#voldemort x reader

The Great Hall erupted in cheers as Dippet finished his welcome. There were whoops and hollers sprinkled in-between a loud round of applause. All eyes were on you, yet you didn’t feel any nervousness. A sense of pride, and perhaps an anticipatory sense of glory, washed over you as the students of Hogwarts cheered for your arrival. Well, not your arrival specifically, but the arrival of all the visiting students.

You looked toward the table furthest to your right. Cool green banners lined with silver hung from the ceiling above the students. Their plates had yet to be filled, but they paid no mind to the empty dishes in front of them – clearly more enthralled by the spectacle that your school had put on during your entrance. There were hundreds of Hogwarts students in the Hall, but it didn’t take you long to find who you were looking for. The familiar waves of his dark hair sat taller than the boys around him, though you suspect that the intensity of his stare would have called your eyes to him anyway.

Tom Marvolo Riddle: the reclusive young boy turned highly academic charmer. It didn’t take long for him to make a name for himself. As you recall, he had already collected a loyal following of puppets and fangirls alike by the end of his second year. The last year that you and him were in the same house, the same country, the same continent. The boy you had left behind was one that you were very fond of, and eager to return to.

Headmaster Dippet raised his wand once more to his throat, amplifying his voice for the sea of students and staff to hear. “As aforementioned, the visiting students of this competition will be staying here in our castle for the duration of the school year. To accommodate them, we will be making living arrangements in each of your houses for our visitors to stay in.”

He turns toward your school’s administrator, Headmaster Calderon, and places a firm hand on his shoulder. “Seeing as your school’s founder had heritage with one of our houses here, the visiting Ilvermorny students will be staying in the Slytherin house.” A smile spread across your face at that, though you managed to keep it mostly under control.

He turned to the other admin. “Our friends from Mahoutokoro will be staying with Gryffindor, if that’s alright with you, Mr. Kobayashi.”

Mahoutokoro’s headmaster nodded. “That will do.”

“Perfect!” Dippet clasped his hands together, turning his attention back to the crowd of students seated around tables. “Now, one last thing before I let you all enjoy your feast,”

You watch as Headmaster Dippet waves his wand, casting some sort of summoning charm. A glittering, trophy-esque cup flies through the air, stopping to hover in front of the podium.

“This is the Triwizard Cup,” Dippet says, motioning for everyone’s attention. “It will serve not only as the trophy to the winner, but also the submission box for brave students to volunteer.” Excited chatter rose among the students in the room.

“Although ample security measures have been set in place, the challenges that follow will, at times, be incredibly dangerous. Your lives may not be on the line in this competition, but your health and physical condition surely will be.” Dippet lets out a sigh before continuing. “It is because of this that I request only seventh-years volunteer themselves for the challenge.” 

As he anticipated, the headmaster’s statement was met with outcry. Various shouts of “Where’s the fun in that?” and “That’s not fair!” emerged from the crowd. Nevertheless, Dippet seemed to remain firm in his decision. He went to explain where the cup would be waiting, and that volunteers for the tournament would have to submit their name over the weekend. Sensing the growing impatience in the room, he finally wraps up his speech.

“Don’t let me bore you all with the details much longer. Tonight is one of welcoming and celebration. Let us feast!”

With the final word, the platters scattered along the various tables begin to fill with delicacies ranging from roast duck to chocolate puddings. The two visiting schools make their way to the house tables they were assigned, with your school going toward Slytherin. While your schoolmates struggled to find open seating at the already crowded table, you had no trouble at all.

Tom stood from his seat as you approached. You beelined toward him with barely contained excitement, practically throwing yourself at him once you were in range.

“Tommy! I missed you!” You wrapped your arms around him in a tight hug, leaving him somewhat startled. He hadn’t remembered you as someone to be so physical. Where did all this energy come from? Nevertheless, he returned the hug, albeit a bit awkwardly.

“I missed you, too.” he said, pulling back from you to study your face. You had a wide grin, one that was familiar to him, though it seemed a lot more impassioned now. He missed your face. Your voice. Your scent. He could smell a floral perfume on you – orchids, he believed. Maybe a bit of vanilla.

“Kerrigan, you’re back! How’s it been?”

You pull away from Tom and turn to Rosier, who was greeting you with a smile. “We were beginning to think you’d never return.”

You take a seat on Tom’s right, in-between him and Mulciber. “I was beginning to think so, too,” you say, loading up your plate. “Thank Merlin for the tournament coming back; if I hadn’t volunteered to compete, I may have never seen any of you again.”

Tom froze at that. “You’re competing?”

“Well it’s not confirmed yet – the cup still has to choose me as my school’s champion – but yeah, I put my name in.”

This wasn’t like you at all. The girl Tom once knew was calm and collected, someone who shared the silence with him without becoming uncomfortable. He spent his first two years at Hogwarts studying diligently, with most of his time spent with you being that of a relaxed stillness. Back in Wool’s, the two of you only spoke to each other – and even then, most of your conversations were shared in whispers. You were introverted last time he saw you, and a bit shy, too. When Tom looked at you now, there was no ounce of timidness in your eyes. You looked strong, smart, and egregiously proud.

“Merlin’s beard, Kerrigan. You sure you’re up for the challenge?” Mulciber asked, resting his chin in his palm as he looked at you. “It’s not gonna be easy, you know.”

“No shit, Mulciber. I’m sure I can handle the competition – you have no idea the things I learned over in America. Ilvermorny’s curriculum is nothing like you’ve ever seen!”

Now you’re swearing? You used to be so well-mannered and polite, but at present you’re chugging pumpkin juice and throwing out expletives like a man. What has Ilvermorny done to you? Tom knew that the Americans had a reputation of being chaotic brutes, but he never guessed that you would degrade yourself to fit in with such a culture. The two of you exchanged letters frequently during your time abroad, and not once did he get the impression that this was who you had become. The barbarity that you’re currently displaying certainly didn’t translate onto paper.

Tom was elated at the thought of your arrival. He spent most of his summer nights lying awake in bed, thinking of what it would be like to reunite with his closest confidante once again. But now that you’re here, he can’t help but feel somewhat… irked. And perhaps a bit surprised.

Your tablemates weren’t nearly as put off by your behavior. Rosier and Avery shared laughs with you as you all ate, with Malfoy and Mulciber occasionally pitching in to add to the jokes. Lestrange remained quiet throughout, but you could tell that he was enjoying the cheer as well. The excitement of returning to Hogwarts, and the mouthwatering meal in front of you, left you oblivious to the tension in the boy next to you. Tom was never one to speak much. Perhaps he was just tired – he had classes all day before this, after all.

You settled on the decision to speak to Tom further once the two of you were alone. You couldn’t wait to tell him all you’ve learned during your time abroad, and you were equally excited to hear the same from him. The Tom you remember was exceedingly bright and charismatic, with both professors and students. You had no doubt that his past four years at Hogwarts would have been interesting.

After about an hour and a half, the chatter of the Great Hall finally settled. Students were finishing their meals and packing up to head to their dorms for the night. You watched from across the room as the Gryffindor prefects guided the Mahoutokoro students up to their dorms, waving their hands around enthusiastically as they gave them a tour of the castle. The prefects in Slytherin were doing the same for your schoolmates, but you didn’t join the tour, you didn’t need to. You were a Slytherin during the two years that you spent at Hogwarts, so you had no trouble navigating the dungeons and finding where you needed to be.

The common room was exactly how you remembered it. The main archway opened up to a grand living space, with a fireplace standing opposite to the spiral staircase you’d just descended. To the left were the dorms – years one through six being accessed by sides, and year sevens being at the top of the grand central staircase, along with the prefect rooms. On your right, huge floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the depths of the Black Lake. A few students milled about, reading on the couches or playing games of wizard chess. This place didn’t change at all, as if it was frozen in time while you were away. You decided to join your new – or old, you guess – housemates by the glass, staring into the water outside and watching the kelp dance with the current.

After spending an ample amount of time sitting by the windows, you decided it was probably time to wind down. You made your way up the main staircase, heading toward the girl’s side of the dormitory. The visiting Ilvermorny students had their own beds conjured in the dorms of each of the years, with yours waiting for you in the seventh. You didn’t enter just yet. You walked toward the back wall, the one that stood as a fork in the road between the girls and boys sides of the dorms. There were three doors in the center of it: Head Girl, Prefects, and Head Boy. You recalled seeing a badge on Tom’s robes. This would be a perfect time to speak to him.

You knocked on his door politely, swinging yourself back and forth on your heels while you waited. There was some shuffling to be heard inside the room, but no one came to the door. You tried again, this time with a quiet call.

“Tom? It’s me. I want to talk to you.”

The shuffling noises shifted from turning pages to feet padding across stone. The door opened in front of you with a soft click. Tom stood there in the doorframe, his sleep clothes already on, staring at you with a curious look.

“What do you need?”

“I just wanted to check up on you. We didn’t get to talk much over dinner.”

“It’s late. You should be in bed by now.”

You grinned. “So?”

He let out an exasperated sigh and shook his head, though you could see a small smile forming. Tom crossed his arms over his chest, but stood aside to let you into the room.

His dorm was neat, if somewhat impersonal, just like you expected it to be. Tom Riddle was never one to fuss over material things – a quality he picked up from his time in the orphanage. You walked over to his desk, where a half-written essay sat, and leaned against the dark wood. Tom closed the door gently and sat on the edge of his bed, facing you.

You tiled your head to the side, speaking in a much calmer tone than you had earlier during the feast. “How have you been, Tommy?”

You watched Tom pause for a moment, seemingly putting a lot of thought into a question so simple. He never got used to that nickname.

“I’ve been well. How about you?”

This felt a lot more familiar. Just a quiet conversation between the two of you. Alone in a room where the world couldn’t reach you. He preferred it like this. Now that you’re away from the bustling crowd, he can finally get a good look at you.

You look older, though not in a haggard way. More mature. There’s a glint in your eye that hints to a bit of softness, a gentle tone that could only be achieved by someone wise. This was who he remembered.

“That’s it? Just ‘well’?” You push off from his desk, standing in front of him with your arms crossed. “You can give me more than that.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything.”

He sits there silent for a moment, pondering. “I passed my O.W.L.S with the highest marks.”

You roll your eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Tom. That’s not what I meant.”

His eyes stay trained on you as you move closer, sitting on the bed next to him. The mattress dips under your weight, adding a subtle change in atmosphere. You examine his face, noting the way his jaw tightens.

“Come on, we’re best friends, aren’t we? There’s nothing you can’t tell me.” You grab his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “No need to keep secrets.”

“I’m not keeping secrets,” he says, letting his eyes drop to where your hands are connected. “I just don’t enjoy being interrogated.”

“Asking you how you’ve been is interrogating?”

His jaw clenches once more. You had no idea how hard of a question that was to answer. He couldn’t tell you how he’s been, not truthfully. You’d be horrified by the answer. But how could he lie to you? You knew him as well as he knew himself – if he told you that he’d spent the last four years playing Quidditch with the boys you’d call bullshit immediately.

“I’ve been… researching. Mostly about strands of magic that interest me.” A half-truth.

“And your family?”

That’s right, he had almost forgotten. When the two of you entered Hogwarts, he had no idea of his lineage. His mother died minutes after he was born, and Mrs. Cole said she never got her name. All Tom knew was that he was named after his father, but he couldn’t find the name in any of the magical records that were kept in the school library. You had left before he discovered his heritage.

Tom sighs, returning his gaze to you. “I’m a descendant of Slytherin himself, on my mother’s side.” He pauses for a moment, deciding on what truths he should tell you. “My father… I’m still unsure of.”

“Well, that explains the snakes.”

A soft laugh escapes him. He turns his palm over, lacing his fingers with yours. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

Tom’s eyes sweep over you, taking in all of your matured features. Your hair was neatly styled, maintaining its original image even after the long day. You were wearing a simple white shirt, with a teal and green tie around the collar – your house colors from Ilvermorny, he assumed. His gaze traveled down toward your legs, where your black skirt sat around mid thigh. White socks covered your calves, leading down to elegant black flats. Tom felt a slight blush creeping up his neck. You were beautiful. He suddenly felt very embarrassed about being in his night clothes.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he says, though without malice. His hand stays interlocked with yours. “It’s past curfew.”

You giggle a bit at that, shaking your head. “Oh Tom, always a stickler for the rules.” Your hand falls from his as you stand. He doesn’t move. “One day you’ll learn to have fun.”

He watches as you cross the room, stopping just before the door. You look over your shoulder one last time before leaving. “Goodnight, Tommy.”

Tom exhales as the door closes, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more. This day had been nothing like he expected. You entered the Great Hall with bounds of energy, disrupting his peace and his friend group. Then you turned around and spoke to him in the softest tone, relaxing into a poised demeanor during the night. You were so complicated. There were parts of you he recognized, and parts that he was bewildered by. You were still the same smart, kind girl he knew – but you carried an air of pride wherever you went, almost challenging the Gryffindors. He didn’t know what to think. Tom felt like his head was spinning. What were you doing to him?

He decides it’s best to rest. Sleep is what he’ll need if he’s to keep up with you. Tom walks back over to his desk and closes his notebook, leaving his History of Magic essay unfinished. It’s fine, he has plenty of time.

You crawl into your own bed not long after. The sheets were cool against your skin, while the quilt warmed you like a hug. You missed this place. Ilvermorny was great, but Hogwarts was like no other. A calm sense of nostalgia washes over you as you close your eyes, surrendering to your first night of sleep in your old home.

You’re back.

a/n: this is only slightly proof-read so if there are spelling errors please let me know. i wrote this in a daze at 2 am. i did a huge deep-dive on the lore of ilvermorny and mahoutokoro and now i have a bunch of random knowledge floating around in my brain. oh well

as always, let me know if u wanna be tagged!

love you mwah mwah ♡

The first two years of Hogwarts were spent by each other’s side, researching ancient histories and honing their magical skills. But in the summer of 1940, when Mr. and Mrs. Kerrigan were released from prison, they took back their daughter and moved across the pond – forcing her to transfer to the North American wizarding school, Ilvermorny. Her and Tom wrote each other letters in their years of separation, remaining each other’s closest friends despite the distance.

In the fall of 1944, during Riddle’s seventh and final year at Hogwarts, Headmaster Dippet announced that the school would be the host of the first Triwizard Tournament in over a century. The two were reunited once again, but the four years they spent apart changed the both of them drastically from who they once were. With Riddle going down a path toward darkness and Kerrigan finally finding her own sense of purpose, will the once unbreakable friendship stand, or will their allyship finally yield to fate?

series content labels/warnings: tom riddle x fem!reader, mentions of childhood trauma (relating to Wool's and such), friends-to-strangers, strangers-to-lovers, mentions of murder (tom is evil), dark themes, angst with fluff sprinkled in, smut later in the series (not until they're 18), ooc tom riddle (he is capable of feeling love), hogwarts as its own trigger warning

PROLOGUE (Tom's POV)

wc: 1.1k

Friday September 15, 1944. Exactly two weeks since Tom’s seventh year at Hogwarts began. His final year. With his O.W.L.S complete and his N.E.W.T.S on the way, Tom spent the entirety of his summer studying. Normally, he would have liked to get a head start on studying for his final exams, but his summer between fifth and sixth year was a bit busy… so he had to settle for some, what he considers to be, last-minute review. Sure, he could have waited until the school year started, but he figured that with the recent news he had received, he would be a bit distracted from his studies during the year. 

The table in front of him was decorated with a green and silver table runner, with matching colors adorning his and his classmates’ robes. Empty plates were waiting to be filled with conjured meats, vegetables, and desserts– while excited students hovered over them in anticipation. Although dinner in the Great Hall was normally optional, Headmaster Dippet called for a special feast, in which attendance was required. Students all around were whispering about what the occasion could possibly be; but Tom was silent, because he already knew.

‘I’ll see you soon.’ Those were the last words in her letter, other than her signature. The words that had been replaying in his mind since June. For the first time in 152 years, the Triwizard Tournament would be taking place – with Hogwarts being the hosting school. The competition was called off indefinitely after the last tournament in 1792, due to the high death toll of the students. But magic had evolved significantly since then, and new safety measures were put in place, allowing the tournament to commence once more. The trials would still be challenging, some of them even dangerous, but thankfully not life threatening. 

Tom never cared for sports, choosing to sit-out every Quidditch match that took place on the weekends, but he found himself intrigued this time. The two other schools what would be attending were Mahoutokoro, the magic school located on one of the isles in Japan, and Ilvermorny, the North-American wizarding school– founded by one of Slytherin’s descendants, and attended by her. After four years of being apart, Tom Riddle would be reunited with his closest friend.

The chatter in the room died as Dippet stood in front of his podium. “Attention students,” the Headmaster raised his wand to his throat, casting a silent Sonorus spell. “There will come a time in everyone’s life where they will be asked to demonstrate a tremendous amount of courage. This demonstration may take many forms, depending on the individual,”

Although he typically didn’t care for Headmaster Dippet’s droning speeches, Tom found himself tuning in this time. This speech was going somewhere. “The form does not matter so much as the intent. Whether it is a feat of athleticism, a test of the mind, or a show of one’s magical ability, we will all be tasked with an obstacle we must overcome. Wizarding schools all over the world have been given the task to train their students in such a way that you all will be prepared for whatever life throws at you,” A smile crosses Dippet’s face as he speaks. “I believe that I, and the many professors here at Hogwarts, have trained you well.” 

“It is because of this that I am glad to announce that, for the first time in almost two centuries, Hogwarts will be hosting the Triwizard Tournament.” The room descended into a series of hushed conversations and animated glances. Each of the houses stirred with a newfound excitement at the news, including the surrounding students at the Slytherin table. Tom was excited too, but he refused to show it, favoring his typically cool demeanor.

“Let us give a special welcome to our guests, who will be boarding with us for the remainder of the school year.”

The large doors to the Great Hall swung open, seemingly on their own, once Dippet gave the cue. Every head turned toward the entrance to see the witches and wizards that entered. First was Mahoutokoro. Rows and rows of students in robes of every color filed into the hall with practiced precision. Leading the way were five young wizards in garbs of gold, while a few dozen wizards dressed in pink flanked the group. They made their way down the aisle with grace, a few of the students raising their wands to add some illusionary effects to flourish their entrance. Tom watched the students gather to the left of Headmaster Dippet, near the Hufflepuff table. Mahoutokoro’s Headmaster, Kobayashi, shook hands with Dippet and exchanged a few quiet words of respect. Tom paid attention to the group, though this wasn’t the one he was most interested in.

Mulciber, who was seated on Tom’s right, leaned in to whisper to him. “I heard that Mahoutokoro has the best flyers in the world, they’ll surely be a challenge.” Tom gave him a nod, but chose not to grace him with a verbal response. Mulciber shrugged it off and turned to the rest of the group, gossiping about the new arrivals. Just as the crowd began to settle, the doors gave way to the second group.

About a hundred witches and wizards filled the entryway to the Great Hall. Tom immediately turned his head toward the group, making no effort to appear nonchalant. He didn’t care about his persona, not now. Loud, obnoxious horns blared in true American fashion, announcing the entrance of the students of Ilvermorny. Sparks flew from the foreign students’ wands, shooting fireworks high into the room. The students made their way down the aisle with a generous amount of ego, though not entirely undeserved. Freshly-pressed robes of blue and cranberry marched in tight lines, save for the three students leading the charge, who seemed to have shed their outerwear in favor of white button-downs and colored ties. Tom’s eyes immediately focused on the student walking front and center, her eyes gleaming with pride. Tom didn’t miss the hint of nostalgia that washed over her face as she looked around the room, following her Headmaster up to the main platform. Ilvermorny’s students were situated on Dippet’s right, closer to the Slytherin table. The girl shot Tom a knowing look, he returned it.

The surrounding noise of chattering students and sounding trumpets faded away as he met her gaze. His best friend, perhaps his only real one, stood tall and proud on the platform. The girl he met at Wool’s, the one who shared his same strange powers, the one who understood him like no other. The girl who left his side years ago, with no promise of return. A small smile, a genuine one, fell across Tom’s lips before he could stop it.

She’s back.

a/n: this will be a multi-chapter series. i'm aiming for 5-10 chapters spanning over the final year at hogwarts and a bit beyond, but who knows. more specific content labels/warnings will be added with each individual chapter

hope you guys are as excited for this as i am! if you like my work, please consider commenting and reblogging, as your feedback is incredibly motivating to me.

i'm thinking of creating a taglist for this series so if you want to be notified when chapter one comes out, let me know in the comments :)

k thanks bye bye ! ♡

“...I trust this letter will find you: a) frantically packing for the safe house the Order will no doubt insist upon, or b) terribly anxious. I wish to assuage both conditions. You are in no danger, and there is absolutely nothing to fear. Believe me, if I really wanted to kill you, I would have no one to write to.

The unfortunate incident at your book presentation rests entirely with the Order. My people and I were merely defending ourselves. What you read of us in the newspapers may or may not be true, but today I came in peace, wishing only to obtain an autograph from a favorite author. I am, as I'm sure you are, terribly sorry for the lady who fell victim to the Aurors' recklessness. You must not blame yourself.

I wish to offer you something else to consider. As I said, you are among my favorite writers (second only to Conan Doyle) and one of the most brilliant minds of our age. I have read all your works. I am rarely mistaken about people, and I sense in you a potential so vast it would be a crime to ignore it or to fail to help it. That is precisely what I propose to do. The ways you could benefit our cause are numerous: you are witty, eloquent, persuasive, you comprehend Muggle technology, you maintain connections among them... I could continue, but why? You know your talents inside out. What you cannot yet see is what I could help you achieve.

I find myself in a delicate position. It may appear as though I am offering forbidden fruit, but in truth, I wish only to shield a gifted mind from the brutalities of a looming war and from the practical struggles of a young author. Your apartment at 4 Onslow Mews West leaves much to be desired.  How do you and your cat manage in such conditions?

Do not rush to reply. You will likely show this to your friends in the Order, and they will say precisely what I expect them to say. But if you truly authored those books yourself, you will reach your own decision, independent of all others. So, spend the night with that thought. Place this letter beneath your pillow (I will be pleased to know it’s there).

P.S.: Can you imagine how small the world truly is? It seems the father of your agent, Margaret Ogden, knew my mother. Margaret herself told me. We shared a most pleasant conversation.

Sincerely yours,

L.V.”

* * *

You remember how Margaret Ogden, your faithful literary agent, even rented out Flourish and Blotts once. There were so many people demanding autographs that your arm ached for two days afterwards.

Today was different. Books aren't supposed to be promoted like this; it felt just wrong. In the cramped auditorium (which you’d managed to secure, oddly enough, in the basement of St. Mungo's) barely half the pews were filled. That sweet elderly witch in the first row seemed to have attended every one of your presentations. Two girls in school robes were giggling and whispering in the back (how did their parents even let them be here?). Refusing to succumb to the cowardly habit of weak lecturers who would ‘wait another ten minutes for latecomers’, you rose from your seat, cleared your throat, and said:.

"Dear witches and wizards, whom I have the honor of addressing today, I am pleased to welcome you. But before I say a word about my book, I feel I must first thank you" your voice wavered slightly, but you quickly regained its volume "for your courage in simply being here today’.

A shadow crossed the faces of the witches and wizards, and all of them, even those you were seeing for the first time, seemed familiar and close to you. Alastor, sitting near the door, chuckled knowingly.

"It's no secret that nowadays courage is required for the simplest of things. We've all become so brave we scarcely notice it anymore. The world has grown so dark that simply stepping outside, walking your son down Diagon Alley to help him choose his textbooks is scary. Visiting friends that are known for being 'blood traitors' is scary. Coming to the aid of your Muggle neighbors when their house is attacked by Death Eaters..."

The color drained from the cheeks of the elderly witch in the front row, yet she did not lower her gaze.

"...is terrifying. Writing about Muggles is scary sometimes. And coming here today to learn what has been written about them, to understand how these people live and why they are not our enemies, that, too, requires tremendous courage. I bow my head to you and I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for taking this risk."

You would have given anything to calm their fears, to tell them that Alastor and Stebbins had their wands at the ready, and that a dozen Signal Spells were casted on the door, but Alastor had strictly forbidden it. The last thing you need is to show your hand to the enemy. Yet, looking at the handful of people before you, you were torn between a terrible guilt and a strange, fierce elation.

* * *

You called for Alastor through the fireplace in the dead of night.

“Well,” his head said when you finished reading the letter aloud (your voice was trembling, you were skipping over the words). “Welcome to the Order. That’s usually how it starts.”

“Wait,” you said. “Just wait. I’m losing my mind. What should I do now? I mean right this second?”

“Is the owl still there?”

“Yeah, stomping on the windowsill.”

“Are you going to answer the letter?”

“Alastor, I have no idea what to write to him! That’s why I called! Look, this isn’t about me-”

He swore.

“What is it with these damn books!” he exclaimed, and you thought you heard rare note of despair in his voice. “What a wonderful time for all this muggle studies crap…”

He wasn’t truly serious, of course. He remembered (he couldn’t forget) that Dumbledore himself had been the first to support you and offer the Order’s protection. Right now, he had told you, those books are most important. Not before the war, not after, but during it. Alastor was just angry, he had every right to be. At you, and at himself, for not being able to save you well enough.

You sometimes thought he liked you.

“It’s not about me, it’s about Margaret,” you pressed. “I’m certain she’s in far worse danger than I am right now. Alastor, please, what can we do? She lives on Virginia Road, I don’t remember the exact number…”

He was silent for so long you called his name once, twice, fearing the connection had broken.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was sending a Patronus to the Commander.”

You already knew that was the Order’s name for Dumbledore.

“Thank you,” you said. “They’ll save her? They will, won’t they?”

“How should I know?” Alastor muttered. “Maybe there’s no one left to save… We’re heading there now, Merlin knows what we’ll find. Pack your things now. He’s right about the apartment.”

“No.”

“What the hell do you mean, no?”

“Alastor, I’m not going anywhere.”

You felt his urge to hit you even through the fireplace.

“Pack your things, I said!” he barked. “Dorcas will be with you shortly, she’ll take you to a safe house.”

“Alastor, don’t waste time on me, I’m not the main target right now. But I’m not going back on my word.”

“I’ll talk to you later!”

The Floo connection died. Unlike other Order members, who sometimes wondered if their goodbyes to family were final, Alastor never said goodbye at all. Superstition, you supposed.

* * *

"...Let's not waste time," you said. "If my memory serves me right, the previous book in this series was called 'Why Do Planes Fly' in which I tried my best to reveal the history of the most important Muggle inventions. Has anyone read that book?" A smile twitched at the corners of your lips.

A few hands timidly rose into the air, then more and more. Alastor also raised his hand and waved cheerfully at you.

"I only passed Muggle Studies thanks to her," one of the girls chimed in.

"So it wasn't written in vain," you said. "I racked my brain for a long time trying to figure out which inventions should be mentioned, and I think I've come up with a pretty good selection, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the topic wasn't fully explored. It wasn't about… you see, it wasn't about what other Muggle mechanisms and discoveries I'd missed. It was about their failures. The new book, or rather, the second volume in this series, is called 'Why Do Planes Crash.'"

* * *

"If you won't think of yourself, at least think of the poor cat," Marlene said gloomily. "Or your neighbors. Have you ever seen what a house looks like after Death Eaters visit?"

"Marlene, you have to understand, I'm not in the Order," you said. "I can't expect you to drop everything and protect me. He," you refused to use the name, " he is recruiting, we know that. How many offers do you think he is sending out? If they were all impossible to refuse, he'd be spending all his energy just intimidating the stubborn ones."

"You're just trying to convince yourself," Marlene said. "You just want to believe you can stay neutral."

She was partly right, but there was yet another reason you told no one. Of course, you hadn't put the letter under your pillow, but you couldn't bring yourself to burn it either. You'd reread it many times since. Gradually, the suffocating image (Voldemort holding this piece of paper his hands) had given way to a more uncertain thought ‘it seems he isn't lying’. It seemed he truly didn't want to harm you, at least, not yet. But he was more than willing to harm anyone who tried to help you.

Margaret's house had been identified by the Dark Mark, of course (and the shattered glass, and the door hanging from a single hinge). Inside, oddly enough, everything was untouched. Either she hadn't put up a fight, or whoever had visited her had been meticulous in cleaning up.

And there was still that tiny, flattering thrill in rereading the letter, but this feeling you wouldn't even admit to yourself.

"There are more Signal Spells here than stars in the sky," Marlene said, lowering her wand as the air stilled around her. "Just be careful and don't open the door for anyone. Better yet, don't open it at all. Dorcas or I will be by this evening. It would be good to find you a Secret Keeper..."

"Say hello to Alastor for me. And tell him I'm sorry," you said.

"He has every right to be angry, you know," she said without turning around. "Frankly, so am I."

"I'm already a burden, Marlene... Look, I’ve got this. It's August. Hogwarts starts soon, it’s the safest place in the world, and you know who's teaching Muggle Studies this year? I've only got one week to get through here, and then I'll be safer than a Gringotts vault."

You didn't answer him that night, instead, you sat down and wrote to Dumbledore. For the first time in your life, you sent a job application at three in the morning, and by five, an owl was scratching at your window. The Muggle Studies teacher position, Dumbledore wrote, was indeed vacant, and he would be delighted to have you fill it.

Marlene glanced over the shoulder, her expression distrustful.

"You might not be a fool, but you're still terribly arrogant," she said. "If he leaves a smoking crater where your house used to be, I won't be coming to clean up the mess."

"Thank you," you repeated, trying to smile. "Marlene, will you take Whiskers to headquarters tonight? He's very docile, you won't have any trouble."

After she left, you poured tea, sorted drafts and rewrote the same section a dozen times, all to forget the letter lying in your desk drawer. Your third book would be on Muggle medicine, a topic so vast you could devote your life to it. Margaret had been found Stunned in her basement. She was alive yet had to be treated at Mungo, but you couldn't imagine continuing to work with her anyway; you were already choosing words to explain that you wouldn't let anyone else suffer for you. Blood transfusions, yes, a good opening section. Or perhaps vaccines? It would not be the same without Whiskers. You'd grown accustomed to his pleasant weight on your lap as you typed, but the thought of him buried in rubble made you nauseous. The typewriter was Muggle, and you were proud of your typing speed, but in four hours you'd barely managed three clean paragraphs.

When the knock came, you rose absently and went downstairs, still turning over the last sentence in your mind. You pushed the door open, already knowing it was Marlene with the cat carrier.

It wasn't Marlene.

* * *

You glanced at the piece of paper where you'd scribbled out the outline of the conversation in a sloppy handwriting, understood nothing, and looked back at your audience.

"Allow me to digress briefly. What would you define as a man-made disaster?" you asked.

"A disaster caused by technology," offered the witch in the front row.

"Correct," you nodded. "Thank you. Now, is there an equivalent in our magical world?"

A thoughtful pause followed. You swept your gaze across the room.

"That depends on what you consider a disaster," a young man ventured. "Probably not?"

"Well" you said. "Let's reason by analogy, then. Everyone likely remembers the explosion at the Floo Powder factory in 1915. In fact, thanks to that incident, we now know the secret production was in East London, since relocated, of course. Young ladies, does this ring a bell? I believe it’s part of the curriculum”.

The girls, who had been whispering loudly just moments before, now stared at you. You sometimes thought you could teach at Hogwarts (Muggle Studies, for instance). They didn't answer, you recounted the history of the Rainham tragedy (which was nearly several hundred dead and injured), described the massive Memory charm operation required for the Muggles living along the estuary, and said:

"This is perhaps the closest our world has ever come to a man-made disaster. And thank Merlin it is."

* * *

You walked into the kitchen on unsteady legs, and he followed. You thought he was quite familiar with the apartment's layout, but you couldn't think the thought through more clearly. Your heart was pounding in your throat. You tried to boil the kettle with your wand, and when it didn't work the third time, he gently pushed you aside and did it himself.

"There's no need for fear," he said peacefully. "I think my letter which you so kindly ignored should have assured you of that."

He was tall. To speak to him, you had to raise your head and expose your face to those intense eyes. He was dressed quite simply and (it was clear from the first movement) was very poised, but all reality seemed to sag under his weight the moment he entered the room. He resembled his photographs the way a dragon resembles a photograph of a dragon, and even though you were seeing him only twice in your life, you didn't think you'd ever be able to forget that face. Your entire kitchen seemed small and vulnerable in his presence.

"How should I address you?" you asked. Despite the tea you sipped your voice seemed unsteady.

"Mr. Riddle," he replied pleasantly. "Consider it a stage name."

"I wasn't aware you were an artist as well."

"My talents are modest compared to yours," he said and smiled. A knife could have smiled like that. "What are you working on at the moment, by the way?"

"I want to write about Muggle medicine," you heard yourself say.

And so you spoke of Muggle medicine, a subject in which Mr. Riddle proved to be unexpectedly well-versed. You even wondered if he'd studied Muggles specifically. He sat across from you, cradling his cup of tea in his hands, and spoke so animatedly and enthusiastically (you were mostly listening), as if that was what he'd come for.

"That is an excellent idea," he finally said, raising his cup as if making a toast. "And timely. I assume ‘Manticore Press’ is already preparing a contract?"

"I haven't mentioned the idea to anyone yet," you said, looking at the tablecloth. "Not even to Margaret."

"Who?... Ah, Miss Ogden," he drawled. " I'm afraid when news of her fate reaches the publishing house, they may reconsider their association with you altogether."

"I am ceasing my partnership with her myself," you said. "I suppose I am a freelance writer now." And then you added "She was innocent."

"Was she?" he asked, and let the subject die. And you realized that being in Voldemort's path, or even a step away from it, was in itself a terrible crime, and there was nothing more to say about it. Suddenly you realized he could kill you in the next minute with a single wave of his hand, and he wouldn't even need a reason. Merlin, what were you thinking! You believed in nobility, you invented the image of a gallant bandit with a code of honor, you were born a fool, and you'll die a fool! Oh, you hoped he wouldn't hurt Whiskers...

"My dear, I can easily read every movement of your soul, and those movements don't please me," said Mr. Riddle boredly. "When I found you here, I hoped it was a sign of good will. Now I see that you're simply saving your friends, or rather, you think you're saving them by offering yourself to me as a form of some stupid sacrifice. Mind you, I don't need a sacrifice because I always take what's mine. But tell me, how can you write about bravery like that and chatter your teeth against your teacup like that while we're simply talking about book publishing?"

You set your cup down on the table to avoid spilling it and asked, "Why are you here, Mr. Riddle?"

"To repeat my question. I believe you just haven't had time to answer the letter."

"I've given it some thought."

"And what conclusion have you reached?"

"How stupid to die in the kitchen... Well, no more stupid than dying in the bathroom or in your own bed," you thought. What else could you think of at such a moment? But out loud you said:

"I don't quite understand the specifics of the proposal, but I think I get the general gist. Mr. Riddle, I need you to realize that I am a journalist first and foremost, and as a journalist must remain neutral, otherwise we'll never know the truth."

"I would be delighted to clarify the specifics," he said. "And you're wrong to think of yourself merely as a journalist. In my opinion, you trukly are a poet. That speech about Muggle bravery at the end of the book presentation, so rudely interrupted, almost brought a tear to my eye. And as for the truth, no one will stop you from continuing to write as before, albeit with a few caveats. Your expert opinion on Muggle matters is in great demand among the public. Listen, have you ever considered combining your work with a position at the Ministry?"

Your head was spinning. You seemed to understand what he was getting at, but his speech was so enveloping, lulling and confusing that you couldn't be sure. If only he'd kill you before Marlene apparated here (no, I couldn't think about that, he'd know) oh, Whiskers, poor Whiskers…

"I'm afraid I've already found a permanent job," you said with a nervous laugh.

"Are you afraid?" he asked briskly. "Have you finally decided to admit it? Merlin, really? You've been trembling in front of me like a hunted hare for half an hour and you think I haven't seen it?"

"What do you want, Mr. Riddle?" you repeated dully.

His hand covered yours.

"First of all, I want you to fucking relax."

* * *

"If I were teaching Muggle Studies at Hogwarts," you said, "I might dedicate the entire curriculum to man-made disasters alone, and believe me, that would be enough. What defines a person, or a group of people, more profoundly than their mistakes is how they overcome them. You must understand that the disaster at Rainham and a handful of other quieter accidents in our magical industries are but a tiny fraction of the history of Muggle technological defeats. And within that history, I believe, lies a profound courage, the very kind we spoke of at the beginning." You hadn't rehearsed this, and if Margaret had been here, she would have been horrified, but the words seemed to roll off your tongue, one after another. The old lady in the front row leaned forward.

"Magic is inherently personal, and so are person's relationship with it, and all our victories and defeats, all discoveries and mistakes, bear the names of magicians, the real people behind them. I grew up in this world too, a world of magic. When I first started studying Muggle history, I was terrified of this immense anonymity… Yes, anonymity in the face of catastrophe, in front of a pile of twisted metal, in front of a wall of flame, in front of scorched earth. And yet they move forward, you see? They are brave, much braver than we are”.

Yes, Margaret would have been horrified. It was a good thing you’d persuaded her to stay home. It wasn’t that she disagreed (her father, Bob Ogden, had devoted his life to protecting Muggles from wizards, and she shared his convictions) but to dare to speak so boldly now, today, when Death Eaters could be listening at the door!

Alastor looked at you, holding his breath.

* * *

...and as his heavy hand was still clutching yours the kitchen swam before your eyes, and Mr. Riddle began to speak something completely impossible:

"...you see, I first saw your photograph in the Prophet, just before your first book was published. You looked so vibrant in it, much more so than you do now, and I immediately decided that I would read what you wrote there and then kill you. You see, I hate Muggles, does that surprise you?.. I believe I've been pretty clear about my political stance these past few years... I have this photograph with me, I carry it in my breast pocket, would you like to see it? Well, I acquired your book when it was still wet, and I spent entire night with it, and then I've reread it countless times since. I refuse to believe you do not understand me, I refuse to believe you are not, in your heart, aligned with my cause. This is the first time I've seen someone who respects Muggles as much as I do. You see, they are feared, hated, despised, or, conversely, admired, but no one has recognized their power, which is obvious to me, and reading your book, I realized that if anyone can make the wizarding world truly fear Muggles, it is you."

Your lips sighed.

"Don't leave me so soon, my dear. The potion will put you to sleep, we’ll continue our conversation somewhere else, but before that, I want to explain... Your photograph burns my pocket, and your lovely little hand burns me too," he laughed and squeezed your fingers. "Well, I attended your book launches incognito and couldn't believe what I saw. You feared nothing and no one. You spoke of Muggles as freely as if you were a Muggle yourself, you were unassailable in debate, your mind knew no fatigue, your smile... I never missed a single event. Listen, I've decided that you will work for me."

"Water," you said. "Please, water."

"Be patient, will you? Then I found out where you live, and I was amazed once again, you were like a bird on a bare branch, trusting to providence... For a long time, I thought there was some kind of trap here, that the Aurors were guarding you or something else, until it hit me. Do you think, no, do you really dare to think that being right will protect you?’

He spoke faster, like a madman or a lover, and you couldn't tell if he was holding your hand or if you were holding it. You saw only his eyes and, for some reason, his teeth, and thought of wolves and hares.

"I just couldn't get you out of my head. I once sampled Amortentia at school, and it felt very similar... Have you ever tasted it? That can be arranged. I have a habit of keeping useful things to myself, and I don't know anything more useful than you. I often walked back and forth near your house, thinking, if I were to walk in and kill you, what would you say then? Oh, never mind... The whole kingdom for your autograph, how often do you get offers like that? Keep in mind, I'm jealous of my things. No part-time jobs."

And as Mr. Riddle spoke, everything around him faded into darkness, the kitchen transformed into the familiar basement at St. Mungo's, and in this dream you were talking to him, arguing, and he was holding your hand tightly, like the most precious thing in the world. "Would you like my autograph for a change, my dear?" Mr. Riddle asked cheerfully. "But I don't have anything on me," you said. "That's quite all right. I'll leave it where you won't lose it. Give me your left hand."

* * *

"They fall and rise, fall, rise, and go again. Every chapter in this book is a story of how the fallen rose again, and the whole book is, if you will, a hymn to the greatest courage in the world. The courage to live. Muggles learn from their mistakes, they don't repeat them, they make new ones, learn not to repeat them too, and step by step they move forward. What I'm trying to say is that they move faster than us, much faster. Perhaps because they live in a world full of disasters." You caught your breath. "I won't lie to you, I sincerely believe that Muggles possess both great courage and great strength. That's what the book is about, actually."

Before you could say another word, someone at the door began clapping. The applause was so off-key, so out of time, so slow and mocking that several rows of people turned around in unison, and you, too, narrowed your eyes slightly, peering in. You knew the face of the man standing by the open door well. You'd never seen him in person before, but the Prophet had published his photograph more than once (without a name, of course).

Curiosity gently pricked at you, trying to figure out how Tom had even passed by your common room without getting noticed before another thought came to you.

“Why are you even here, Tom?” You pulled your blanket over yourself, getting comfortable.

“I have an important task that I believe I could trust you with.” Tom leaned down so that his head was just slightly above yours. “And you mustn't tell anyone else about this.”

His dark eyes stared down at your own, though his gaze was not intense and did not make you want to push your body deeper into your bed (well, maybe just a bit. Tom riddle was a handsome man); it was quite the opposite, really. His eyes were soft, looking down at you as if you were his lover. You looked back at him challengingly.

“Let me guess. You have another strange experiment, and instead of asking one of your friends to help, you wish to risk my life instead.” You quirk a brow.

“You know quite well that those… that they are not my friends.” Tom’s voice quieted when he said this next part: “The only one I consider akin to a friend is you.” Tom straightened himself.

“So, are you going to tell me why you’ve snuck into my dormitory, Tom? Because I’d like to know what this task is.”

“I won’t tell you here in case any of your roommates try entering your dormitory and can’t seem to figure out why. I’ve been here for a while,” said Tom. “I’ll wait for you outside of your common room at midnight tomorrow night. Does that sound alright?”

“This conversation could have been an owl,” You groaned.

Since the next day was a Saturday, you slept in quite late because you wanted to be in the right mind when working on whatever experiment Tom had planned.

When it was a few minutes before twelve in the morning, you decided to sneak out. Luckily, the lady in the portrait had gone on a late–night visit, so you snuck out of the common room with no problems.

Tom was patiently waiting for you.

“So, will you now explain to me what it is that you’ve been so secretive of?” You asked.

“In all honesty, I’d rather speak with you in the Room of Requirements.”

With that, you both snuck up to the seventh floor of Hogwarts. 

The room itself was quite fine. There were two couches that faced each other with a wooden table between it and a fireplace burning nearby.

You let out a small, satisfied sigh as you sank down onto one of the couches. Walking up all those stairs left you tired.

Tom said down next to you, knee brushing the skirt of your own.

“Now, about that task…” Tom trailed off.

You focused your attention on him. “Yes?”

“Have you ever heard of a Horcrux?”

That piqued your interest. You answered honestly: “No, Tom, I have not. What is a… Horcrux?”

“It’s a rare form of magic. A Horcrux is an object one has used to conceal a part of their soul. A way for one’s soul to live on forever. I had happened upon it during my readings in the library. The topic interested me and I visited Professor Slughorn, in the hopes that he might’ve illuminated me on how to create one.”

You quietly shift in your seat, a strange feeling of unease grappled within your insides. But curiosity got the better of you, as well as the knowledge of Tom needing your help with a task to do with a Horcrux was much stronger.

“How do you make a Horcrux, Tom?”

“Do you remember learning about ancient magic rituals performed by witches and muggles alike in History of Magic?” After a nod of confirmation, Tom continued: “Well, of course, a ritual is needed to create a Horcrux… and it can be rather messy. Do you know why?”

There was no need for you to search your brain for an answer. No, you knew. You knew of the rot beneath Tom Riddle’s flesh — the one he’s been trying so hard to hide — and have been waiting for it to show itself to you, and now it seems it is coming to the surface. And most importantly, staying there for your eyes to see instead of passing by as if he were the softest brush of wind on human flesh.

You answered, “You’d have to kill someone.”

A smile graced Tom’s lips. “Correct. As I’d thought you’d be.”

“And you… want to create a horcrux?”

“We will. If you want, of course.” Tom blinked at you, as if he were an angel gracing a mortal with a life changing deal. Or perhaps he was the devil. When it comes to Tom, it was hard to discern which was which.

You leaned towards Tom. “I believe that for whatever reason, if I refuse, you wouldn’t be able to proceed with this little plan of yours… Am I right, Tom?”

A twitch at the brow. “I could. But, your presence would be the preference.”

You sit back, expression relaxing. Years ago, Tom would have turned his nose at the thought of ever telling you so much as one of his true thoughts. But things were different now. You shifted, the heel of your shoe bumping against the polished top of his.

“And why is that?”

He took in a deep breath, hesitating. This might have been the most flustered you had ever seen Tom.

“Murder isn’t the only thing needed. It is — It is also a sex ritual.”

Oh.

“Didn’t want to do this with one of your knights, Riddle?” You teased, though already you were imagining just what a ‘sex ritual’ would entail.

“Oh, shut it.”

“I’ll do it, Tom.”

The following day, you could not take your mind off of what Tom had told you of. Horcruxes, immortality, soul splitting, rituals, sex rituals… 

It was midnight again when Tom led you out of the building and into the Forbidden Forest. Thick trees shrouded over your both, blocking moonlight and hopefully any other eyes. Tom’s wand illuminated the way after a firm lumos passed through his lips.

Maybe it was just paranoia, but your arms wrapped around one of Tom’s when you heard a crunch of leaves.

“Why here?” you hissed, choosing to focus your gaze on the side of Tom’s face. The light cast upon his face, showing off his sharp jaw, and sickly pale skin.

“You’ll see. Now be quiet unless you want to be crushed by a centaur.”

You tucked your face against Tom’s shoulder, letting him lead the way.

You both ended up in a small, cleared space between two trees. The thick branches of which poked each other like two hands, creating a shelter.

It took a moment for you to notice the body that lay propped against one of the branches. Eyes shut, a student unfamiliar to you. Perhaps that’s why he’d been chosen by Tom. So not many people would go looking.

Your fingers dug into the sleeve of Tom’s jacket. Suddenly, the weight of what you were doing with Tom felt very much real.

Tom paid you a glance before tucking his arm around you. “Did you bring the cups like I told you to?”

You tore your gaze away from the body to focus on him, nodding. You shrugged off your satchel and grabbed the two goblets you’d snatched from the kitchens a few hours prior.

Tom grabbed them with a murmured ‘good girl’ as you watched him. Kept your eyes on him so as not to stray.

Tom stepped towards the body, and coward you were, you finally tore your gaze away to turn around. To keep watch, is what you told yourself, even as you heard a sick squelch.

Tom places the filled up goblets on the ground before giving you an amused look. “You can turn around now.”

His coat was off now, laid upon the ground. You gladly took your seat, legs shaky. Tom handed you a goblet, his cold hand helping you wrap yours around the handle.

“Drink this to calm your nerves.” Tom brought his own cup to his lips, adams apple bobbing as he drank.

You hesitated before tipping your head back. The liquid was warm on your tongue, coppery… but sweet. Your lips parted, swallowing down more. Only to open your eyes when Tom was coaxing the empty cup out of your grip.

He leaned forward, thumb swiping over your chin to wipe the blood that escaped your greedy tongue. You leaned forward, sucking on the tip of his finger to capture the stolen remnants.

“Greedy girl.” Tom hummed, angling your head back before pressing his lips with yours. His kiss was clumsy, but that didn’t stop your hands from clutching at the front of his shirt, deepening the kiss.

He pressed you back against his jacket so you were laying down. His fingers ran over your cheek bone, to your jaw, down to the back of your neck to keep you still while he deepened the kiss.

His tongue poked through your lips once before he broke apart, cheeks flushed.

You squirmed, reaching for Tom again, pulling his head towards yours. One of your legs was spread out on his lap while the inside of the other lazily pressed against his hip, with Tom settling between your legs.

Tom’s tongue dipped between your lips again, slowly licking at your teeth, gums, the hood of your mouth before sliding against your own tongue. You moaned, a muffled sound that Tom swallowed down.

His free hand lowered to your ankle, tracing the delicate arch through your sock before reaching up to slide beneath your long skirt. His cold touch made you shiver. Made you press closer to him in search of a warmth he could never give you.

Tom was partially laid atop you, still not giving the weight of him as his hand traced a path higher up your leg, leaving goosebumps in his wake as your skirt raised with his wrist.

“Tom…” You murmured his name once you two pulled away again.

“Hm?” His mouth brushed your cheek, lips stealing the warmth there. “What is it, darling?” His hand massaged your thigh, and a familiar coil bloomed in your gut, pushing your hips against his palm.

Tom gently brushed his fingers against your folds, finding you already wet. You shivered, a small gasp tearing from your throat.

“More,” you demanded, tongue heavy in your mouth.

Tom clicked his tongue but dipped his thumb through your folds, swiping upwards until he grazed your clit. “Greedy thing.” He pressed more firmly when he heard you mewl, felt your thighs twitch around him. “Be as loud as you want, I’ll take care of everything else.”

You hadn’t even remembered to be quiet, forgetting about the dangers of the Forbidden Forest with Tom’s hand rubbing between your thighs. But — as you’ve learned — there aren’t many things as horrifying as he is.

Your hips rocked against Tom’s hand, trying to get him to go faster so that the tightening coil inside of you could finally snap. “To–Tom…” You stuttered, eyes squeezing shut, “I wanna—”

“Be patient. Not yet.” Tom pulled his hand away, inspecting his hand to glance at your wetness that coated his fingers. You opened your eyes to glare at him, cheeks warm under his attention. “I can’t trust you to be able to go again.”

Before you could complain, he bunched your skirt around your hips. Two fingers parted your folds for his gaze. Another gathered slick on a digit before he was pressing you open.

The first feel of Tom inside of you had your thighs tensing before you forced yourself to relax. Tom was being slow, patient as he worked his finger in.

Tom sucked in a deep breath as he felt your warm walls around him, his pants tightening uncomfortably in a way he was rarely used to. The sound had blood rushing to your ears. You hoped you affected Tom like he did you.

Soon a second joined the first, stretching you open. His thumb returned to your clit, rubbing soothing circles to get you to calm down as his fingers moved to leave you again. Before thrusting in again. His pace was slow, occasionally scissoring his fingers to get you ready for him.

You reached up, wrapping around his shoulders to kiss him. His tongue warmed your lips, and the kiss felt more needy than it had before. Your lips curved into a smirk even as you clenched down on his fingers, dribbling wetness down his hand.

“I’m ready. If you want me, Tom.” Yours hips wriggled as Tom twisted his fingers out of you. Wetness stuck to his fingers, looking like cobwebs when he parted them.

Tom reached down to undo his pants. His hand was shaky as he smeared your wetness over himself. He lifted himself higher above you, settling on his knees.

“I’m going in now.” The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, slowly sliding inside as you greedily clenched down on him. He pressed his lips together, moan swallowed down as he forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose. You felt better than he wanted to admit.

Your legs wrapped around Tom’s hips as he sheathed himself inside of you, pulling him closer so he was hunched over you.

Black hair stuck to his forehead despite the cool air of the night. All your doing.

He bottomed out, his hips pressing flush against yours. Tom pressed his face against your neck, lips and nose nudging at the soft skin there as he cockwarmed himself inside of you.

You impatiently squirmed beneath him. “Tom, move.”

Tom breathed deeply, your scent clogging his lungs. “I told you to be patient. Be good. For me.” But still, he dragged his cock out of you, barely pulling out an inch before letting himself be sucked back in. His moan was muffled against your skin.

Your fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, lips parting to whimper with every deep roll of Tom’s hips. He was so close to you, pelvis grinding against your clit, making your hips buck up for more.

Tom grinded his cock against that spongy spot inside of you, making you clamp down against him in turn. “Right there.” You barely got the words out as you felt him pull his cock out until only the tip was inside you before he was pushing back inside of you.

You expected Tom to be calm, mechanical about this as he was about all other things, but this felt human. The way he hid himself in your neck, pressed deep inside of you like he wanted to burrow deeper than was possible.

Tom’s thumb returned to your clit, rubbing in fast circles. His pace quickened, the wet sound of your bodies slowly rising as you both rocked against each other.

Your thighs shook as you felt yourself come closer to that familiar edge, back arching as you pressed your chest against Tom’s. You wish he’d taken off your shirt, but it might have been too cold for that, and not what Tom was chasing for.

“I–I’m close.” Your voice broke as Tom pumped his cock faster into you at your words. Your eyes squeezed shut as you tipped the edge, cumming around him as a moan tore through you.

Tom curiously lifted his head to watch your face as he grabbed your thighs, pressing them against your chest. With a few more shallow thrusts, he spilled deep inside of you, a groan escaping his lips.

He sagged against you, lazily rocking into you before stilling. His softening cock rested inside of you as Tom reached below you to palm at his jacket. Slipping his hand into the pocket, he grabbed a small vial, his breaths leaving your ear when he finally pulled out of you.

His free hand held onto one of your thighs, keeping your leg pressed against your chest and spread out for him as he leaned down to the mess he made in between.

Tom uncapped the vial, and with a confused sound from you, he pressed it against your sensitive entrance, letting his release mixed with yours fill up the container.

“Tom?” You propped yourself up on your arms, craning your head down to watch him work between your legs.

“I’m just preparing the next part of the plan.”

Once Tom decided the amount of your fluids in the vile was sufficient, he capped and tucked it away before tugging your skirt back down, the hem brushing your ankles.

He gave one last glance at the body — you’d forgotten it was even there, and you shivered, ashamed and embarrassed. “To make sure there’s no trouble, I’ll walk you back to your dormitory. I’ll take care of him,” he said, standing up.

Tom reached down and you grabbed his hand, bringing his discarded coat up with you. Tom usually kept all his clothing carefully cleaned, not a wrinkle in sight except for when one of the knights would sling their arm around his shoulder or bump into him. But even then, Tom would run his hands down his body, soothing any mistake left on his image.

You both returned to the path to make your way back to Hogwarts, a pit in your stomach. You were still riding the high from before, brain slightly mushy and cheeks warm, but, like an ocean wave, regret flooded your nerves.

You helped Tom in whatever scheme he was planning. Helped in the creation of a horcrux. You didn’t scream when you caught sight of the dead body, didn’t push Tom away when he kissed you. Instead, you asked for more.

What else would you help Tom achieve?

a/n: "I'm going in now"🤓☝️ real ones remember that I said I'd be posting something like this in december of 2024. After getting 1000 words in, I pretty much abandoned it, but I recently returned to this because even though I said I wasn't going to publish anymore fics on this account, I was annoyed that I had a wip sitting in my docs, so I finally decided to complete it. So, if there feels like there's some sort of shift in tone half way through this fic, that's why. I'm glad to finally have completed something after so long of not writing (at least not something I was happy with).

Halfway through writing this I realized, technically, Tom didn't need readers help to do this butttt idc I knew I wanted to write smut, and when I saw a theory that sacraficing a part of oneself could help in creating a horcrux, I decided that I'd make Tom nasty about it and have his fluids 🫩 be what he "sacrfices". Barely a sacrifice ik but I found it funny and inspiration hit.

Witnessing it was the only way you'd ever believe it. Seeing Tom Riddle like this defied all belief. There was something deeply wrong about it, unsettling, unhealthy and faintly shameful. It felt like watching someone spiral out of control or descend into a destructive binge. That kind of madness where fortunes vanish at the roulette wheel, where a man guns down his wife's lovers, then his wife and then himself. You could never have imagined Tom Riddle, the Prince of Slytherin, so utterly undone.

Let's rewind a bit. I can easily imagine Tom, a collector by nature, becoming interested in you for reasons that had nothing to do with True, Selfless love™. Perhaps you represented the pinnacle of what he deemed worthy, be that the cunning pride of Slytherin or the sharp intellect of Ravenclaw. Perhaps you were especially beautiful in his eyes, academically brilliant, or born of an ancient wizarding line, or all three at once. Perhaps you were a fiery Gryffindor who clashed with him, making him notice you; perhaps you were a gentle Hufflepuff unfortunate enough to show him a sliver of the kindness he desperately needed, without even realizing it.

For some reason, the dynamic between you unfolded differently than his usual conquests. The more enchanted he became, the more disillusioned you grew. This, too, makes perfect sense; the very insight and wisdom that drew him to you like a moth to a flame (the poor bastard had the audacity to see himself as the predator!) also gave you the power to see his true nature. And lets just say you did not like what you saw.

How often exactly do we write fanfiction where we _break_up_with_ Tom Riddle on our own initiative? Has anyone tried turning this guy down? Asking for a friend because i need advice from someone with experience. Because the moment you feel like you're ready to break up with him, you already have a gut feeling that it might not be safe.

Whether indifferently or reluctantly, you hurt his feelings. Perhaps you sent Tom a letter politely offering to ‘just be friends’ (bonus points if you were smart enough to do this during the summer break, when you'd be at a safe distance from him). Perhaps you quickly offered to break up in the noise and chaos of the Great Hall, then disappeared into the crowd of your classmates. Perhaps you asked a friend to be with you during this tough conversation.

Tom takes it better than you expected. At first, he certainly feels like someone poured a glass of boiling water down his neck, but it's more of a surprise than pain (the pain comes later). He might even manage to smile politely at you. The thing is, even though you distanced yourself somewhat shortly before the breakup, he probably didn't notice, because, paradoxically, despite his paranoia and mistrust of other people, he's not very good at reading other people's emotions. You don't expect your cat to pack up and leave you one day, do you?

Dude goes through twenty stages of grief as solemnly and meticulously as no one ever has (though he'll never reach acceptance, he just goes back and forth). You should be wary of every stage, not just anger.

Everyone should fear his wrath, especially those he calls "friends" (spoiler alert they're not his friends). I mean, while Tom will still try to maintain his goody-two-shoes image, this is the moment he's closest to losing it. A pale shadow of the fury with which Voldemort will dish out Crucio curses is beginning to emerge. No one is safe and nowhere is safe. If someone breathes too loudly near him, they'll be in the Hospital Wing before they know it. If Tom has reason to suspect that you haven't just left him, but traded him for someone else, he could actually send that person to the grave, like, no joke. Even he himself won't escape his anger. I can imagine that during this time, Tom might make another Horcrux as a form of self-harm.

Bargaining is where he irritates you the most. You may not be a material girl, but Tom has that mindset to some extent himself. He lives in a world where possession is the ultimate form of control, and control is what makes life worth living. Get ready to receive a lot of gifts. A. Lot. Of. Gifts. In fact, you'll have to make an effort if you want NOT to get them. The creativity with which he leaves them on your desk, in your bag, in the pocket of your robe deserves better use. If you keep leaving those where you found them, one day Avery or Mulciber, frowning and looking away, will thrust a box into your hands. Tom tries to incorporate into his gifts what he's learned about you during your brief romance. It's the book you've been dreaming of. It's something related to your hobby. It's trinkets that will perfectly match your hair.

It's Myrtle Warren's broken glasses, whom you comforted after yet another fight with Olivia. It's a torn photograph of Prewett, with whom you had a cheerful conversation this morning. It's a dead bird, one of Hagrid's, your friend's, charges. Don't forget that bargaining also means setting conditions. Tom hints at what those conditions are. Once you found your portrait under the pillow, quite detailed one, and you couldn’t sleep all night.

Look, I'm POSITIVE Dumbledore will try to intervene at some point. Don't get me wrong, I have no doubts about his moral compass, but he's already proven his ability to use people for the greater good. Perhaps this ability hasn't previously extended to his students, but in the face of the looming danger he vaguely senses in Tom, Dumbledore (rather young then) may compromise his principles. He's already Keeps An Annoyingly Close Eye on him (because yeah that's what you do when your student literally murders someone), and when Tom turns into a loose cannon, he'll at least try to find out what happened between you. He won't overtly push you to reunite; rather, he'll want to know exactly how the disaster happened and what can be done. One day, most likely after some particularly frightening incident, he'll invite you to his office, listen to your story in a breaking voice, offer you some lemon drops, and ask sadly if you two really can't be friends anymore. Dumbledore already knows the answer. But deep down, he bitterly regrets the failure of his hope that you would stand between the world and Tom Riddle. From that day on, you will have (at least within the walls of Hogwarts) a powerful ally, and Tom will have yet another reason to hate the old man.

Despair is what almost makes you feel sorry for Tom. Like I said, witnessing it was the only way you'd ever believe it. Slughorn asks him to demonstrate some simple experiment, the kind Tom would have easily performed back when his girlie was still with him. With disheveled hair, bags under his eyes and an empty gaze, he slowly walks up to the board. He glances around the silent class, lingers on you, with a longing and somewhat "why?" expression, and then quietly says, "Professor, I'm afraid I don't know the ingredients of this potion." You will never guess why exactly Tom didn't sleep last night and what he did. Was he gnawing on his pillow, plotting the deaths of everyone dear to you? Was he concocting Amortentia (because at this point you seriously have to fear that he will resort to that remedy)? Or was he simply quietly crying without shuddering, realizing that he had lost the only real, best thing in his life and no threat and no present can get her back?

Don’t pity him though cause next day we’re back to fury again. He catches you after class to whisper something nasty in your ear.

As unpleasant as it sounds, you essentially have no real choice but to take him back. The terms of your reunion depend entirely on your timing. If you return quickly, it might be manageable, then it becomes difficult, aaand wait too long and it’s a horror. My advice would be run back to his waiting arms before graduation, while you're both still on school grounds. Buoyed by the all-consuming joy of having you back, Tom might deign to forgive your foolishness. But don't you mistake that for freedom, because now he will never ever let go of your hand. The moment you leave Hogwarts, he will begin his vigorous transformation into his true self (and we all know who that person is). Returning to that man would be as terrifying as trying to escape him. Still, if you choose this path, you might cling to the illusion of choice. By then, his relief at holding his most prized possession again will already be poisoned by paranoia and the acid sting of your betrayal.

If you somehow manage to hide from him long enough, one day, Tom will come for you himself.