#voldemort x reader

Riddle had formed an attachment to you by pure accident. He hadn’t even looked your way once when, in the fifth year, the two of you were paired up for prefect patrols. He peripherally registered that you were beautiful, but he didn’t spend much time with thoughts like these generally, just kept them in mind. Beautiful girls could have a lot of influence without realising it, he’d found, so he maintained polite relationships with a few, just in case he should need them for something. It started that way with you, too; he had been polite so that your patrols together could be tolerable, and if he sorely needed a favour from you some day, you may be suggestible to it. Yet, you had surprised him. Initially having dismissed you as nothing but a pretty face, he’d been incredibly surprised to learn you were an excellent healer, talented far beyond your years. The two of you had come across a few second years at the edge of the forbidden forest, one of whom had been badly injured by some vicious magical plant he hadn’t seen in the dark of the night. You had been able to cast some healing charms and use some nearby magical plants to keep the boy stable until Riddle could fetch the matron from the hospital wing to take over. The matron had complimented you profusely, implying that your ability with the spells had saved the boy's life. Riddle’s opinion of you shifted immediately; you were a valuable person to know if he ever found himself in trouble. As the two of you continued your patrol, he subtly questioned you about the display he had just seen. You explained that you were fascinated with all types of healing magic, teaching yourself in your free time and researching ferociously. 

From that day onward, Riddle formed an odd fascination with you. Despite him seeing healing magic as a soft subject, he couldn’t deny that no one in Hogwarts, other than himself, was able to teach themself such high-level magic. You were clearly dedicated, and unfortunately, healing was incredibly necessary in his future plans. As the years passed and his ambitions formed, he increasingly pictured you there by his side, healing him as he explored the darkest magic, perhaps providing your services to his Knights, but primarily for him. After that day, the two of you had begun discussing magic and potions during your patrols, building a camaraderie that Riddle had with no one else. You would even listen to his discoveries regarding dark magic, though he posed it as wondering how you might heal someone from such spells. He didn’t know if you were oblivious or just willing to turn a blind eye, but you were always willing to indulge these discussions, often returning to him with research on the topic you’d done in your own time, fascinated by the challenge of healing people from such obscure dark magic. 

Although he resented the word, the two of you were undoubtedly friends. He had started to realise his attachment to you had grown out of hand, frequently finding himself distracted by the flush of your cheeks or the curve of your lips as the two of you spoke. He was not easily distracted. Graduation was rapidly approaching, meaning his access to you would likely end. He was sure you would write to him, sentimental as you were, but he needed more than that. You were the only person he trusted to heal him if anything were to go wrong with his plans. Yet, he knew he could not simply come out and ask you to come live with him after graduation. The two of you were not that close; he had seen to that himself, hoping the hold you had over him would disappear with a little distance. It had not, in fact, the longer he was apart from you, the more irritable he felt. 

So, slowly, he began spending more time with you. Finding you in the library and sitting down beside you without a word, drawing you away from your friends on Hogsmeade trips with the promise of interesting books to show you, then plying you with coffee and cake to stay with him rather than return to your friends. As exams approach, he invites you to study with him in his dorm for some peace and quiet, as the library is getting busier each passing day. His single dorm, courtesy of his role as Head Boy, gives him a great opportunity to get you accustomed to his presence in close quarters. You spread out to study on his bed, surrounded by his scent as he sits at the desk, smug, because lately you’ve been asking him if you can come here, rather than him inviting you. He would subtly suggest that he’d heard your friends making cruel remarks about you on occasion, thrilled when it worked as planned, and you withdrew from them, coming to spend even more time with him.

The creation of his first Horcrux had been an accident. He had planned to start the process after graduation, intending to seek out his Muggle father and grandparents. But fate had different plans. Every few weeks, he went to check on the Basilisk that resided in the Chamber of Secrets under the school, keeping her fed and loyal until he intended to utilise her sometime after graduation. One evening, upon returning from the Chamber, he noticed that he had himself a witness, Myrtle Warren, who immediately began shrieking. He hadn’t even meant to do it, panicking and speaking parseltongue, unleashing the basilisk onto the girl, who quickly went quiet. He only realised what had happened when he saw a part of his soul split from his body, looking for an object in which to settle. He scrambled; he hadn’t intended for this to happen so early, but he had to make sure he didn’t damage his soul by leaving it without a vessel for too long. He had very little with him, but in his bag, he found a necklace he had been planning to gift to you as a birthday present. He’d been carrying it around since he bought it so that you wouldn’t find it prematurely. Running out of time, he directed the shard of his soul into the necklace. 

Only that night, safely hidden now in his room, did he consider what gifting you this necklace might mean. He found he liked the idea of you carrying around a piece of him a little too much, like he was staking a claim. His soul’s constant presence was likely to make you feel even more connected to him, and him to you. The gift of a necklace from Riddle surprised you, but you were drawn to it, admiring it and quickly putting it on, him moving your hair aside and clasping it around your neck for you. He’d told you it looked beautiful on you and you had blushed deeply.

The necklace had unexpected effects on you, the dark magic radiating from it affecting you, making you irritable with others and causing you to want to withdraw socially, amplifying some of your worst impulses. Riddle didn’t mind so much; it was achieving many of his plans for him. The fear caused by the death at Hogwarts, along with the influence of the Horcrux at your neck, had you gravitating toward Riddle more and more to feel safe and calm, convinced nothing bad could happen to you with him there to protect you. Riddle accepts your presence with open arms, glad to get to keep a close eye on both you and the necklace. He has impressed upon you many times to never take off the necklace and to keep it safe, and you had kept your word so far, but he preferred to keep an eye just in case. He subtly reinforced your feelings, telling you that you would always be safe with him, and that you couldn’t trust anybody else, as no one knew how Myrtle had died. 

Finally, with the perfect storm of his manipulation, the effect of the Horcrux and the fear he had inadvertently awakened throughout the school, he was able to convince you to stay the night with him in his room. He may have had one of his Knight’s frighten you on your walk back from his room last night, but no matter what he’d done to get here, he finally had you where he wanted you, wanting to spend all your time, even your most vulnerable, with him. 

You’d brought a small overnight bag on patrol with you, clinging to Riddle’s arm as the two of you did your rounds, afraid. Riddle almost felt bad for you, but mostly, he just felt a dark satisfaction creeping through him at your reliance on him for a sense of safety. He knew you were in no real danger; he was the threat, and he would never harm you… not physically anyway. He only wanted what was best for you, and by the time his plans came to fruition, the safest place for you would undoubtedly be under his protection. Not to mention how much your presence could benefit his cause and how much he needed to have you close by so he could watch over you and his soul that you took such good care of. He felt a sense of warmth each time you fiddled with the necklace at your neck, as if you were touching his soul. If it had been anyone else, the feeling would have undoubtedly been invasive, repulsive even, but as it was you, he merely felt a little aroused.

As soon as the two of you could feasibly be considered done with your patrol, you dashed off to his Head Boy dorm, making sure not to be caught. Once inside, Riddle wanted to pounce on you, your constant fiddling with the necklace having filled him with need, but he knew he had to wait, taking a calming breath. He couldn’t afford to scare you off, not yet, while you still had places to run and people to seek comfort in. He had to be gentle, romantic even, and you were the only person in the world for whom he was willing to pretend. Besides, he had a plan for tonight that he couldn’t ruin by acting too early. He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, looking down at you.

“The door is locked, darling, no one can get in, we are safe, get yourself ready for bed,” he murmurs in his best attempt at reassurance. His hand trails featherlight to the necklace at your neck, then withdraws. He’d been touchier these last few weeks, getting you gradually used to him, so you don’t flinch despite the intimate touch, merely nodding nervously and heading into the attached toilet. You unpack your small bag, brushing your teeth, washing your face and securing your hair before changing into your nightgown. You blush as you look at yourself in the mirror. You had intentionally packed your shortest nightgown, but now that you were actually here with Riddle, your confidence was faltering. Still, you had nothing else with you, so you crept out into his room and slid into the bed shyly. Riddle’s eyes fix on you curiously, the necklace around your neck running hot as he looks at you. Still trying not to frighten you, he slowly heads into the bathroom, getting himself ready for bed. As he brushes his teeth, he hears distant thunder, smirking to himself. He knew you were quite jumpy, especially lately, so this would give him the perfect opportunity to make you feel safe and secure. 

Once he joins you in the bed once more, you’re already trembling nervously, jumping at each thunder clap, convinced it was someone trying to break down the door, despite knowing better. He laughs at you, softly, the mocking not detectable over your intense nerves, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close, pleased when you immediately curl into his chest. 

“I’m scared,” you squeak, balling your hands into the soft material of his night shirt. He tuts gently.

“I see that, darling, you’re shaking like a little leaf,” he says, rubbing your back slightly. “But I won’t let any harm come to you, ever,” he assures, a dark current running through his voice. You whimper as thunder booms once more, hiding your face in his shoulder. Riddle feels his patience thinning slightly. You were a highly intelligent witch, yet you were so afraid of thunder, even when he had sworn to you that you’d be safe. “Do you hear me?” he asks slowly, trying not to let his annoyance show. He grabs your chin, tilting your head so you’re forced to meet his eye. “No harm will come to you so long as you’re with me, I swear to you, you have no reason to fear, do you hear me?” You nod nervously. Riddle huffs. “Words.”

“Yes… I hear you,” you stammer, clinging to him. His hand drops from your chin, fiddling with your necklace. It’s strange that he cannot feel his own touch on it, yet he is still drawn to the object all the time. “But what about–” you begin.

“No, you are safe with me,” he whispers through his teeth. “Now stop trembling, it’s ridiculous,” Riddle spots from the drop in your expression that he wasn’t meant to say that. He takes a deep breath; he isn’t well practised in this compassion thing, but he’s performing it the best he can. “I just mean that I don’t want you to feel frightened, darling,” he says as softly as he can, pressing a kiss to your hair. This seems to placate you a little. He rubs your side gently, feeling the shape of your body beneath his hand. The feeling of arousal from earlier wakes up within him as he touches your body freely for the first time. And you aren’t stopping him, just looking up at him as he touches you, your trembling subsiding and changing shape into excitement. He can sense it too, and he figures it's time for him to act. “Let me relax you, show you there’s nothing to worry about when I’m around,” he husks, pressing his lips to your temple, just needing to feel your bare flesh beneath his lips somehow. His hand sneaks down to your thigh, settling below the hem of your nightgown. “Would you like that?” When you nod, he huffs. “Words,” he repeats, his voice tight. 

“Yes,” you whisper, shy and apologetic, trying to focus on his hand caressing your thigh rather than the sound of thunder. 

“Was that so hard?” he tuts, pushing up the hem of your nightgown, his other arm still wrapped firmly around your waist. His hand seeks out the warmth between your legs, pressing against you through the fabric of your underwear. You jolt, not having expected things to escalate so quickly “Focus on me,” he reminds you harshly as your eyes flick to the window at a flash of lightning, rubbing against you forcefully, making you whimper. Your head spins at how fast this has escalated. Riddle’s hand spreads your thighs forcefully, then returns to rubbing at you over your underwear, his fingers swirling over the spot that makes your whole body twitch. You look up at him, not wanting him to tell you off again. His eyes are dark as he looks down at you, full of something you can’t place. As he removes your underwear, you try to lean up and kiss him, but he pulls away, shaking his head. “Not yet, darling,” he chastises, pushing your underwear down to pool at your ankles and returning his hand between your legs, rubbing at your now bare skin. He can feel the sticky arousal pooling as he rubs at your clit roughly yet pleasurably. You whimper softly at the feeling, embarrassment decorating your cheeks, yet you don’t want him to stop. Your necklace feels hot against your skin, your head spinning as Riddle begins to speak once more. “Doesn’t that feel nice? Your body certainly likes it… Only I can make you feel this way,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear, breath washing over the side of your neck.

“It feels nice,” you choke out in response, squirming a little, unable to believe how quickly you allowed him to do this. Sure, you’d been attracted to him a long time, but you had been so scared just earlier, and now your body was begging for him, like you were under the influence of something, something deeply desperate. 

“That’s a good girl,” he hums, immensely pleased with your compliance. He withdraws his hand for a moment, making you whine, looking up at him in confusion. Riddle grabs his wand from the nightstand, mumbling a few quiet words. You only get a split-second to wonder what he’s cast when you feel a soft buzzing against your clit. Your body jolts in surprise, but the feeling simply follows, making you gasp for breath. Riddle pulls down your squirming hips harshly, holding you in place as his other hand returns between your legs, two of his fingers beginning to ease inside of you without much warning. You gasp, your hips trying to thrash but being unable, the vibrating not faltering for a second. “That’s it, doesn’t that feel good?” he coos, watching his fingers disappear within you with a dark satisfaction. You are most certainly his now. You can’t respond with anything but a breathless whine, the onslaught of sensations barely letting you breathe. You feel your brain turning to mush, no longer able to form cohesive thoughts beyond his fingers pumping in and out of you and the ceaseless vibration on your most sensitive spot. Trying to ground yourself, your nails dig into his arm, a drawn-out moan of his name leaving your lips, legs closing around his arm as his fingers begin to pump faster. 

You feel yourself teetering on the precipice, not having the presence of mind to let Riddle know. Your eyes roll back, your toes curling, and your lips parting in a silent shout as the waves of pleasure go through you. You feel dizzy, your hips trying once more to withdraw from the sensations, yet being physically unable. Riddle's lips brush your ear. 

“Shhh, shhh, you’re a strong girl, I know you can handle it,” he comforts mockingly, continuing to work you through the waves of pleasure, yet not stopping even as they subside. Your whole body shakes, unable to handle the sensations, even as a warm, syrupy feeling lingers in the pit of your stomach. His fingers press against a soft spot deep within you, making you jolt. You hadn’t realised the sensations could get even more intense. You want to tell him to slow down, but something keeps you quiet, makes you lean into him instead of away and makes you feel warm when he bites your neck to leave a mark. Your mind is hazy from the vibrations, and he knows it. “You’re safe with me,” he whispers in your ear, his voice rough. “You can’t trust anyone but me. I’m all you need,” he grunts, curling his fingers against that spongy spot once more. “You don’t need anyone else, you belong with me and me alone,” he hisses, biting your neck once more. “Say it, you belong to me,” he urges, growling in annoyance when you only whimper. “Say. It.” he demands harshly, his hand on your hips slipping up into your hair, pulling it so you’re forced to look up at him. 

“I belong to you,” you choke out, squirming, too hazy to register his words properly, but vulnerable enough to digest them, just as he wants you. 

“That you do, good girl,” he growls, rewarding you for your declaration by finally pressing his lips to yours, measuredly gentle amid the onslaught of sensation between your legs. You try to follow him as he pulls away, and he tuts at you. “Only if you say it again,”

“I belong to you,” you moan, desperate for his gentleness, needing him as close as possible. He smirks, pleased that he’s got you. He grants you another gentle kiss, and another and another as you repeat your words over and over. He doesn’t tire of hearing it, especially with that desperation in your voice. His kisses, soft yet burning hot, push you to the edge once more, your hand balling into his pyjama shirt in an attempt to ground yourself again, but it’s no use. The pleasure makes you dizzy all over again, pleading with him against his lips. Your body collapses against the bed heavily; you hadn’t even realised that you’d tensed yourself off of it chasing Riddle’s lips, breathless and oversensitive. Riddle reaches for his wand, ending the vibrating spell, satisfied that you’ve been subjected to his charms enough for the night. You lay there beside him, still clearly out of sorts. He smirks down at you, rubbing your thigh as if to comfort you. 

“Alright, my darling?” he asks, knowing that he had just completely overwhelmed you. That had been his intention, and it seemed to have worked like he’d hoped, as you curl into him once more, seeking safety and comfort. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close and letting you feel protected. He was sure he would only have to do this a few more times until you would be ready to hear about his plans for you in the future. You might even be ready now, but it was better to be safe than sorry, and anyway, next time he was going to fuck you properly, have his way with you like he really wants. For that, you had to be ready. He feels you touch your necklace, and it sends a pleasant jolt through him. “What’s got you fiddling?” he asks gently.

“Just felt compelled to touch it,” you shrug, your voice hoarse and weak. He presses a kiss to your forehead. He feels the gentle, warm caresses deep in his soul.

“Touch it all you like, darling, it’s yours after all.”

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     Tom’s foot wedged between the wood frame and thick door before it could shut with a thud. “You are not ill.” Your cheeks weren’t flushed with fever and your skin didn’t have the mild green tint it usually had when you were sick. “What’s ailing you?”

     You sighed and leaned forward a tad- enough to ease the onslaught of cramps that had been terrorizing your body for the past ten hours. “My uterus, Tom. That’s what’s ailing me,” you snipe.

     Tom’s eyes narrow. “You’re menstruating? It’s a week early,” he tells you.

     Your eyes droop with pain and sleep. “Shut the door when you’re done gawking at my miserable, ailingform,” you request weakly as you turn and limp back to your king sized bed.

     It shouldn’t have surprised you that Tom shut the door a minute later. He wasn’t really empathetic and it wasn’t his problem you were curled up in your bed, going in and out of sleep to try to handle the constant waves of pain. But at the same time… you had hoped.

     Fickle, fickle hope. You tried not to let tears well up in your eyes at your own disappointment. You cursed yourself and your uterus as you wordlessly charmed your small throw pillow to radiate warmth to place against your stomach. 

     Tears dripped from your eyes as you tried and, eventually, dozed back off into a dreamless sleep. Your arms were wrapped tightly around the charmed pillow as you clung to the warmth (pathetically wishing it was Tom you were clinging to instead of a damn pillow).

     Your door opened just when you were falling into heavy sleep. You groaned and wanted to berate whoever had disturbed your pity party. When you sat up, you ignored the shooting pain in your entire lower body and squinted at-

     “Tommy?” 

     The man grumbled at the nickname. “When have I ever left you by yourself during this time?” He closed the door with his foot because he had things that you couldn’t see in the dark lighting in his hands.

     He set a few vials of a shimmering wine red on your abnormally large nightstand- along with an actual bowl of soup, a spoon, a container of chocolate, raspberries, and cherries: your favorite snacks. “Tom…”

     Tom uncorked a vial of the swirling potion and handed it to you. “Bottoms up, darling,” he ordered as he warmed the soup up with a wordless spell. When you placed the small vial back in his large hands he handed the bowl to you. “Eat.”

     “I’m not-“

     “Do not,” Tom interrupted you, “tell me that you are not hungry. If you want to keep that pain killer down, I expect you to eat at least half of that bowl.”

      You blinked.

     Tom fussed over the state of your room as you ate. He levitated clothes nack into your dresser, blankets in their appropriate places, and tended to the variety of plants you had perched all over your room. Tom almost scoffed- you took better care of the plants then yourself.

     “I’m done,” you finally spoke up. Tom turned and strode over to you. “I- Put me down!”

     Tom carried you the short distance to the bathroom. “Do what you must, then you’re going to bed.” When you stared owlishly at him, he rolled his eyes. “Why are you so surprised that I’m taking care of what is mine? Go,” he gestured toward the bathroom and gave you the eyes.

     Tom carried you back to the bed when you had dried your hands. He slipped under the covers of your bed after you, wrapping a loose arm around your waist. “Get comfortable.”

     You placed his hand over the part of your stomach that had been giving you the most pain. His breath fanned your ear and neck as he exhaled slowly. Tom’s lips pressed a featherlight kiss to the side of your neck- so light you questioned if you had imagined it in your tired state. “Good night, Tommy.”

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.

Just a month or two ago, every Slytherin girl would have looked at you with predatory, envious eyes, wondering how you'd gotten him. Some dark magic, no doubt. You didn't deign to offer anyone an explanation, so this secret only came to light—oh, the irony! — to sixth-year Myrtle Warren, with whom you'd become an accidental friend that year.

"You see, he's a collector by nature," you said thoughtfully, arranging the blades of grass you'd picked along the hem of your dress. That spring, you and Myrtle often went to the oak trees on the edge of the Forbidden Forest and sat there for long periods. You loved the quiet moments and the fresh breeze from the lake, and Myrtle never liked the bustle. "He had his eye on Walburga because she is a pretty thing from an ancient family, and then there was Diana Rosier because she was the best in the house..."

"But you're beautiful too," Myrtle frowned.

"A collector pursues the exceptional," you chuckled. "Then I caught his eye. You know, Myrtle, I think my special trait is not being crazy about him."

Even more so! You openly laughed at him. Somewhere around your fourth year, when Tom began methodically and very successfully charming and conquering everything and everyone, you were still outside his rapidly expanding orbit, preoccupied with yourself and your few friends, untouched, completely indifferent to him. By your fifth year, guided by a certain inner instinct, you had already formed some unflattering opinions about the flawless perfect; by your sixth year, he had you on radar, and by your seventh, a Shakespearean drama had erupted.

For the first time in his life, Tom Riddle got a taste of his own medicine, and he didn't quite like it. You see, you treated him the way he treated everyone else, as if someone had shoved a mirror under his nose. You were an enigma, a puzzle, without doing anything to make it so, and he was racking his brains trying to figure out how to approach you. You were polite, simply polite, yet he spent sleepless nights replaying two or three casual phrases you'd dropped. You were unyielding, and that was starting to anger him.

Oh, how stupid, how ridiculous! If this were a romance novel or a movie, and not real life, the story's premise would have been considered unnatural. You and Tom were both taking the newly opened Muggle studies course. A teacher hadn't yet been found, and the lessons were taught alternately by the irrelevant and forgetful Professor Limebert and, oddly enough, by Professor Dumbledore. You'd never experienced lessons like these before. Instead of force-feeding you with the sacred knowledge about how to use a refrigerator or what the subway was, Dumbledore seemed to be painting a picture of the half of the world that was hidden from you in broad strokes, and the more he painted it, the more endless and rich the pattern became. It wasn't as if his goal was to teach you everything; he wanted to awaken your curiosity and a thirst for self-discovery. This was done, of course, through Muggle fiction.

So, on a fine September day, you and Tom were role-reading "The Taming of the Shrew."

"You lie, in faith, for you are called plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst. But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom, Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate…" - Tom read in a deliberately sugary voice. It also seemed to him that Dumbledore was a little overdoing it with the plays. He was much more interested in reading about Muggle military art.

You rolled your eyes.

 "“Moved,” in good time! Let him that moved you hither, remove you hence," - you answered gloomily.

Merlin, how stupid. Before the lesson, you and Tom exchanged several not very flattering phrases in raised voices, not knowing that Dumbledore was standing right behind you. The game is as old as the world and is called “apple and toothpicks”: you take two children who can’t stand each other, put a box of toothpicks and an apple in front of them. Each child in turn sticks a toothpick into the apple and says something nice about their vis-à-vis. Silly, embarrassing and funny.

“Come, come, you wasp! I’ faith, you are too angry.,” said Tom.

“If I be waspish, best beware my sting,” you rattled off. If you read faster, this horror will soon be over.

“My remedy is then to pluck it out.”

“Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies!”

The class watched you with delight. Everyone, absolutely everyone, knew that in the whole school, there was probably only one person who wasn’t crazy about Tom Riddle, and that was, of course, you. Meanwhile, you tried to catch Dumbledore’s eye. Was he smiling?!

“Nay, come, Kate, come. You must not look so sour”, - and then you realized that Tom wasn't even looking at the book, but was looking at you with a smile. Had he read the whole play beforehand?

“It is my fashion when I see a crab”, - you muttered. One could light a cigarette from your ears.

“Why, here’s no crab, and therefore look not sour”.

“There is, there is!”

"That will be enough," Dumbledore said softly. "Mr. Lestrange, Miss Rosier - please, go on."

Tom grinned from ear to ear.

After class, you lingered, packing your books into your bag, trying not to look at anyone, and sure enough, Tom was right there.

"Will you let me walk you to the Great Hall, or should I insist?" he asked pleasantly.

"...You'd better go to bed," you said, turning away so he wouldn't see your smile.

Let's eagerly flip through a few more pages of this play. Although Tom didn't immediately strike the right note, he gradually gnawed his way into your modest but independent heart, driven at first more by excitement than by true passion. You, in turn, took the trouble to look at him more closely and admit that this otherwise unpleasant guy had some charm in him.

Tom would never have admitted to anyone in the world, not even himself, that being under the gaze of someone who wasn't captivated by him could be very interesting and even a little enjoyable. It was a new, yet at the same time, well-forgotten old feeling, akin to one he'd known in his distant childhood. It was hurtful to be stigmatized and untrustworthy, but there was also a certain freedom in it, perhaps. The freedom not to pretend.

"It's like a game, only in reverse," you said to Myrtle, shaking your head. "Nah, I don't know how to explain it. Anyway, if you ever want to hang out with Riddle..."

Myrtle snickered, turning away. She couldn't believe anyone would ever want to hang out with her.

"...so, if you ever want that, do everything you can to spite him. Every girl is smitten with him, so you don't even look at him; they're bending over backwards to please him and you don't, and so on. I don't get why no one but me has figured this out yet..."

Paradoxically, no one really wanted to figure out Tom Riddle and his riddles. Before Tom's heart ended up in your picky and demanding hands, no one was in a hurry to find out what was inside it. To Dippet, Tom showed the side of himself that made him seem like a modest and diligent prefect. To Slughorn, he was a promising, intelligent orphan. To the younger students, he was a caring and thoughtful friend. To the seventh-year girls, he was a mysterious prince, and to his friends (he still called them "friends" back then)... No, you didn't pry into that, but both Malfoy and Mulciber also saw something in Tom, something he made them see. And everyone, literally everyone, was enchanted by the box, and you alone had the foresight to open the box and see a dead mouse inside it, and you weren't embarrassed to wrinkle your nose.

Being by your side made Tom feel like a dead mouse would probably feel when someone carefully picked it up and brought it back to life with a soft breath.

"In a way, he deserves pity," you said. "You know, Myrtle, the more I got to know him, the less I understood him."

Getting to know Tom was like walking through a swamp. A thin surface, but if you took a single step to the side, you'd fall into a hungry void, devoid of meaning or substance. His respectable and reliable habits were juxtaposed with such childishness and stupidity that you were simply amazed. No one, for example, knew that Tom was afraid of the dark—not even he himself, it turned out, and he was truly offended when you pointed it out to him. No one could have imagined that he could have a common cold.

"Here, drink this," you said, handing him a sweat-covered mug of cranberry juice. "I asked for a bottle of Nasal Drops from the hospital wing. You'll be as good as new tomorrow."

Tom looked at you incredulously. He hadn't intended to be seen by anyone until he recovered, but Walburga had graciously let you into the Slytherin common room, and there you were, sitting next to him by the fireplace, looking serious and sympathetic. Whether it was true love or just a little game, you weren't about to abandon your beloved one to illness.

"Thank you," Tom said in an unusually nasal voice and took the cup from you. He drank without looking at you, taking small, careful sips, and you felt a strange surge of tenderness. Tom never took food from girls; he was too afraid of Amortentia.

As soon as Tom recovered, he took you on a truly terrifying date in the forbidden section of the library and introduced you to his reading list. Unlike the dark, he wasn't afraid of filth.

In short, until the beginning of spring, Tom alternately frightened you and amused you—but mostly, of course, he frightened you.

“Either I never understood him, or, worse, I did,” you said, brushing the blades of grass from your hem.

“Now I don’t understand you,” Myrtle frowned.

“Never mind,” you said. “Another romance bites the dust. You and I need to study for our exams, not fuss about all this nonsense…”

“Oh, who’s that ?” Myrtle interrupted, and you perked up. You’d become very cautious lately.

You peered at the figure approaching you at the other end of the clearing and quickly rose from the ground.

“Speak of the devil… Myrtle, let’s go quickly. If we turn behind the greenhouses, he won’t see us.”

Yet you couldn’t follow your own advice. That same evening, you were sitting in the library, poring over a numerology textbook, but your thoughts were elsewhere. Studying wasn't even on your mind. Several crumpled sheets of paper were tucked between the pages of the book. You quickly glanced around (no one was there) and began rereading the sheets.

"This is some kind of joke, right? Mind you, my sense of humor isn't that flexible. Today at eight o'clock. Astronomy Tower. T."

"I'm sure you received my previous letter, so why haven't you shown up? I must say, you're beginning to test my patience. You're acting foolishly. I expect a reply until tomorrow morning. T."

"Listen, I'm willing to admit I crossed the line that one time, but that's all you'll hear from me. Why are you being seen with Myrtle? T."

"Let's talk. Just tell me what you want. For me to apologize to Prewett? Cause I’m not doing that."

"We need to see each other."

The handwriting on the last note was so uneven and frantic, as if it hadn't even been written by Tom. He underlined the word "need" with two angry lines. These notes made you feel uneasy, and you glanced around nervously once more. The Tom you knew was careful above all else to ensure that evidence of his deeds, much less written confessions, fell into anyone's hands. But then, did you really know him?

May was in full bloom. You'd learned to avoid not only Tom but anyone connected to him, and it turned out there was a frightening number of those people. Walburga had taken to casually offering you company during walks if she caught you alone. Nott or Avery loomed nearby if you went to Hogsmeade. It seemed the goal wasn't so much to draw you into their company as to ensure you wouldn't be drawn into anyone else’s company. You wondered how Tom had explained your falling out to them and how he'd forced them into this game. Losing a girl—wasn't it shameful? How could he admit it even to himself?

Slughorn paired you with Tom in Potions. A sympathetic smile flickered across his round face, wrinkled like a baked apple. But how, Merlin, how does he make them do that?

"We need to talk," Tom said quietly next to your ear as you hurriedly flipped through your textbook, searching for the right page and failing to find it. Goosebumps ran down your spine, but you tried to make your voice as detached as possible.

"We have nothing to talk about. Please, tell your boys to leave me alone."

"What boys?"

"Don't pretend you don’t know."

"Stay on topic. Are you going to keep running from me?"

"Only while you keep chasing me. Tom, let's part ways on good terms, okay?"

"Not until you explain your stupid behavior."

"I don't have to explain anything to you," you said, not quite believing yourself. "I can just leave."

"Why?" Tom asked, almost curiously.

"I've fallen out of love with you."

Bang! Shorty Nott knocked over a glass jar of ground beetle eyes while trying to get it from the top shelf. The girls squealed, Slughorn started scolding him, but you and Tom didn't even look in their direction.

"You're lying," Tom said in surprise, and it sounded so silly, so childishly helpless, that you almost felt sorry for him. He didn't say another word, and you worked silently and sullenly for the rest of the lesson, trying very hard not to touch each other.

The next day, the bargaining came.

While you were together, you sometimes felt like Tom wasn't really interested in you; he listened absentmindedly to your latest news, chuckled at your hobbies, forgot about the gifts, and generally seemed to condescend to you rather than the other way around. Now that everything was upside down, it turned out he had an excellent memory, and he actually retained every little detail that slipped out of your tongue. What's your favorite book? What textbook in the library you always fail to get because someone takes it first? Do you prefer chocolate frogs or pumpkin cookies? What earrings did caught your eye at Hogsmeade?

"This is a nightmare," you said dejectedly, pulling another box, tied with a ribbon, from your desk. You weren't addressing anyone in particular, but Olivia and her ladies-in-waiting were staring at you with a mixture of envy and dislike. Any of them would have easily forgiven Tom for two or three boxes like this one.

"...And you didn't even take a single candy?" Myrtle cried. "You could have at least shared some with me!"

"First of all, taking anything from him would show I'm ready to negotiate," you said. "And I think I'm ready to run. Seriously, I'm thinking of transferring to Ilvermorny."

"But what about me!" Myrtle blurted out plaintively.

"Dear, I was only joking... Second, Merlin knows what's in those candies. I wouldn't want to test on you whether there's Amortentia in them or not."

Trinkets awaited you in the pockets of your robe, and bouquets of flowers, enchanted so that only you could take them, clung forlornly to the living room door. How did he manage to keep his cool doing all this? It seemed everyone around him thought they were witnessing a beautiful love story, but didn’t he know the truth? Chasing after an indifferent girl—wasn't it shameful? But you weren't, in fact, indifferent. The sight of ribbons peeking out of your desk drawer like snake tongues made you laugh nervously. You shook the trinkets out of your pocket, trying not to touch them.

Then... Then he seemed to drop the mask. Before (and even before you have parted ways), you'd sometimes felt Tom's heavy gaze between your shoulder blades, but now it would stretch to you across the classroom like a spear. You would have started skipping Potions (you couldn't cross paths anywhere else) if it weren't for the end of the year.

There was a day when Tom didn't show up for Potions on time, and you were about to breathe a sigh of relief, hoping that at least this lesson would pass peacefully, but about fifteen minutes later, the door to the dungeon swung open and a muffled voice rang out:

"Professor, may I come in?"

Like I said, witnessing it was the only way you'd ever believe it. His dull gaze, the dark circles under his eyes, loose knot on his tie —was it even Tom? But it was, indeed, him, and those eyes held so much melancholy and weariness that you stared at your desk.

"My boy, are you feeling unwell?" Slughorn asked anxiously, scurrying toward him.

"I'm fine," Tom said in a pained voice. "My apologies for being late, sir."

But he looked like he'd been drinking all night (or crying, or both). You saw him tipsy at a party once and knew he simply can't handle alcohol; after two sips, he could barely stand.

"Then," Slughorn spread his hands, "then, Tom, you'll have to answer a penalty question. We've just touched on Golpalott's Third Law, which you certainly do remember. The ingredients of the poison we'll be making an antidote for today are listed on the board. Quickly, Tom—which element would you choose as the binding one?"

Tom looked at the board as if seeing it for the first time, then at Slughorn, then glanced around the class, stopping at the top of your head. Everyone fell silent. Tom used to answer Slughorn with such ease and that made everyone ashamed of their stupidity; they could spend half the lesson tossing 'potion-antidote' constructions back and forth like a ball... "Beozar," your lips moved. "Tom, it's Beozar. We read about it together."

"I'm afraid I really am not feeling well," Tom said sadly.

And that evening, you sat in the back room of the Transfiguration classroom, staring blankly into a cup filled with pale green tea. You didn't know what to say.

"I don't know what to say, Professor," you said. "I'm so sorry about this. I'm sure that incident with Terry Prewett was an accident. Tom didn't mean to hurt him, and he was very worried when Terry ended up in the hospital wing”.

That was indeed true, but Tom was worried for a completely different reason. Dumbledore was watching you very carefully. Rumor had it he could read minds or something like that. Until today, you hadn't believed it, but now you buried your nose in your teacup and began thinking about tomorrow's test, trying to push everything else out of your head.

"You want nothing to do with Tom, so much so that you won't even report him," Dumbledore said. "Well, my dear, I won't drag the details of this story, which has surely hurt everyone involved. My question..."

You stared into your teacup and counted the tea leaves. One, two, three.

"... My question is a little more delicate," Dumbledore sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Have you been friends with Tom for the last two terms?"

"Yes, sir," you said.

"And are you now?"

"It seems we've parted ways."

"And you can no longer be friends, or even acquaintances?"

"Professor, I don't think Tom wants me to be his friend."

Which was also true, and also with a caveat. Dumbledore looked at you over his glasses; his still face held the same expression of detached curiosity that somehow reminded you of Tom. He rose heavily from his chair and walked over to the window.

"What do you think," he asked after a pause, "is his general understanding of friendship?"

"I don't think," you replied, "that Tom has any such understanding at all. He's not a bad person, he is very smart and talented, but his relationships..." you hesitated and dismissed another image, "I mean, he couldn't understand why I was friends with Terry, Myrtle, and Rubeus—no, that's not it—in short, I don't think he really has any friends."

"Not anymore, really," Dumbledore said. "Forgive me. I shouldn't be asking such questions. My troubled conscience speaks, I suppose. He's a very lonely boy, always has been. I've done too little for him... Less than you have."

What does this have to do with me, you wanted to ask but didn't.

"Listen," Dumbledore began softly, "is there no hope that you'll make peace?"

You shook your head silently.

"Do you ever feel sorry for him?"

"More than I can express," you said honestly.

Tom was waiting for you, sitting on the windowsill outside the classroom.

You didn't immediately notice him in the dimly lit hallway. He tucked one leg under himself, absentmindedly swinging the other, staring at the floor, looking miserable, like a forgotten toy. You froze, then slowly, very slowly approached him.

"Have you been waiting long?" you asked politely.

"Lestrange told me Dumbledore called you," Tom replied, not looking up at you. "I've been waiting ever since. How was the conversation?"

"I didn't tell him about you pushing Terry down the stairs for putting his hand on my shoulder," you said. "Now go to bed. You look like you've risen from the dead."

Tom remained silent, turning away. You had nothing to say to him, but for some reason, you couldn't leave either. For some reason, you reached out, patted Tom on the head—as you'd done so many times before—and turned to walk away.

"You're everything I have," Tom said dully. You froze.

"I know what Dumbledore asked you to do," he continued in the same indifferent tone. "To save me with the power of love, or something. His usual nonsense. I think the old man's gone mad, but out of respect for him, could you please try again?"

"Tom, I..."

…And he was already holding your sleeve, grabbing your hands, pressing you to him, burying his face in your hair, and you couldn't pull away for it was so desperate and pleading:

"You probably poisoned me," he said with helpless fury (it was the first time you'd heard pleading and fury mingle), "either poisoned me, or drugged me with Amortentia, but I can't eat or sleep, I lcan’t read,  I see nothing, I can't think, I can't do anything. I regret that we ever met... I really do. I never realized before that this could happen to me. Why did you need to do this to me, why?"

"Tom, I didn't do anything! It's not my fault... It's not my fault that you don't have any friends—no real friends, that is!"

"I definitely don’t now, thanks to you! You're running from me all over the castle, embarrassing me in front of everyone, laughing at me!"

"Laughing?! I'm ready to cry!"

"I'm the only one crying here!" He pulled away from you to look at your face with inquisitive, hungry eyes, searching for anything there—sympathy, sadness, guilt—anything he could grab onto and not let go. "You're not leaving me," Tom said suddenly, very quietly and coldly. "Not now. Not when I realize what I'm losing. You see, I know the value of things, and I don't intend to throw them away."

"You're insane," you whispered.

"Maybe I am," Tom agreed easily. He was already regaining his normal expression, the one he'd worn throughout his short and lonely life. "Just keep in mind, everything that happens from this moment on happened because you were stubborn."

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.