“Tom, it’s late.” You said, rolling your eyes at his moodiness,
putting down a book you’d been reading for a while now. “You’ll wake up the others.”
“I don’t care.” Tom yelled, but this time more quieter, sitting down on the couch oppossite of you. “Dumbledore is suspicious of me.”
“Well, that happens when you ask around about dark magic.” With a huff you threw the book on a table. “You know I would follow you through everything but you have to be careful. And I don’t mean Dumbledore, I mean the Horcruxes.”
“You think I can’t do it.” Tom stated angrily.
“We both know you’re the most capable wizard in Hogwarts.” For a moment you stared into his dark eyes, thinking about what your friend might do in the future. This idea, this dangerous idea of creating a horcrux got to Tom’s head and you had to watch him going mad. “I just don’t want to lose you. Who knows what that Horcrux could do to you.” Who knew what your friend had to do to create a horcrux.
“I won’t change if you think that, [Y/N].”
You stood and sit down beside your friend, leaning against him. To your surprise he leant his head against yours and closed his eyes. You smiled. That was the Tom Riddle you liked the most. The soft spoken, very smart boy. “Just… Just promise me that you won’t do it if the price’s too high. It’s not worth it when your life will turn out to be miserable.”
Tom did not hestitate to answer. “And you promise me that you will let me make a horcrux for you, if everything turns out well. We’ll life forever.”
“I promise.” You murmured and looked into his eyes which held so much power and promisses in them.
Widely Requested- here’s one: where Tom takes an interest in the reader (slytherin) as he caught her in the Restricted Section) (no one can resist my tom) (i can’t either) (oops) song for the mood:The Neighbourhood - A Little Death
- - -
Even though it is not your first time to come to the library during curfew, you still can’t help but shiver due to the strangely quiet place. “Lumos,” you light up the tip of your wand. It is cold, and you regret not wearing an extra jumper. But wearing more makes it hard to move swiftly, you think to yourself. You turn right carefully, stopping right in front of the locked door of the restricted section. You unlock it as quietly and as quickly as possible and slip right into the room.
So many books just lie there, untouched, unread, unappreciated. You run your finger pass the bindings of the books, searching for something that will interest you this time. Your eyes fix on a particularly old piece, and you reach out to take it off the shelf.
You spin around at the sound of a deep, low voice and point your wand towards the person. The light on your wand illuminates the person’s face, revealing Tom Riddle. “Don’t do that!” You hiss.
“Do what?” He raises his eyebrow.
“Sneaking up to someone.” You roll your eyes. “What are you doing here, Riddle? I’m sure Head Boy rounds don’t include the restricted section.”
“What are you doing here in the first place, y/l/n?” Shoving his hands into his pockets, Tom approaches you. “Late night adventures?”
En sa beauté gît ma mort et ma vie. [In her beauty rests (both) my death and my life] Tom Marvolo Riddle never fancied anyone - to be fair, he did not think he could. Though, an encounter on his first train to Hogwarts had left a deep impression that he very much could love someone, though if that someone could love him with all of his secrets was a different question, one that he was eager to find out yet was awfully curious of. You always intrigued him. From the very first day the two of you met, to the very last…
A light breeze caressed the back of your neck as your fingers dug into the hard red cushion of the seat; your form leaned forward to stare at the blurring scenery behind the window. Outside the compartment children were eagerly chatting, some singing muggle songs and noisily poking in their heads to see who was doing what. The far away rooftops moved like passengers and in the swaying autumn flowers, the last notes of summer were already fading, you saw the delicate arch of your mothers hand as she waved you goodbye. The memory was still fresh and very much conflicted, both sparking fear and excitement in your heart. Finally, London houses blew by and nothing by plains of green greeted the window. You pulled away and shifted, hitting the back of the seat and feeling the whole train pleasantly rubble down your spine. Besides you, there were three more eleven year-olds seated – two in front and one by your left. The lonesome boy by your side was reserved, only briefly glancing around and outlining the forms of the two seated in his close view.
I was in Target today and I walked by a family and the mother was complaining about the price of something and the little boy (who couldn’t have been older than 7) looked away with a faraway look in his eyes and said “I suspect it’s the nargles” and his family was really confused, as they were asking him what a nargles is he just kept shrugging and it was hard for me to keep a straight face
“You won’t believe what happened in Potions today.”
Tom Riddle, a very charming yet manipulative best friend of yours, replies. “We were in the same classroom, though.” You glare at him. He chuckles ever so gently, “fine, try me.”
“I dropped a whole bottle of unicorn hair into my mixture, but, I was smart enough to get away and find another empty cauldron to start new. I may have told Slughorn that the messed up potion belongs to somebody else,” you state, placing a strand of your hair behind your ear. That habit of yours is something you do quite often, as Tom has noticed over time.
“I do think—” He speaks, but is interrupted by another person’s voice.
“Y/n, here you are.” Your boyfriend, Hyde, greets loudly as if he is cutting Tom off on purpose. He glances at your best friend, “Riddle.”
“Kurstin,” Tom glares at Hyde in return. “Gracing us with your undesired appearance, as always.” Hyde lunges forward, trying to get to Tom, but the later dodges easily. “Trust me, you won’t want me sending you spells.”
“That’s enough, Hyde! Just go. Stop talking to him like that.” You move past the boys and leave. You can hear Hyde calling your name and catching up to you, but you don’t turn around. This happens almost every other day.
Well, this time, it’s a little different.
“Y/n y/l/n! You stop right there! Right now!” Hyde shouts, making you freeze in your tracks. You know he can be a bit emotional sometimes, but you’re surprised to hear him this mad. He catches up to you and grabs you by the arms. “How dare you walk away from me, you bitch!”
Voldemort: hey Cissy, could you check the boy if he’s #deadT? Narcissa: sure, Dark Lord, no problemo~ Narcissa: *walks towards Harry* Narcissa: *whispers* is Draco ali– do you fancy my son? Harry: *play dead* Harry: *nods* Harry: wait, what? Narcissa to Voldemort: D E A D. H E ‘ S S O D E A D.
What she means:
How did Quirrell ever manage to shit with Voldy living on the back of his head? I can't poop in public washrooms, but he had the Dark Lord witnessing his shits on the daily? Dying must of been a long waited relief for poor old Quirrell.
premise: En sa beauté gît ma mort et ma vie. [In her beauty rests (both) my death and my life] Tom Marvolo Riddle never fancied anyone - to be fair, he did not think he could. Though, an encounter on his first train to Hogwarts had left a deep impression that he very much could love someone, though if that someone could love him with all of his secrets was a different question, one that he was eager to find out yet was awfully curious of. You always intrigued him. From the very first day the two of you met, to the very last…
The trip is long and tedious; puddles lay waste on the road, small rocks sticking to your black robe, its edges already dotted with small patches of mud as are your shoes. The rest of the students face a similar problem – girls yelp and giggle and grasp the hems of their coats and skirts tighter, the few teachers that accompany are quick to discipline them for showing too much leg. The weather is harsh, no sun, just dark grey clouds and a breeze that curls the glossed locks of your hair and pinches your cool cheeks and nose red.
You and Tom walk together, a bit further back, watching the excited hoard of students as they seem in an unruly rush to Hogsmede. You pull your scarf closer, letting the wool scratch your face and tickle your neck. Some girls glance back at the two of you, narrow their eyes at you and look away again; the two of you stand at a distance, enough for all to understand that you are merely two friends enjoying a conversation about the weather. Tom is missing his usual group of friends and you are happier than you are willing to admit – he looks livelier without them, rather than being a simple addition he stands out perfectly as his own person. His focus on you varies – at times he watches closely, mapping your face, the cupid’s bow of your lips and the wink of your lashes…Other’s he is completely immersed in Ruth’s flaring skirt or the teacher’s nagging voice.
“Beautiful.” He murmurs, and you almost don’t catch him. Tilting your head softly to the side, you trace his paled face with striking precision; perhaps he notices, since the corner of his lips curls into a knowing smile, “What does it mean?” A spurge of pride heats your chest and you take your next step with a light jump, fighting the grin that is about to pull on your rosy lips. You look away from him, pretending to think, to let the silence stretch, to leave just a pinch of mystery.
“Maurice Scève, a famous French poet once wrote so about his mistress…” You start, “And it is also considered to be one of the most romantic sayings in the world.” At this your gazes lock. A breath catches in the back of your throat as your heart makes a sudden, uncoordinated leap forward. His eyes are enchanting, stunningly accurate in detail and brighter than anything you have yet seen today. It is more than distracting, strangely it makes everything around him blur – the scenery, the chatter, even the strands of his hair…
A whistle blows. Your shoulders jerk and you glance away. Tom smiles. Ruth is yelled at again. Two kids bump your shoulder lightly as they rush forward.
“…I just like the way it’s pronounced…” You mumble, “En sa beauté gît ma mort et ma vie. In her beauty rests both my death and my life.” You smile shyly, “See, it’s the ma mort…My death, and ma vie…My life. Such profound devotion…”
“Are you well versed in French?”
You are quiet for a moment, “I suppose, yes. My mother… made me learn it when I was younger.”
“What else did she make you learn?”
“Nothing of real interest.” You say, “I was an avid reader, though. She insists it was because she used to read me La Belle et la Bête.” You smile at the memory, “It was my absolute favourite…Do you know of it?”
“I’m afraid I do not.”
“It’s a fairy-tale. About a girl trapped in a castle by a terrible beast. Each night he comes to her as asks her to marry him…And each night she says no, until finally she says yes…” You trail off, “Then he turns into a prince. My mother said it was based on a true story.”
“And all this, in French?”
“Of course.” He narrows his eyes at you, though subtly, you barely notice the change, “It’s in my family, you see. I was supposed to attend Beauxbatons.”
“Why didn’t you?”
You turn away. You fingertips numb from the cold and you curse the leather gloves that you wear. You hook your hands together and bring them to your lips; he watches in silence and wonders what exactly are you thinking. Nothing of real interest, is what you chant in your mind. It is unnerving. You feel like he can see right through you, to the very core of your being and read each and every little snippet of your life, but most of all, the life you want no one to know of. So you smile, like any proper lady should. You feel something dark and icky pool in your stomach. It weighs you down and your shoulders slump lightly. The expression you wear is plastic, but you doubt he can tell.
“It doesn’t matter, really.” You reply, upbeat. “What about you? Do you speak a different tongue?”
He thinks; his eyes shift to the front again into the upcoming contours of the small village. A drop of rain kisses your cheek. Soon more dot the surface of your face. You glance down, see the ripples in muddy puddles and avoid a few by carefully stepping to the right and brushing your shoulder to his. You murmur an apology and don’t keep close. A second whistle pierces the air and it seems to catch Tom off-guard. He blinks owlishly, finally returning his attention back to you.
He leans closer, “Promise not to tell?”
“Mister Riddle and Miss (Lastname)! Do hurry up! And, respectful distance, mind you!”
You are to obey the order, but something about the way he looks at you makes you freeze and ignore it; he doesn’t show any signs of hearing it either. You gulp, your throat itches from the sudden dry-spell and you feel an overwhelming wave of curiosity soak you to the very bone. It shows on your face. You see small versions of familiar doe eyes reflect in his iris. A smile picks at the corner of his lip and you fail to catch any ill intent, even if there was any. Is it a secret? You wonder, For such a look it must be…
The rain hits harsher.
You must take shelter when the scenery becomes a blur, the houses distort and even the whistle of the teachers falls flat and quiet in comparison to the humming of rain. Cold water leaks down your lashes and your hair sticks to your skin. You close your eyes when they start to sting and shudder. A warm touch on leather; someone grabs your hand and blinded you follow quickly. A chirp of a bell and warm dry air caress your cheeks and you are promptly pushed into one of the few shops. Cracking. Clanking. A few barks.
You open your eyes and the warmth leaves you. Tom runs his fingers through his hair and moves forward to the empty counter. You briefly glance back through the small window of the door – it looks like a painting, a mixture of dull grey colours and clear blue. You take off your gloves and shove them into your pockets. You quiver. You are drenched, and he is too you realize, noting the trail of water he leaves in his steps and the one that leaks from your own robe.
The floorboards creak under you, either from your weight or they are simply too rotten to stand anything anymore. A twinge of fear grasps your heart and you stride forward onto the carpet. Fire dances in the stone fireplace, sparkling and glimmering like a small dragon, its light reflecting in glasses and glass trinkets alike. An unusual place to take shelter in, normally you would assume one would run straight to The Three Broomsticks and have a drink of Butterbeer. You shiver, frost glossing over your skin and you move closer to the fireplace as if a moth drawn to its warm flame. Your shoulders jerk once some creature swinging its legs above your head knocks on the ceiling. Letting your hands heat you peak at the various animals lurking in cages – some are proudly displayed by the windows, some are tucked away in the shadows. Perhaps they fear daylight, or perhaps they are too dangerous to see. Tom searches for the owner, and once he is sure he is nowhere near, he turns to you with a grin.
“Do you really want to know?” He asks, already knowing the answer. You nod without second thought, “See, much like you, I could speak it ever since I was little…” He moves further back and it is your cue to follow. You feel less eager than normal to pull away from the pleasant licking flames, but do so anyway, carefully tracing any squeak and jolt if the old floorboards under your feet, “Except no one taught me.” He stops next to a porcelain glass cage with a small serpent inside – its scales shimmer in the fire light and dot with mellow blue colours of rain. The amber surface is slick; small beady eyes watch your approach curiously and with more hostility than it looks at Tom. Or maybe it is just a trick shadows play. He crouches to it. You refrain from raising a skeptical brow and take a seat next to him, sticking so close that he can feel your shivering. Tom eyes the snake for a moment before turning to you, almost expectantly, like to ask for permission. Unsure, you give a simple nod.
It sounds odd. Slick. Even unnerving perhaps. Unlike most languages it has a feeling. It is odd. That is the only way you can describe it in words: odd. Unruly. Unsafe. Uncomfortable, like something in stuck in your head and you cannot, for the life of you, get it out. Perhaps if it wasn’t Tom, speaking so fluently and clearly, you would have been scared out of your wits. But you are not.
Odd. You feel odd. Like you don’t know how to feel or to react. Surprise? That is one way to put it. Your mind skews with warnings and omens and other historical prophesies, melting into his figure as if he had just absorbed everything you knew about the language of snakes and its bad reputation. How does one react? Quiver in fear? Scream and run away? You were not brought up to do either of those things, and also…You didn’t feel like doing those things either.
He stops, all this time he was watching you closely for any shift in your clear expression but you look no different than just hearing someone read off a line in French. Your focus falls from him to the amber snake, a soft gasp escaping your lips and you lean forward just a bit – the snake spins, going in a circle to catch its own tail. The room goes in vertigo when you stare at it for too long, your mind trying to keep up with your eyes, ears, the erratic beating of your heart.
“You said…” You take a pause to catch your breath, “You can speak Parseltongue ever since you were little.” It isn’t really a question, more like a statement, and Tom nods. You pull away from the snake, awe falling into curiosity once more, “What else can you do?”