as the trio glanced and murmured among themselves. Unfortunately, you weren't superhuman or mutated or possessed to have been blessed with super hearing to tell what they were saying.

It was probably something dumb and irrational.

And yeah, so what if you broke one of your walls down? You're sick for crying out loud! You can't control yourself.

Ugh! You hate this!

You hated laying here. You hated the medicine. You hated this godforsaken illness. And you hated the concern.

Tom was the first to break the silence. “There's a difference between depending on people and letting people help you, you know?”

You glanced up.

He looked as surprised as you when he said that, but he didn't back down. “... Nobody's saying you have to quit tomorrow—”

“—though that would be much preferred—” Edd piped in.

“—but you have to understand that your job is clearly the number one factor in…” Tom loosely gestured to your form, “...this. Hah. Look, all we're trying to say is that if your job's making you miserable and sick all the time, maybe you don't have to cling to it like it's the only thing keeping you afloat.”

You inhaled sharply.

Because the annoying thing was that he wasn't entirely wrong. (Oh you felt your ego cracking at the admission.)

Matt tilted his head, watching your face carefully. “Or just... let us help sometimes. You know we'd be there for you, right?” He hesitated for a second, his smile turning smaller around the edges. “I mean, we're always asking you for favors. Kinda feels unfair that you never ask for anything back.”

You physically had to reel back. Matt. Matt. Matt said THAT?! Narcissist Matt? The same Matt who'd shamelessly choose his own image over the well-being of others!? THAT MATT!?

You glanced at the others, relieved to see them share your shock.

Edd opened and closed his mouth, torn between showing his concern for you or commenting on Matt's concern for you.

Edd chose the former. He turned to you and placed a hand on your tied shoulder. “What Matt said. We’re always asking things from you, aren't we?” He chuckled, patting your shoulder. “Drives, errands, listening to us complain about stupid crap at two in the morning…You do a lot for us.”

“And you never ask for anything back.” Tom added with a huff.

Edd’s brows pulled together as he stared right at you. Those brown-eyes of his…caring as they may be, they never fail to intimidate you. You stayed silent as he clutched your shoulder.

“So maybe let us return the favor for once…instead of you know…acting like you've got your life sorted out? You and I both know you don't.” Edd chuckled lightly.

You blinked. You stayed silent, looking over all three of them. Their stares were like a weight on you, and like a beginner gym-rat, you couldn't hold it for too long.

“...Fine.” You said, begrudgingly.

The three cheered.

“But if I ever do get sick again, I do not want that bottle anywhere near me.”

“That's negotiable.”

That night, you managed to convince them to free you from the leather prison. You wanted to jump the moment you felt the fresh air embracing your skin as soon as you felt the clasps click open.

You weren't even gonna ask how they managed to strap you to the bed in the first place.

Freedom mattered more at the moment.

And for your first act of freedom? Laying on your bed with your phone of course! Like hell you were walking around with a migraine. Fuck no! You'd rather worsen it with blue light instead, the right way.

As you scrolled through your endless feed of content slop, a notification broke your trance. It was a…cash payment?

You opened the notification and was met with £100 to your bank account. It even came with a little note too.

Get well soon.

- T.

You stared at the screen for a full minute, trying to figure out who the hell even sent this gift. You only knew a couple of people with a name that started with a T, one of them being Tom. But you knew Tom enough to know that he wasn't the type to give people money outright. The opposite actually.

But going back to this sender, you wracked your already throbbing head because you just loved to torture yourself, trying to find out who this fella was.

It wasn't your coworkers (with whom had the initials of T), you don't even talk to them.

…So who else?

Tord?

…

…Nahhhh.

There's no way. You weren't even close to the guy. You barely got to speak with him face-to-face before he left…maybe a couple texts here and there, but that was it. Purely transactional, as all roommates should be.

Well, whatever. Whoever this mystery sender was, you mentally thanked them as you immediately went back to scroll. Oblivious to the red dot on the corner of the status bar.

Tom liked control, it was obvious from the way he bossed his mates around, not even scared that they'd retaliate or leave. It was.. fascinating to say the least. You pondered on whether it was because of his time at the orphanage in his formative years, he didn't speak of it much but you presumed that being a charge there wouldn't be anything close to fun.

You'd still give him shit, teasing him for being so bossy at times. A few times when you two had sex you'd fight your way on top for a few seconds before he'd roughly push you off and take to fucking you doggy style, your face shoved into his bed.

Normally things were fine, he'd take your taunts in stride, fucking your attitude out of you till your throat was raw from either screaming or being used.

**

You've noticed how he's been acting.. off lately. Snapping more, not taking kindly to anyone mouthing off. Not even the first years could escape his wrath.

He wasn't vulnerable so asking him right out wouldn't do anything in your favor. Observing him overworking himself, skipping meals as a result, and falling back into old habits.

You start slowly, trying to give him massages or attempting to pull him into bed. When none of it works you decide to just be blunt.

“Tom? What's wrong?” You ask from your perch on his bed, lying down as he studies.

“Nothing. Why.” He responds coolly, barely sparing you a glance. Hunched over, elbows on his desk as he runs his fingers through his hair.

“You're tense.”

“I always am.”

“Not this tense.”

He scoffs, finally looking over at you. “What do you want?”

“The truth. Or I'm going to sleep in my room tonight.”

You both know it's an empty threat, but Tom gives in. “You're too good for me.”

You freeze, trying to read his expression, grasping for a response.

“You can't leave me, you know.”

“Yeah… I know.” You murmur, sitting up and debating on approaching him. “M’yours, Tom.”

“Hm, you think your words matter? Fascinating” He scoffs, rolling his eyes before looking back at the open book at his desk.

It's unfair how wet his words made you. Especially when they're degrading.

You wait a second before getting up, leaning up against his desk and toying with his wand.

“Just what do you think-” He starts harshly, reaching out to take his wand back before you leap away.

“Remember that one night, where you mentioned wanting me to just be even more.. submissive?” You hum, raising a brow.

“How could I not? You were even more of a fucking brat afterwards.”

You grin, still playing with his wand and waiting for him to get the hint. And oh the rush that goes through when he does, moving quickly and towering over you, yanking his wand out of your hold. “And just how are we going to go about that, hm? Never can get you fucked out enough to just go along with it anyways.” He mutters, backing you into a wall, lifting your chin up with this wand.

Your stomach flips as you look up at him, hesitating before continuing. You know you've seen him cast it before so.. what's the big deal, right?

“The imperious curse.” You reply quickly, spatting the words out before giving yourself a second to think. You watch his reaction, studying

He smirks, and you can’t help but melt. “You sure? You know I won't relinquish it every five seconds to check on you, right?”

You nod. “I know. Just.. same rules as usual, m’kay?”

He nods, running the wand down your body, watching your face. “Ready?”

“Uhuh..” You nod, looking up at him, feeling his wand press to your temple.

Before you know it you feel otherworldly, listening to his simple hypnotic commands. Opening your eyes and kneeling like he commands. It shouldn't make you even wetter but it does.

Kneeling whilst undoing your shirt, your bra. Your mind foggy as you finish stripping. He strips too, finally removing his boxers before hold an open palm in front of you. “Spit.” He instructs smoothly, catching your saliva, using it to stroke himself, becoming even harder. “Open.”

You comply, opening your mouth, letting him find refuge in your mouth. He almost immediately gives you all of him, not even giving you a second to adjust, mindlessly drooling around his cock. Grasping your hair he thrusts, allowing you to go slack jawed as you moan around him.

He isn't sure if it's out of pleasure or defiance, but he ignored it, focusing on his release. Tom reminds himself that you agreed to it when he came so deep inside your throat that you had no choice but to swallow.

Pulling out of your mouth slowly, Tom watchs himself leave you with a pop, your eyes glassy and tearful. Only making him even harder than before. Leaning against the wall as he catches his breath. “Such a good little thing.” He praises quietly, patting your head before brushing your hair back as he looks down at you.

He steps out of the way, almost admiring you. “Crawl over to the bed.” He instructs softly, your body moving without a second thought.

You make your way over to the bed, getting on all fours whilst Tom walks around it. The silence painful, listening to Tom as he ends up behind you, squeezing your ass before landing a sharp slap.

Whining you look over your shoulder, feeling him grab your hips and pull, causing you to lay mostly flat save for your hips holding your ass slightly up.

“Beg for it.” He hums, his voice tantalizing whilst his shadow looms over you. “C’mon be a good girl and beg straight from the heart.”

“Please Tom, I need you.” You whine, the words leaving you effortlessly. “I'll always need you, please.”

He ruts into you with one deep thrust, groaning. “Such a good fucking slut, so tight f’me.” He groans, slapping your ass again as he thrusts, leaning over you to pin your wrists to the bed. “My favorite little fucktoy.”

You moan loudly, feeling him hit deeper than ever, hitting your cervix. The bit of your coherent mind grasps the concept that it'll be bruised by morning, but you can't bring yourself to care.

“Fucking love your pussy.” He groans, gripping your wrists even tighter as if fighting to ground himself, his thrust growing messier as his manicured nails dig into you like some animal. “C’mon be loud.” He encourages you, squeezing once more.

“Mm Tom,” you gasp, head to the side as you try to rut your hips. “So.. fuck, so deep.” You moan, practically screaming, the curse not letting you even try to muffle it. Your face heats in shame.

“That's it, such a good girl, letting everyone know how good I fuck you.” Freeing your wrists he wraps an arm around your waist, causing you to kneel as he still thrusts in and out of you, his free hand reaching down to play with your clit. Heat forms in your lower stomach at that, only making you more desperate.

His one hand now slides up to play with your tits, your moaning and arousal only seeming to turn him on even more. “Fuck, you're close aren't you? I can feel it, you and your greedy little cunt.” He growls into your ear, slapping your clit and causing a shot of pleasure to run through you. He gives you another slap, a sort of warning. “Answer me unless you want me to stop, that is.”

“Yes’sir.” You whimper, nodding. “I'm close.” You moan, trying to match his pace but deciding it best to go limp, allowing him to use you like the doll you are.

Lost in a bliss you barely hear his command, too dazed to even fully comprehend. “Cum for me.”

You weren't prepared for the earth shattering orgasm that wrecks your body, feeling Tom finish deep inside of you, feeling him coat your cervix you let out a small squeal.

Laying you down, Tom slowly pulls out. You hear him mumble something, the curse lifting as you look around in slight shock.

Tom hushes you immediately, gently pulling you into his hold. “You okay?” He murmurs, pulling your head against his chest and casting a charm to clean the both of you. You presume the other is a contraceptive. “It wasn't too much, was it?”

Nodding you hum, too dumbed out to even think of how to word it. “Nice. It was nice letting go for once.” You murmur, lifting your gaze up. “You liked it too, right?”

Tom lets out a warm chuckle, a rare commodity. “Course I did, got to have you all dumbed out on my cock, not able to mouth off.” He mutters, giving your hair a light tug as he takes to playing with it. “But I don't want to make it a common thing, if you do want to do it again that is.” He hums.

“Course I do.” You hum before the scent of sandalwood alongside Tom’s warmth, lulls you off to sleep.

Tom Riddle

Mattheo Riddle

Theodore Nott

Lorenzo Berkshire