#tom riddle x ginny weasley | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

saintsenara · 10 months

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rare pair tag game

thanks for the tag, @said-snape-softly :)

i'm pretty sure everyone has done this by now, but if you'd like to, please consider this a blanket tag.

apart from all the tomarry and the odd dabble in remadora, i am a rare-pair enthusiast, so i am delighted to spread some propaganda here... the criterion i've used for a rare-pair is less than 2500 works on ao3.

pairs, little metas, fic recommendations, and some suggestions for authors to follow under the cut.

sirius black/severus snape

why i ship it:

this one can just about claim to be a rare-pair.

sirius and severus are narrative mirrors, whose complicated relationship to themselves and to each other is crucial for driving several of the most important arcs in the series.

in particular, sirius - constantly haunted by guilt and grief over his role in the death of the man he loved [you can decide if his love for james is platonic or not, but i definitely think the text thinks it isn't...], trapped in his childhood home, unable to have his real loyalties acknowledged before his death by the fact he's on the run - leads harry through his journey in hero-worshipping, then being disappointed in, then forgiving james. and then promptly dies.

this is one of harry's most significant areas of personal growth - it begins to chip away at his rather black-and-white morality, which is finally destroyed by his ability to confront the complexity of dumbledore in deathly hallows - but it is also key narratively: harry coming to understand james starts to hint to the reader that it is lily - otherwise absent from her son's conception of himself - who is the key to the mystery...

which brings us to severus - constantly haunted by guilt and grief over his role in the death of the woman he loved, trapped in his childhood home, unable to have his real loyalties acknowledged before his death by the fact he's a spy - who gives harry, and us, the final piece of the puzzle. and then promptly dies.

put them together, though? well, you get the delicious tension of two fundamentally broken people - who cannot comprehend the possibility of their own redemption - bound to each other. can they forgive each other and themselves? is it a disaster? the story can go either way.

and even in fluff there is so much potential for d r a m a between sirius' recklessness and severus' cunning, sirius' emotional control and severus' temper, the fact that sirius is canonically hot and severus is canonically not, how they react to harry and draco [i don't usually accept the fanon that severus is his godfather, except when it means snack can be fighting about it], and so on.

and i'm a sucker for two bitter old men getting a happy ending. sue me.

want to give it a read?

if you trust nothing else i say in my life [and why should you] you can trust this - second life by nwhiker and cassandra7 is one of the greatest pieces of writing i have ever seen, not only in this pairing but in this fandom full stop. it's a profound and solemn meditation on loving and grieving, choice and chance, and the great pain caused by the divide between the magical and the muggle worlds.

then, for gorgeous angst with a happy ending - two boys kissing by @writcraft and the merit in trying by brightened

albus dumbledore/tom riddle | voldemort

why i ship it:

the facetious answer is because they wouldn't be so obsessed with each other if there wasn't some sexual tension underneath it.

the facetious and nsfw answer is because it appeals to the part of me whose favourite book aged 11 was lolita

the serious answer is that they should be horrifying together: they're both liars; both incredibly self-righteous; both living behind masks which conceal their true emotions and motivations; dumbledore took one look at tom as an eleven-year-old, said "he reminds me of gellert", and then did nothing about it; tom thinks dumbledore's a hypocrite and is right, although not for the reasons he thinks; there is a colossal age gap; there is virtually no scenario in any timeline where they could be openly in a relationship unless one of them is concealing his identity; and - really, this seems quite minor in the grand scheme of things - they are constantly trying to destroy each other.

but.

intellectually, they are the only two characters in the series who could be the other's equal - i'm sure that violent arguments about the twelve uses of dragon's blood trigger the majority of their sexual encounters, and a man who's passionate about your research is hot.

if either of them ever fancy being honest - so, no - there is a shared cavernous [although, in tom's case, unacknowledged] grief in their lives which has shaped their not-as-divergent-as-the-text-thinks-they-are views on death, love, duty and so on. their active refusal to understand each other [i.e. dumbledore entirely misreading voldemort's motivations in the job interview scene] and commitment to constantly underestimating each other [i.e. voldemort bouncing around like an idiot in the chamber of secrets instead of using his brain and remembering what a phoenix is] could, in time, lead to something almost resembling acceptance. i mean, just imagine the hurt/comfort sex which happens when voldemort finds out about grindledore.

the way dumbledore describes the young riddle - "self-sufficient, secretive, and, apparently, friendless" - is also an exact description of him. that each sees himself in the other canonically drives their hatred of each other, but it could also appeal to two very vain men in a much racier way. after all, who doesn't want to bang their narrative mirror?

and being an orphan probably doesn't seem so bad when you realise your boyfriend's family is aberforth.

want to give it a read?

i can't recommend concordance by @laeveteinn enough, particularly for one of the best-written dumbledores i've ever seen. i find dumbledore is often written either as far more whimsical than i'd like, or far more fiery and radical [when one of his most interesting personality traits in canon is his tendency towards inaction], but this dumbledore is the perfect balance of contradictions, while tom is his canonical feral self, longing to perceived, rather than the emotionless sociopath of so many other stories.

i also recommend as an entire ocean in a drop by eldritcher, which really leans into just how similar these two are underneath all the artifice.

albus dumbledore/severus snape

why i ship it:

well, we've had dumbledore with one lost boy, let's have him with another [i haven't been brave enough to venture into dumbledore/harry yet, but i'll take recommendations...]

as with riddledore, we have the potential for horror here: a vast power imbalance; enormous age gap; the fact dumbledore sends snape out to potentially die every time he goes off to voldemort; and - this is the crucial one - the fact that dumbledore's recognition of himself in snape is pure self-loathing ["you disgust me"] manifested in punishment [allowing snape to be humiliated in front of fudge, not stopping the presumed-to-be-real moody searching his office, making him give harry occlumency lessons, not letting him teach defence against the dark arts].

but then this stops, when snape does the tremendously brave thing of agreeing to kill dumbledore, and their dynamic equalises, as dumbledore recognises that snape is courageous, steadfast, and redeemed. i'm always struck in half-blood prince by the fact that dumbledore has it with harry's sniping about snape and straight-up tells him to shut up, as well as by the fact that he very nearly gives the game away and confesses why snape switched sides [the thing he promised not to do] when harry finds out it was snape who gave voldemort the prophecy.

and within this equalised dynamic - so this hot geriatric sex is happening in the afterlife, i guess - we have two men who are intellectual close-to-equals, who understand grief and guilt, whose aesthetic senses are charmingly mismatched, who are rarely honest but might be for each other, and who have lots of profound similarities which might lead somewhere...

want to give it a read?

cheerfully disregarding everything i've just said about how snumbledore could work, i highly recommend in infinite remorse of soul by @perverse-idyll, which is a chilling look at how dumbledore uses the power imbalance between the two to assuage his own guilt through snape's humiliation.

for something much more wholesome, i'm a big fan of byzantium by eldritcher

petunia dursley/severus snape

why i ship it:

because vernon is a dick.

i'm fond of petunia, who i think is one of the most interesting characters in the series because of how full of contradictions she is, and who i think is also a victim in fandom spaces of how the adult cast was aged up for the films [in canon, she's only in her early twenties when lily dies, and the implication is that vernon is a good deal older than her)] which makes her inadequacies, such as her inability to truly care for either child in the household, seem much more nuanced than they do if she's pictured as a middle-aged woman with considerable life experience.

like snape, she teeters on a knife edge between various chasms: she is a working-class girl from the midlands made good in middle-class surrey, he is a working-class half-blood boy who spends most of his life in pureblood circles; she ends up with her whole life wrapped up in a square little house when she's barely out of her teens, he ends up with his whole life wrapped up in spying at the same age; she hates the wizarding world and yet covets it, he hates the muggle world and yet cannot escape it; she loves lily and she hates her and she loathes her for dying, he... well, you know the rest.

want to give it a read?

i was first convinced by this pairing by the lovely regretfully yours by @maria-de-salinas, which takes both snape and petunia's awkwardness and bitterness and moulds it into something really tender.

i also highly recommend barking at the moon by rinsbane, the summary of which speaks for itself.

merope gaunt/tom riddle sr.

why i ship it:

our first canon pairing, and probably the most problematic of the canon relationships, since the series never acknowledges that tom sr. is a rape victim.

but i have found myself recently in my merope era and, in particular, in an attempt to give her more nuance than she gets in canon. as i've said to anyone who'll listen in the three broomsticks discord server, i loathe the implication in canon that merope dies because she just cba to live [since it directly justifies voldemort's belief that her death was shameful] and prefer to see her as someone who was desperate to escape a truly horrifying life [the fact she's going to be forced into an incestuous relationship with morfin is right there in canon...] and so did something she didn't have the capacity to understand the implications of [this is not a woman who's ever heard of consent] because she thought it would give her the first chance to be happy in her life, watched it all crash and burn around her, and would have very much liked to have lived to raise her son.

i doubt there was anything real or tender in her relationship with tom sr., of course, and his escape - while merely a brief stay of execution from his son's perspective - is tremendously brave. it's impossible to write tom/merope fluff [although i respect you if you're inclined to try] but fanfiction gives a space to explore the intricacies of their relationship which canon doesn't allow, and i'm obsessed.

want to give it a read?

i'm recommending myself here, and assuring you that you will enjoy: enchanter's nightshade, which explores how merope's attempts to keep her husband enslaved fail; the snow child, which treats the relationship as folk-horror; and the shack at the end of the lane, in which there is redemption, in the end.

the best exploration of tom sr. dealing with the fallout of the relationship is @phantomato's exquisite ganymede, which feels so truly embodied that you can't pull yourself away from the page.

bellatrix lestrange/tom riddle | voldemort

why i ship it:

our second canon pairing, i am obsessed with these two and the tragedy and - to some extent - tenderness bound up in their relationship [which can be proven to be there because noted softy @whinlatter loves them].

i've written before about my conviction - in contrast to a lot of bellatrix fans - that her relationship with rodolphus is utterly miserable, and that voldemort is the only man in her life who can understand her desire to make a life for herself which is not constrained by the gendered expectations of her social class.

obviously, lord voldemort is not a shining paragon of a boyfriend [and he is an awful choice as a baby daddy, bella, get it together], but i think the enormous power imbalance is perhaps slightly less enormous than is sometimes assumed - certainly, she tells him to his face in half-blood prince that he's wrong to trust snape [she's a clever woman], voldemort never physically punishes her for anything [rip to lucius malfoy, who seems to get picked for this in her stead], and voldemort tolerates a surprising amount of nonsense from her which shatters his mystique.

all of which is to say... the scream when she dies isn't just because he's losing the war.

want to give it a read?

tee hee, i'm recommending myself again, and encouraging you to take a look at: atramentum, bellamort's last afternoon together before voldemort goes to the potters; nor all that glisters gold, bellatrix's life - including her relationship with voldemort - through sirius' eyes; and death (eaters) in paradise, because murderous psychopaths deserve crack fics too.

draco malfoy/tom riddle | voldemort

why i ship it:

because the ship name is taco.

these two are a pairing which i enjoy with my tongue firmly in my cheek [and tom's tongue firmly in draco's], as i do with most other things in which draco is a main character [do i want to read drarry angst? no! do i want to chuckle? absolutely!], although this should not be taken as saying that many of taco's fabulous authors don't manage to make the pairing entirely plausible.

in fact, consensual taco [non-con is, of course, its own beast] often has some of the best characterisation of both tom [fretful, mercurial, stubborn, and nowhere near as charming as he thinks he is] and draco [prissy, a very good judge of character, someone who likes being taken care of, and much braver than he appears if he absolutely has to be] i've seen in the fandom, largely because - unlike other voldemort-centric ships [especially tomarry, but also voldemort + any of the adult death eaters] - there's no sense of inevitability there. these two aren't connected by a shared bit of soul, or a prophecy, or having gone to school together, or having been hooked in by voldemort in the first war when he was unassailable.

they have to choose each other. or, more accurately, draco has to choose tom, and tom has to get chosen.

and the results have me entertained.

want to give it a read?

then you will want to have a look at the travelling cabinet by @the-paper-monkey [and its sequel, bluebeard], truly the gold standard of taco content with an absolutely brilliant draco, whose sheer capacity to cling on and make himself an irremovable part of tom's life may just end up changing the course of history.

narcissa malfoy/severus snape

why i ship it:

because i am in deep with the conspiracy theory that it's canon. i am absolutely certain that narcissa is the person that voldemort is referring to at the end of deathly hallows - "he desired her, that was all, but when she had gone, he agreed that there were other women, and of purer blood, worthier of him". it seems highly unlikely to me that the canonical voldemort would give a shit about snape fancying any random pureblood [although the snapemort version is, naturally, hugely jealous], but snape having had some sort of liaison with narcissa, and the ability knowing this gives voldemort to humiliate snape, narcissa, the memory of lily, bellatrix, lucius, and draco is definitely information he would go out of his way to remember...

plus, how do you know where he lives, babe? v suspicious.

want to give it a read?

if you want some fluff, you will very much enjoy the incredibly sweet the reformed man by gingertart50, which features narcissa nursing snape back to health post-nagini and is a favourite re-read for me when i'm drunk and it's christmas.

if you want some very-much-not-fluff, other women and of purer blood by yours truly will scratch the itch...

minerva mcgonagall/severus snape

why i ship it:

because i'm an equal-opportunity age-gap fan, and there is far too little older woman/younger man in the fandom.

and look, i'll admit it, i'm a fan of the fanon that snape and mcgonagall are friends prior to dumbledore's death - i'm not sure it's canonically plausible, but this sign can't stop me because i can't read - and i like the idea of that blossoming into something more, especially in fics where snape survives the second war. after all, he is a man who definitely needs to be treated quite strictly [and i don't just mean in the staff room], there is a shared loneliness and grief to them both, they're intellectual equals despite the age gap, and bickering about quidditch is absolutely fine as a method of foreplay.

plus, you can't tell me dumbledore's portrait doesn't ship it.

want to give it a read?

for a fic which shows minerva at her acerbic - and yet still sensual - best, always but not necessarily forever by gingertart50 is an old, fluffy, and very funny, favourite.

for something much more bittersweet, that good night by kelly_chambliss has my heart.

severus snape/tom riddle | voldemort

why i ship it:

because voldemort is canonically down bad for it - there is no need to believe snape's ridiculous cover story for not attending his resurrection, to try and spare lily as a treat for his man, and to give him a nice, painful death which allows the narrative to move on and harry to defeat him if the dark lord isn't firmly in his simp era.

more seriously, they obviously have an enormous amount in common, particularly in terms of their backgrounds [harry draws a connection between all three of them, but actually the fact that harry is rich in the wizarding world, not a slytherin, and with a muggle mother, therefore giving him a pureblood name, means he can't relate to the post-childhood experience of both halves of snapemort].

as a result, i think snape is the death eater who comes the closest to understanding voldemort's motivations - above all, the fact that he's not seeking an oligarchy, which the malfoys etc. obviously believe - while voldemort is someone snape feels understands his intellectual interests and his creativity.

want to give it a read?

boy, are you in luck, because i myself have a snapemort wip - scylla and charybdis. it is not wholesome.

tom riddle/myrtle warren

why i ship it:

because it started as crack and now i love them.

in particular, i just have so much respect for being incredibly annoying as a method of seduction, and i think myrtle's commitment to just following tom around chattering at him - and, therefore, without her realising it, preventing him from committing all sorts of crimes - is iconic.

want to give it a read?

then my unhinged rom-com - bookbinding - shall provide.

tom riddle | voldemort/ginny weasley

why i ship it:

because i enjoy seeing my dear friends who ship hinny shake and cry.

but also because ginny and tom have an enormous number of similarities, right down to the fact that they both have yew wands [if you're sick of people saying harry has an oedipus complex, you'll be delighted to be confronted with the mountain of evidence ginny reminds him of the villain who keeps trying to kill him instead].

they are both very good liars, quick thinking, remarkably resistant to shame, possessed of nerves of steel, predisposed to violence, brown-eyed, so hot they have harry gagged, and the profound enemy of someone whose surname is smith.

despite what he claims, tom was absolutely not just sat politely in that diary gritting his teeth while ginny complained about having second hand robes and idiot brothers. as he says, he opted "to start feeding [her] a few of my secrets", and i think it's justifiable from canon that they were at the very least half-truths [for example, i would not be shocked to discover he tells her he's a half-blood orphan brought up against his will in the muggle world - there's no other reason, i think, for him to successfully make her tell him these things about harry without it], which means that ginny has lots of lovely emotional leverage over him.

plus, as with tomarry, you have the element of "this is kind of inevitable" in the relationship, and the mysteries of fate are always sexy.

want to give it a read?

this is a tommary/hinny/tominny triad, but it has had me in a chokehold since the first time i read it - shameful company by merrivale, which, truly iconically, manages to be epilogue compliant.

#asenora fic recs #rare pair tag game #starprince #snirius #snack hp #riddledore #snumbledore #petunia dursley x severus snape #merope gaunt x tom riddle sr #bellamort #tom riddle x draco malfoy #snarcissa #minerva mcgonagall x severus snape #snapemort #tom riddle x myrtle warren #tom riddle x ginny weasley #lots to read

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july-sunset · 1 month

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I made a little art: neural network + photoshop

#tom riddle x ginny weasley #tom x ginny #ginny x tom #gin n tonic #gin ‘n’ tonic #tom riddle #ginny weasley #ginny weasley x tom riddle

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animasola86 · 2 months

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Sick minds hahahah omg the cringe!

Inspired by this reblog by @esolean, I thought back to my days on fanfiction.net, and how ridiculously vague I wrote "mature scenes" (compared to how explicitly I write today).

Here's a few (screenshotted) snippets from my Tom/Ginny fanfic Unfinished Business (which is, ironically, unfinished since 2008). [Please ignore the giant font, I am practically blind XD]

(Those were from chapter 9 if you for some reason want to read more.)

I recently (before my plunge into the HL fandom) edited the story for typos and whatnot, and added a little more details (believe it or not, before that it was even more vague!), but still, it's nothing compared to how I write today.

I mean it's not bad (if I'm allowed to toot my own horn here), but I think I prefer a little bit more details to be honest, not having to squint and re-read certain parts to get what's going on...

(From chapter 13. I added the "slipped inside" in my recent edit, it wasn't there initially, you'd have to really imagine the rest...)

I really wish I'd still know where I wanted to go with that story, so I could finally continue/finish it, but alas, it's been a long while. (Also the Tom I wrote was slightly too OOC at times... actually, Ginny was too.)

But those were the days of good old fanfiction.net.

(I really appreciate the tag system of AO3 though, you know exactly what you get instead of wading through the vast wasteland of maybe possibly finding a fanfic that suits your needs! And apparently I never found the really good stuff because this is how I wrote back then, too poetic for my own good because I didn't know any better XD)

#fanfiction.net #the good old times #rated T but sneaked in mature scenes #mature meaning please imagine all the smut that's happening because I sure won't write that #tom riddle x ginny weasley #tom x ginny fanfic #tom riddle fanfic #harry potter fanfic #that fanfic is 16 years old now...#*I* wrote that? I *wrote* that? I wrote *that*? I wrote that!

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moondust-production · 8 months

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Tom & Ginny [My Blood]

«Alarms will ring for eternity

The waves will break every chain on me

My bones will bleach, my flesh will flee

So help my lifeless frame to breathe»

youtube

#harry potter #harry potter edit #tom riddle x ginny weasley #tom riddle and ginny weasley #tom riddle #lord voldemort #ginny weasley #tom sturridge #abigail cowen #the sandman #the winx saga #Youtube

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sailorstarr-chan4 · 1 month

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from his world of unending night

Fandom: Harry Potter Pairing: Tom Riddle/Ginny Weasley (kinda) Rated: T Genre: Angst, with a dash of Hurt/Comfort Words: 3,207 Posted: ff.net and AO3 Dedicated to: @risingfire17-the-weeb-trash ❤

Sharing this here because, honestly? I'm genuinely proud of this fic. I tried my best to unpack Ginny's trauma and give her hope in the end. And I wanted to do justice to the fic I promised my bestie almost a year ago lol ^^"

TW: grooming, emotional/psychological abuse & manipulation, etc

~~~~

Even in the magical world, hearing voices isn’t a good sign.

Her brother, Ron, once said those words to Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived had been hearing the Basilisk in the walls of Hogwarts, thanks to his ability to speak Parseltongue.

But Ginny Weasley had been speaking with a disembodied voice long before Harry Potter first heard the whispers of death.

Writing to Tom for all those months felt as natural as breathing. He was the bowl and she the faucet, pouring her thoughts and emotions like water gushing out of pipes. Except his bowl never seemed to overflow. There was no limit, no boundary expressed; Tom welcomed her juvenile worries with open arms. He encouraged her, conditioned her, seduced her.

It only made sense that Ginny very quickly lost herself in his dark embrace.

~~~

I suppose it’s time to write in this old thing. Hello, diary. My name is Ginny Weasley and I turned eleven years old today.

Hello, Ginny Weasley. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come upon my diary?

Ginny blinks, surprised. For a split second, she considers slamming the book shut and running to her father. But then, the thought evaporates and she grins happily. A talking diary! She grew up with magic and is not unaccustomed to these sorts of things, but this diary feels... special. Like an old friend she is reacquainting herself with. Ginny dips her quill into her inkwell, eager to reply to her new friend.

Last week, I went shopping in Diagon Alley with my parents. I guess they found you in Flourish & Blotts and decided I could use a diary. Is it all right that I write here, even though it’s yours?

What’s mine is yours, Ginny. And what’s yours is mine. I welcome you to my humble abode.

~~~

In the aftermath of the Chamber of Secrets, at the Hospital Wing, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley wept and embraced their daughter. Mr. Weasley did not say another word about her foolish trust in Tom Riddle’s diary, but the words still hung over their heads: “Never trust something that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Ginny sobbed into her mother’s bosom. She wasn’t sure why she kept repeating those words, but it became a mantra. A desperate cry for salvation.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Arthur said softly, stroking his daughter’s hair. “Dumbledore was right: there are plenty of other wizards and witches who have been bewitched by You-Know-Who.”

Molly cleared her throat sharply, throwing her husband a stern look. She snuggled her baby girl closer. “We’re just so glad you’re alright,” she whispered, pressing kisses on Ginny’s forehead.

Ginny cried and cried, unable to express in words her sorrow, how her chest ached with an emptiness now that Tom Riddle’s diary was destroyed.

How, even now, despite everything, she desperately wanted to write to Tom. To spill out her grievances, to shatter like glass on stone.

That bastard that took over her heart and soul was still the first person she wanted in her hour of need.

~~~

No one ever understood me like you do, Tom. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I feel so lonely when I’m not writing to you.

We are very much alike. We are surrounded yet alone. I would still be trapped without a voice if it wasn’t for you, Ginny. I need you to stay loyal to me.

~~~

Ginny Weasley never knew a time when her brothers were not attending Hogwarts. She was a baby when Bill started his first year, and by the time she was six, her three eldest brothers were away at school most of the year.

When Bill turned seventeen, the first “of age” spell he cast turned parchment into butterflies, and they danced around seven-year-old Ginny’s head, who squealed and tried to catch them.

Smiling indulgently, Bill flicked his wand and allowed one parchment butterfly to land on her nose. It tickled and made her cross-eyed trying to gaze upon its lovely form. Ginny wrinkled her nose and shook her head, giggling, and the inky butterfly seemed to kiss the bridge of her nose before taking off.

It left a mark of ink on the tip of her nose.

Pitch-black liquid, dripping off the edge of her freckled nose, until her mother noticed and wiped it clean with her apron.

~~~

The evening of the Sorting leaves Ginny with frayed nerves, like any First Year. But her worries vanish as she pulls out Tom’s diary once she climbs into her bed, an eerie calm settling over her as she describes Hogwarts and the Sorting to her invisible friend.

I hope I can make friends here.

You’ll always have me, Ginny.

Ginny grins and rubs her nose bashfully. The ink smudge leaves a mark on her pillow the next morning.

~~~

Strange that she could remember that day with Bill so well, particularly when she received her wand at Ollivander’s. She had taken hold of the yew wood and vividly recalled the smell of ink and parchment, of Bill’s laughter in the background, of the blackness of the last bit of drying ink dripping gently off the butterfly’s wings.

She waved her wand and sent vibrant yellow leaves falling out of thin air.

She was the only one who noticed that they looked more like pieces of parchment. Parchment with smudges of black ink.

She later wondered how no one could recognize an omen when they saw one.

It was only when she made it home, laden with books and supplies, just like her brothers always did, that Ginny noticed the plain black diary resting in her cauldron.

~~~

Tom, I don’t think I’ll fit in here. My brothers all did amazing things at Hogwarts, even Ron! And he’s best friends with Harry Potter! I feel awkward and gangly and small. It feels like no one even notices me.

That’s impossible, Ginny. You brought my memory to life. That is a remarkable feat that a great many witches and wizards could never accomplish. How can anyone not notice you?

~~~

The fact that her diary wrote back to her did not alarm Ginny as much as she thought it would. She knew it wasn’t like other ordinary “talking objects” (mirrors that compliment or criticize your appearance, notebooks that remind you to keep studying, etc). Tom was more sentient, more real, than those magical tools. Tom was her friend.

Perhaps her lack of fear was the first sign that Tom Riddle had begun to thread tendrils of his essence into her mind.

And by the time she realized, he had already made himself at home.

An ink stain she could not scrub away.

~~~

I think I’m in love, Tom. Harry Potter makes my heart skip a beat and I cannot speak in front of him. It’s exciting, but it’s also frustrating. I want his attention. No, better yet, I want his love! Help me, Tom!

Sweet Ginny, why do you need him when you have me? Now, tell me: who is this Harry Potter?

~~~

Tom’s dismissal of her crush on Harry Potter did not hurt so much as confuse Ginny. On one hand, he did not seem to like that she crushed on The-Boy-Who-Lived. On the other hand, he was intrigued, disturbingly so, with his story.

Tom began encouraging her to “win over” Harry’s heart. He even patiently read her silly Valentine, which Ginny knew was rather silly, but she still felt proud of herself. It was the first time she ever put to words her feelings that weren't in Tom’s diary.

But things began to change after Valentine’s Day…

~~~

If only I could see you, Ginny. If words could be seen, I imagine you’re as beautiful as you sound.

Ginny drops her quill. Her face flushes, and she squirms in her pajamas, suddenly feeling rather hot.

Her lips are dry as she writes back a flustered reply. Tom soothes her, a balm on her nerves, and Ginny wonders how she ever envisioned herself in love with Harry Potter when her body feels as taut as a violin string.

Later, when she splashes cold water on her face in the girls’ abandoned bathroom, she stares deeply into her reflection, her mind racing. Is she in love with Tom? Her own beloved talking diary? What does that say about her? Will Tom accept her feelings? If only he was real—

She does not notice the flash of red in her reflected pupils before the world goes dark.

~~~

The summer after That Terrible Year, Ginny spent her days locked up in her room. With no diary to keep, she was a wound up coil, aching for release, but too terrified to write anything.

Her dreams recounted her conversations with Tom Riddle, back then so exciting and beautiful and romantic.

Now they were tainted, oozing with slime and mucus, a nasty sinking pit in her stomach whenever she awoke with Tom’s smooth words in her mind.

~~~

Ginny, you are so much smarter than other girls your age. I admire you. No…. I think it’s deeper than that — oh, but I cannot say. You’re still so young.

Tom, you can’t tease a girl like that! Tell me! Tell ME!

Oh but, Ginny, don’t you see? Teasing you brings me joy. You do want to keep your friends happy, don’t you?

Of course, I do! But…. Do you love me, Tom?

Ginny pauses in her writing. Her heart is pounding. She is almost tempted to follow up with a “just kidding, haha!” but curiosity grips her mind. She needs to know.

A drop of ink appears on the page. It’s as if Tom is poised with his quill, debating on how to answer.

Another drop. Another. He is holding her in suspense, but Ginny does not mind. Her mouth is dry, her heart in her throat. She all but forgets Harry Potter’s name. There is only Tom Tom Tom Tom…

Tom?

Ginny…. you know the answer.

~~~

It was funny that looking back, Tom never outright said he loved her.

He complimented her. He praised her, cajoled, tempted, teased, and tormented.

But the word “love” was never written on his end. Not even in mockery or quotation. Not even after Ginny confessed her feelings.

~~~

I think I’m in love, Tom. For real, this time. I’m In love with…. you.

Of course you are, Ginny. You should be. Who else can I depend on?

~~~

Eleven years old was no age to play at being in love. Fantasize, giggle, wonder, dream, yes, but never enact.

Ginny Weasley faced the years following the Tom Riddle ordeal with a growing pain in her heart.

It was not remorse.

It was disgust.

Ginny Weasley turned twelve years old when it hit her that exactly one year ago, she wrote her first entry into Tom Riddle’s diary. While her family prepared her birthday dinner, she snuck into the loo, and retched for twenty minutes, her throat closing up, tears streaming down her face.

Nothing came up. Not even after she managed to consume her food and birthday cake.

A cruel irony. Even in death, Tom could not give her release.

~~~

Tom, Tom, you love me, right? You promise you’ll love me no matter what, right?

Why do you ask such a silly question, Ginny?

Because I think I’m the one attacking students! Oh, Tom, what have I done?!

Oh. My precious Ginny. Sweet, silly Ginny. You did nothing wrong.

But Tom, I —

You only need to heed my words. Do not pay attention to those fools at the castle. Here, in my diary, I tell you what’s right. I tell you what’s wrong. You, my dear, did nothing wrong to those Mudblood scum.

No. No. No.

Ginny gasps and drops her quill, clutching her pounding head.

She was a Weasley. Weasleys do not hate Muggles! Her father adores them! Her father taught her brothers and her to respect and appreciate the methods of Muggles living life without magic, and always said that Muggleborns were no different than Purebloods.

But Tom says…. Tom says— He—

Ginny barely makes it to the loo when she vomits. And then her world goes black.

She awakes with blood-covered feathers all over her robes and screams and screams, until Moaning Myrtle joins her wailing, their cries reverberating off the walls in an echo chamber that no one would heed.

~~~

It had been barely three months after the end of her terrible First Year when Ginny Weasley faced an almost worse dilemma on her way back to Hogwarts.

The Dementors.

Those vile creatures made her relive her possessed moments, this time with crystal clear details. What once had been strange, corrupted images in her mind’s eye was now playing out for her in real time.

Walking to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom in a haze, speaking Parseltongue with Tom’s voice, opening up the Chamber of Secrets.

The first bloody message she wrote on Hogwarts walls: “The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware.”

Brutally murdering Hagrid’s roosters.

Destroying Harry’s dorm to find the Diary.

Directing the Basilisk to each victim, her finger pointing to Mrs. Norris, Colin Creevey, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hermione Granger and Penelope Clearwater….

And Tom whispering, always whispering, in her mind…

When Professor Lupin drove away the Dementor from their train compartment, Ginny awoke from her vision with a start. Despite seeing Harry writhing on the floor, unconscious and in pain, she could only focus on herself, shaken to her core. Did she really do all that? She already knew, of course, but she never realized how…. horrible it all was…

She began to cry and could not stop until they reached Hogsmeade Station. Hermione’s hug could not drive away the demons.

~~~

When Tom emerges from the Diary, Ginny almost forgets her hate. Barely too weak to stand upright, she stares at the young man who is her ruin.

He was just so… handsome. So bloody, bloody gorgeous!

She swallows hard, her breath quickening as he saunters over, smirking at her weakened state. Ginny suddenly hates her appearance, gross and unkempt, her fingers covered in rooster blood from the last message left to Hogwarts.

“Here you are, at last! My dear, little Ginny. Such a good girl. You obeyed me perfectly. I am so proud.” He smiles down at her, perfect white teeth glinting in the green light.

Ginny closes her eyes with a whimper. Even his voice is beautiful! Silky, smooth, deep, and sure. She hates herself for blushing.

“Tom… why? Why did you make me–?”

Suddenly, he’s directly in front of her, his hand a vice-like grip around her throat, his beautiful dark eyes turning blood-red. He isn’t mad, but calculating in his violent amusement. Ginny’s vision blurs, her knees hitting the wet stone beneath her.

“I did nothing, my dear. It was your fault for listening to me. You should have known better, but alas. What else can you expect from a silly, lovesick girl?”

As Ginny falls into darkness, she distantly realizes it was the first time he ever said the word “love.”

~~~

When Ginny Weasley awoke in the Chamber of Secrets, with a bleeding Harry Potter holding the destroyed remnants of Tom Riddle’s Diary, she made a vow to herself. A vow she could not at the time convey in words even if she tried, but a vow nonetheless.

The following school year she began talking more. Just talking. She still could not bring herself to speak in front of Harry (the shame had not quite disappeared), but she laughed more with Fred and George, she rolled her eyes at Ron, she wrinkled her nose at Percy’s pompousness.

And she found herself inching closer to Hermione’s companionship. She wondered if perhaps she had a sister, a bossy knowledgeable sister like Hermione, if she would have revealed the horror of Tom Riddle much sooner.

Even as she grew closer to her family and friends, she still never discussed her year under Tom Riddle’s control. No one pried and she did not reveal.

Until nearly three years later, when Harry Potter believed himself to be under Voldemort’s control.

Ginny snapped that he was forgetting to consult with the one person in their acquaintance who actually had been under Voldemort’s possession. She spoke of darkness, missing chunks of memory, blank spots in unexpected moments.

And suddenly, a lightness fills her.

~~~

While Harry Potter battles with Voldemort’s Basilisk, Ginny Weasley is drowning.

Except she is not in a pool of water, but slimy, ebony ink. It clings to her skin, it dyes her hair, it fills her nose, her mouth, her throat….

But she does not die. Only lingers in this unending blackness.

She weeps black tears and cries for Tom to release her, Tom please forgive her, Tom loves her and needs to save her….

But Tom Riddle only laughs mirthlessly. His handsome face and gorgeous, unfeeling eyes haunting her mind as she sinks deeper into the abyss…

~~~

The night after she confessed about her possession to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, Ginny dreamed of Tom. Only it wasn’t nightmare fuel that terrorized her nights for so long.

Tom Riddle was closer to her own age now. Instead of the handsome, out-of-reach older boy, he seemed more her peer than ever before.

“Ginny, why couldn’t you stay with me? Why did you leave me?” he pleaded, his beautiful dark eyes aching with grief.

And that’s how Ginny knew this was only a dream.

“Things would never have worked out between us, darling,” she whispered to this fake Tom, to the Tom of her childish whimsies. “You are not this way. You never were.”

Tom smirked slightly and he began to resemble the real Tom Riddle, only still a little too soft, a little too fragile. “I suppose you’re right. You really are very smart for your age.”

“I’m not the little girl you once knew,” Ginny murmured.

“Perhaps not. But you’ve grown wiser. Because of me.”

Ginny clenched her fists so hard she could almost feel it in real life. Because of Tom? No, she had grown up in spite of Tom. She could have easily succumbed to the trauma and lost herself. She hid her pain and suffering and endured nightmares, Dementors, humiliation, and the terrible burden of committing heinous acts against her free will.

No, she did not grow wiser or stronger or anything because of Tom. In fact, she barely believed she was any stronger or wiser now.

But she did not have to endure Tom Riddle anymore.

Ginny looked into Dream Tom’s deceiving loving eyes and took a deep breath: “I gave you my mind blindly, but no more. You have no power over me.”

Tom snarled and his eyes flared red and he lunged at Ginny, but this was only a dream, and sure enough, his body vanished into green smoke, and Ginny was free-falling in darkness, except there was a light below her feet and—

“Ginny? Ginny!”

She awoke with a start. Hermione Granger hovered over her, her eyebrows contracted in concern.

“Are you alright?”

Ginny nodded slowly, then looked to her left towards the window. She smiled softly.

“I am. It’s daylight.”

#Starling writings #Harry Potter #Tom x Ginny #Tom Riddle x Ginny Weasley #Tom Riddle #Ginny Weasley #HP fanfic #StarlingChild4

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lostmyremembrall · 1 year

Text

𝐆𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐁𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

𝑇𝑜𝑚 𝑅𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑙𝑒 𝑥 𝐺𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑦 𝑊𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑙𝑒𝑦 (𝑑𝑒𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛) 𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: 𝐻𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑟, 𝐹𝑒𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑒 𝐵𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝐻𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑟, 𝐶𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑖𝑠𝑚 𝐻𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑟

Chaser 2 Prompt: Carrie Optional Prompts: Ginny Weasley, Red, A Character Descending Into Madness

Recommended Music: Tick Tack, Tick Tack by Ben Frost

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“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, a world without end,” she whispered to herself. At her chest, she clutched a black-beaded rosary, the cross giving off a rattle at her every shaky breath. Her hands, folded tightly, were trembling, her knuckles turning white with sheer force. “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was–”

“Sister Ginevra?”

She gasped, returning to reality. The room was dark. Confined. Suffocating. Only puffs of her shallow breathing were audible.

“Are you there, Sister Ginevra?” that calm, velvety dulcet voice spoke again.

Ginevra blinked rapidly several times, her eyes shifting towards the light. A pair of grey eyes watched her from the dark. Through the lattice of oak wood, Ginevra saw the pale, gaunt face of Father Thomas. He was leaning towards her, his sincere eyes studying her. The cool white of the daylight from a nearby window hazily illuminated the side of his face, his slender nose casting a stark shadow on his high cheekbones.

“Yes…” the voice that left her lips was feeble. “Yes, I’m here.”

Regaining her grounding, she crossed her heart and began what was quickly becoming her routine. “Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

For days she’s waited to have this time with Father Thomas, recounting and weighing what to tell: what she saw, what she heard. What she felt. But, now that she was here, the lines she had practised on her way were lost, all of a sudden. She found herself searching for the right words as her eyes wandered through the dark, as if attempting to find them somewhere in the depths of the shadow.

“So,” it was Father Thomas who broke the silence first. “How is your nightmare?” he asked softly.

Ginevra shook her head. There was no point in sugarcoating it; Father Thomas most likely knew the answer already from the heavy bags underneath her eyes.

“This is a punishment, isn’t it,” she asked in what did not sound like a question at all. Her eyes flickered down to her hands, toying with her rosary. The black beads glinted in the shadow, its stringed eyes casting a reproachful look up at her. “But… I cannot control it,” she choked, crumbling in front of the Father's judgement.

“You must, Ginevra,” Father’s voice was vigorous and charismatic, like the voice of God himself. “Your age–, the time when a girl blossoms into a woman, is the most vulnerable.” Ginevra nodded absentmindedly, thinking back to the many times the older Sisters repeated the same words. Control yourself, they often said, or the devil controls you.

“All these emotions and carnal desires… it’s overwhelming, is it not?”

Ginevra nodded fervently as she clutched her skirt in her fists, watching it wrinkle.

Father Thomas watched her sympathetically. “It is not your fault,” he continued. “It is not your fault, Ginevra. The blood of Eve runs through you.”

He sighed, helplessly shaking his head in defeat as he beheld the pitiful sight of Ginevra sobbing.

“Look,” intuiting she was too preoccupied to respond, he added. “Sister Margaret told me you’ve been here the longest out of all the children. Orphaned. Is that true?”

Ginevra sniffed, and in the midst of trying to calm her breathing, managed to nod.

“God will not forsake you, Ginevra,” Father Thomas delicately placed his fingers against the lattice, as if trying to reach her. “You’re strong. Brave. Stronger than this,” he whispered.

Ginevra swallowed hard and nodded once more. Finally finding the strength to look Father in his eyes, the crisscrossed shadow of the lattice now branded Ginevra’s pale features. Her freckled cheeks were stained with fresh tears. The bags underneath her eyes foretold many sleepless nights. But, as she stared at him straight on, Sister Ginevra looked just about ready to face anything head-on.

Father’s features softened at Ginevra who had now managed to put on a smile. “God will not forsake you,” he repeated, his eyes giving off a zealous shimmer that was quite infectious. “Next time you’re overwhelmed by it, breathe deeply, hold your bible, like so,” he pointed to her worn-out book and demonstrated holding tight to his chest. “And your prayers will be answered,” he smiled, his eyes full of conviction.

This time, Ginevra couldn’t help but let a smile break out on her lips. She welcomed and rejoiced the serenity that embraced her once more.

Content with her peace, Father Thomas smiled. “Lord has freed you from your sins,” he did not need to speak out loud, knowing you had memorised them anyway. “You may go in peace.”

“Thanks be to God. And,” Ginevra turned her still tearful eyes to the Father. “Thank you, Father.” She clutched the Bible to her chest, the golden print of her name and the address of Vauxhall Road gleaming in the sun.

She stepped out of the confessional.

Liberated. Carefree, once again. Like how she’s always been.

—-----------

“I just don’t think she’ll get away with it,” Angelina was rolling her eyes.

“No, I promise, I’ve seen it,” Lavender ignored her friend’s knowing smirk and continued in a hushed whisper. “Sister Narcissa says confiscation. But I’ve seen her steal Astoria’s lipstick!”

“Why on earth would she have a use for that?” Ginevra’s voice was quiet yet assertive, suppressing laughter in front of a stern Sister Andromeda that they happened to walk by. With a side glance, she followed the old woman until they were out of earshot. “Isn’t she, what, 70 or so?”

“More like 80,” Angelina squinted as they stepped foot into the courtyard. The sun was bright today: a sign of the coming spring in the cool breezes that gently passed by.

“Ugh,” Lavender, as always comically exaggerated in her gestures, placed her fists on her hips, clearly offended. “So? What, we just become boring and miserable when we turn old?”

Ginevra scoffed. “Boring and miserable? Honestly, Lav, when was the last time anything remotely interesting happened at the Monastery of Our Lady Magdalene?” watching Angelina nod in affirmation out of the corner of her eyes, she challenged Lavendar.

“Wellll,” Lav cast a meaningful glance towards Ginevra’s left. Ginevra followed her gaze to find Father Thomas in the corner of the courtyard, chatting with the gardener, most likely discussing the flowers to plant in the coming month.

With a strong jawline and perfectly combed hair, the new Father Thomas was the target of many wistful sighs and dreamy gazes in the all-girls convent. The clerical collar wrapped around his pale throat, and the all-black attire emphasised his tall and lean figure.

He was young to be a priest, his quick wits and intelligent eyes signalling to her that he must have skipped a few grades. His smooth complexion still held remnants of his boyish youth. His cheeks bloomed ecstatically when discussing Jesus. When he stood on the altar, his grey eyes shimmered passionately, changing colours in the kaleidoscopic lights of the rose window.

Ginevra had wondered several times before how many women wept at the news that he was becoming the messenger of Christ. But all the while, Ginevra had to say Father Thomas was born to be a priest. Her thoughts were interrupted, however, when the Father’s keen eyes flickered over to her.

“Yeah, he is quite fit, isn’t he?” Angelina’s playful voice seemed distant to her all of a sudden. Everything seemed to slow down as Father Thomas’ eyes appeared to follow her, even through the trees and sisters that passed between them.

Ginevra hummed absentmindedly as he finally blinked away, returning his full attention to the gardener.

“I suppose that man would drive anyone to depravity,” Lav murmured, and Ginevra finally tore her eyes away.

“Come on then, we’re gonna be late,” Ginevra sighed, picking up her speed and deciding to pull the sleeves of her two friends. “Sister Margaret isn’t going to take ogling at Father Thomas as an excuse.”

The very vocal complaints did not stop all the way to the classroom as Angelina and Lav staggered behind her, making it just in time for the afternoon Bible study. Ginevra bit her lips under the stern gaze of Sister Margaret, taking her seat in the usual spot between the two.

The bible study was, as always, mundane. Sister Margaret was not one of those gifted with public speaking, as her lecture droned on, her eyes piercing the Bible in front of her. ‘Lively Molly’ they sometimes called her, which did not fail to confuse the newcomers every time. Naturally, the class fell into the routine trance, including Ginevra, whose eyes drifted longingly to the view outside.

“The name of the Lord is a safe tower–,” Sister Margaret’s voice went in and out of focus.

Ginevra winced at the sudden tinnitus. But, soon came to realise that it was actually a phone ringing. She blinked away the drowsiness, awoken by the ringing that was effectively now functioning as an alarm clock. In the midst of the confusion, she found the phone, tucked away in the corner of the wall by the entrance. All these years she’d lived here, when she thought she had every detail memorised, she was surprised to find a phone there.

Sister Margaret sighed, visibly irritated by the intrusion, and shuffled towards it. The eyes of every girl in the room followed the occurrence that has never happened before – at least, not in her experience.

Sister did not hesitate to show her annoyance when she picked up the phone. The hmms and huhs pursued.

Her eyes flickered over to Ginevra, causing her to sit up. Sister Margaret raised a finger, and gestured for her to come over.

In a screech that seemed obnoxiously loud, Ginevra slowly pulled back her wooden seat and stood up. Her fists clutched her skirt as she manoeuvred her way to the Sister.

“For you,” was all Sister Margaret said as she passed the phone.

Taken aback by the unconventionality of it all, she took the phone, failing to come up with anyone who had the business of calling her. With one last sideway glance at her classmates, then at Sister Margaret, she turned to the corner for any privacy available to her in this very public room.

There was constant static and cracking that caught her by surprise. Despite the dreadful silence of the room, she closed her right ear, attempting to catch anything organic. Then, amidst the chaos, as if buried in the depths of static sand, a voice. Ginevra’s brows knitted, pushing the receiver further against her ear.

The calm, velvety, dulcet voice reached out to her through the cracks.

“Father Thomas?” Ginevra asked, her voice involuntarily getting louder against the static. “Father Thomas, is that you?”

Ginevra turned her head to Sister Margaret, who was continuing to watch the exchange in silence. Her usually stern frown was replaced with a sympathising look.

“Father Thomas,” Ginevra turned to the corner again at his voice that was becoming audible, enough for her to decipher that, at this point, Father Thomas was repeating the same message in an attempt to reach her.

“Father Thomas, the connection seems to be–,”

Ginevra’s voice trailed off, however.

Amidst the constant, callous crackling, Father Thomas’ voice resurfaced from the sand to voice the words, “There will be blood.”

She doubted her ears as she clung to the receiver. “Father?” her voice was shaky, submerged by the loud static.

He did not respond. In the distorted, monotonous voice that almost did not sound human, the voice repeated. As if the message has been recorded to be delivered right to her ear.

The same four words. Over and over.

Before she knew it, Ginevra had slammed the receiver on the wall.

Her breath fogged up the glass, temporarily obscuring her behind the white veil. When the veil receded, she did not recognise the reflection that she saw in the mirror. Her sharp nose. Her jutting cheekbones. Her freckles splattered. Technically speaking, they were the same shape, size, placed in their correct locations as they’ve always been.

But, in the mirror, the individual pieces had become distorted. Her left eye larger. Her nose cracked into two. off-centre to the right. Her lips off-centre to the right. Mutilated and Misplaced.

She did not know the girl that stood in front of her. This poor girl forced to the cliff of her childhood. Her sombre eyes caught sight of herself. Her hair frazzled and wild like they’ve not been combed for years. The fear, tremor etched into those steely blues at the metamorphosis she was beholding in the cracked reflection.

Strong. Brave.

The girl raised her head. Proud.

The girl in the mirror raised a hand. In her right, a shard of a broken mirror. In her left, she clutched a fistful of her hair.

Like a river, the red cascaded down her sides.

“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, a world without end.”

Ginevra gasped for air and tore her eyes open.

She wasn’t sure if she’d just fallen asleep and woken.

The space held a hyperrealistic detail to it, but she had no recollection of how she got here.

Like she’s always existed here in this spot.

Her careful eyes surveyed around her: an empty corridor. It was the annexe, the extra bedrooms haphazardly added as the number of sisters grew. Ginevra now stood in one of the many that faced the sister’s bedrooms, each corridor diverging and meandering like a maze. It was dusty, as always. And abnormally cold, like someone had left the window open.

Ginevra took a hesitant step forward, knowing the comfort of her own room awaited at the end of the corridor on her left. At the end of the current hallway, a window. From the looks of it, the dead of the night. In the deafening silence, the familiar hallway had never looked so foreign. Obsolete. Desolate.

Ginevra dragged her bare feet, her toes cold against the wood, to turn left.

The door on her left closed with a quiet thud.

Ginevra gasped. She breathed deeply, trying to compose herself. In the dim moonlight, she just about made out the metallic glint of 4 on its door. Lav’s room.

Ginevra stepped towards the same door that she leapt away from a mere second ago.

“Lav?” she whispered, knocking quietly yet somewhat urgently on the door. “Lav, are you awake?”

There was no response.

Ginevra swallowed hard. “Lav, it’s me,” she raised her voice.

The hallway was as silent as ever. Not a single whisper, cough, or rustling of the bed cover.

Ginevra looked at the sturdy door, intent on shutting her out.

“Lav…” Ginevra refused to acknowledge the feebleness in her voice, “Lav, was that–, was that you?”

The door remained lifeless and still. The silence was deafening, save for the huffs of her shallow breathing.

Ginevra felt a chill run down her spine, and with one last apprehensive look at the door, began walking to her room once more.

She had not taken more than a few steps when there was a click of a door knob. She turned her head, to find the door ajar once again. Ginevra watched nervously, her fingers subconsciously reaching for the rosary. She watched, waiting for Lavendar to poker out from behind the door, laughing and smiling at her.

But, in its ominous silence, nothing came.

Ginevra was now clutching the rosary tight in her fist as she turned around. Eager to reach the warmth of her room, her feet quickened. She clutched her black-leathered Bible against her chest. She dashed to her door, a sliver of warm light spilling from underneath it. How quickly her carefree youth abandoned her to fumble in the dark, searching for the dulled metallic glint of the doorknob. Ginevra ran a hand through her frazzled dark willowed hair that was obstructing her view, and reached out to the doorknob.

It slipped out of her palm.

Ginevra gasped, immediately withdrawing her hands. She stared at the dark smear on its dull metal. Her brows knitted, wondering where on earth it came from.

Ginevra squinted in the dark at her hands.

It was dark, viscous, and smelled of iron.

She felt her heart drop.

She had no recollection of how it got there. But, the string of the droplet that rapidly made its way to the floor, was unquestionably blood.

She screamed, rubbing away the thick coat of blood on the nearest cloth she could find: her white nightrobe.

“God will not forsake me. God will not forsake me,” she was now frantically whispering the same words the Father spoke to her. But, however many times she dragged her hands across the cloth, her hands seemed to be getting coated with more blood.

She was sobbing now. The strong scent of iron struck her nostril as she wiped away the tears with her fingers. She wanted to get back to her room now, more than ever. To fall asleep like everyone else and pretend everything was the same as always.

She shut her eyes, willing them to all go away. But, God was unforgiving to a girl who’d lost control.

When her eyes opened, she was still alone in the dark, the waist of her white robe now drenched in blood.

She slumped down to the floor but immediately jumped back, however, at the warm liquid she felt on her fingertips. She pushed herself up against the wall, watching in horror, as the black liquid continued to pool on the wooden floor. In the dim moonlight, she made out the blood that was coming from underneath the door, silently creeping towards her.

“Leave me alone,” She knew nobody was there to listen to her measly plea for help, yet Ginevra still whimpered, tasting the salt and blood in her mouth. She flailed her arm, in a futile attempt to shoe the liquid away.

The cross rattled. Ginevra’s eyes stopped at the rosary, now giving an obsidian, wet glint drenched in blood, still clutched in her hand. Swiftly, her eyes searched for the worn-out book. Ginevra reached for the Bible, just a few centimetres away from the lapping blood, still on the floor from the time she was wiping her hands.

Ginevra flipped the pages of the black-leathered book frantically. There was a loud bang, causing her to jump. She whipped her head towards the sound to find the wind that had pushed the window open. It was abnormally strong for indoors, causing the pages to flip and her blood-crusted hair to fly in all directions, obstructing her view. She squinted, and flipping to the desired page once more, began reading out loud. “I’ve commanded you to be brave and strong–”

The air flipped the book out of her hands. There was that phone ringing again in the distance, getting closer and louder. She clambered for the book once again and continued, now shouting over the ringing, “Don’t be alarmed or terrified, because the Lord your God is with you wherever you go–”

Her voice trailed off helplessly as the words of God began to disappear. She watched in shock at the sections of writing that began to dissolve into paper, as if the ink was dissipating in water.

“No,” her voice now devoid of hope at salvation, she muttered. “No, no, no, no, no…”

She flipped through the pages hysterically, searching for any remaining words. Index. A page number. Anything.

Her fingers dragged over the blank pages, leaving bloodied fingerprints.

Ginevra knitted her brows, as, through her fingerprints, the black ink floated to the surface. It was handwritten in elegant, elongated curves.

“You’ve lost control,” The line surfaced, its reproving words condemning her.

She stared at what was either a miracle or her hallucination. A single tear made its way down her cheek, onto the page. "I've tried, Father. " Ginevra was pleading before she knew it. "I promise, I tried," she sobbed into the crook of her elbow. Her hands folded over the pages, her body bent forward, begging for forgiveness.

“Control yourself or be controlled by the devil.”

“It didn’t work,” she banged a condemning fist against the blank page. “You said it’ll work!”

Ginevra raised her teary eyes just in time to see the words "It is not your fault," dissolve into the page.

Ginevra sniffed her nose. In the roaring wind, its pages fluttered violently. There was a glimmer of hope. The end of a tunnel. That despite it all, God may have had the heart to forgive her. The sound did not reach her ears as Ginevra's teary eyes watched the book expectantly for its next line.

“The blood of Eve runs through you.”

Something had snapped within her.

All those moments she’d tried, worked exceedingly hard.

The prayers in the freezing cold chapel. Rules and punishments for every minuscule act.

How to dress. How to speak. How to think.

It was never enough. No matter how hard she tried, it was never going to be enough. Her prayers were never going to be answered.

She gritted her teeth. The knuckles turned white as she gripped the book. In a fit of blinding rage, she grasped the shard of the broken mirror. The deafening sound was her own scream. Tears and blood ran down her cheeks.

The last thing she saw was the reflection of her wild blue eyes, her raging red hair, and her bared teeth as she plunged the shard into the Bible.

A/N: Thank you for reading! This was originally posted as part of the Quidditch League Competition on fanfiction.net

I chose to write from Ginny’s perspective as an unreliable narrator to emphasise her descent into madness. I tried to leave everything ambiguous as possible, sort of like absurd realism. Is this the devil’s work? Or is this simply the somatisation of the psychological distress from repressing her emotions, sexuality, etc.? Is Father Thomas the devil incarnate or is he simply the figurehead of repression that Ginny subconsciously tied to her experiences? (The visual connection of the bible to Tom Riddle’s diary, which Father Thomas promised Ginevra would work.) From what point on is it Ginny’s hallucination? And so on.

I also tried to add some allegorical meaning. Like her room, that is described as a space of safety and warmth, was her desire to return to the ‘womb’ so to speak, where she is allowed to remain a child. Her friends are still in their respective rooms. Lav may have considered letting her back into a bedroom, but ultimately, Ginevra’s never allowed back in.

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nesiylemon · 1 year

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Ah... just found out someone wrote a continuation to The Watch. I feel like things just went full circle. LMAO

The author said they reached out to me but I’ve no memory of it. Sorry about that!

It’s called The Scar by Comicker and I’m definitely going to read it when I get the time.

#gin n tonic #tom riddle x ginny weasley #tom riddle #Ginny Weasley #fanfiction

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prismolovesfanfiction · 1 year

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do you think kids with lisps were hated on more during the Chamber of Secrets stuff

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dracos-den · 1 year

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Happy Birthday to the one and only Tom Riddle! I am so excited to reveal the stories written by our wonderful members in honor of his birthday!

Authors, feel free to share your aesthetic in the comments below and we ask that you wait a full 24 hours before cross posting your story to AO3.

HAPPY NEW YEARS EVE, Den Mates!!

2023 is shaping up to be a year full of writing opportunities, so be sure to check us out!

https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DDRiddleMeThis/works

#tom riddle #dracosden #tom riddle x ginny weasley #tom riddle x hermione granger

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cubeapples · 1 month

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do you guys find anything interesting about tinny? (tom riddle/ginny weasley)

like... the power imbalance goes crazyyyyyy

#tom riddle #ginny weasley #tom riddle x ginny weasley #tinny #voldemort #lord voldemort #harry potter #send me asks

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chocolatecycledaze · 1 month

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Since I fell back into the gin'n'tonic hole here is my contribution🫶

#gin'n'tonic #tom riddle #ginny weasley #tom riddle x ginny weasley #ginny x tom #tom x ginny

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july-sunset · 20 days

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Sitting up late at night at her homework, Ginny saw words that didn't belong to her pen

#tom riddle #ginny weasley #tom x ginny #ginny x tom #gin n tonic #gin ‘n’ tonic #tom riddle x ginny weasley #ginny weasley x tom riddle #voldemort

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thestrangestriddle · 1 year

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Wrote this bit for the Kill Your Darlings exchange way back in October, so if Tom x Ginny is your thing and you don't mind things getting a lil nasty 🤭

Do give it a read

#gin n tonic #tom x ginny #tom riddle x ginny weasley #thestrangestfanfiction

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miryum · 4 months

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A Green and Silver Ring (Mattheo Riddle x Reader)

An arranged marriage between you and Mattheo, one that might lead to something beautiful

Word Count: 10.3k

I know I haven't posted in a long time but I have a plan trust the process. Also, this is me coming out and saying that I love Mattheo Riddle and he's amazing

Warnings: Swearing, bad and manipulative parenting from both Mattheo and reader’s parents, a lot of misogyny (a bit from Mattheo but he gets better by a lot and it’s not that bad), arguments, Tom isn’t Mattheo’s brother and Tom is a creep, arranged marriage, one bed trope, enemies to lovers, greek mythology reference, talk of kids, needing kids to carry on family lines, and kids. Mistress is the feminine term for master (so reader isn’t Mattheo’s side piece when I refer to her as mistress), old timey talk a bit, reader is a bookworm

From the desk of Ginevra

My dearest friend,

My parents have informed me of your engagement. I was ecstatic, yet surprised, when I heard the news. I was of the assumption that your parents were allowing you to choose your husband as your family line is secure in your brother and his wife. Yet, once I learned who your husband-to-be is, I was trepidatious.

My thoughts are with you, my darling friend, and I pray for you to write to me the moment you get my letter.

I hate to break the news, but you and your fiancé are the talk of high society. Never before have two such families been intertwined. Even I have had to scold my brothers for their gossip. They seem to forget that our families are close friends.

I do not ask why your parents have made such a decision. I know they are intelligent adults and surely must have a motive, but I admit that I am blind in that regard. Your engagement seems sudden and unwarranted to me. When questioned, my mother sighed and said I would understand when I grew older. My mother continues to baffle me. I have borne two children and a third on the way! If I am not mature now, I better gain some knowledge quickly.

Always remember that I am by your side. If you ever need anything, my door is always open to you. I am sure Harry will agree.

I love you, my friend.

Ginny

From the office of Lorenzo

Miss. L/n,

I believe we’ve never been formally introduced. I’m saddened to say that this letter is as formal as we’ll get - at least until your wedding. I am sure you must be taciturn and mercurial as of now. My father has told me much about you and I believe we’ll make excellent friends and confidants in our hectic world.

You’re to be my new half-sister, aren’t you? My relatives and friends are petulant to meet you.

Before any rumours (either about myself or your fiancé) hit your ears, I’ll put a rest to them. Bellatrix, your fiancé’s mother, had an affair with my father. They produced me and in return, I have the privilege of being your fiancé’s half-brother.

Being a bastard child, I’m no stranger to being ostracised and ridiculed. To be blunt, I’m sure that you will be ostracised alongside me and I believe that is one reason we can connect.

For rumours of my half-brother, I simply say this: do not fear him. He relishes in the consternation he places in other people, yet when he heard he was to marry you, I saw panic in his eyes like no other. It seems the tables have turned. He is hesitant to be wed, but you are not the problem. He simply doesn’t want to have the responsibility of another’s life on his. Your fiancé is used to belittling people - not supporting them as a husband should.

Any questions you have about your fiancé and my half-brother (whom in case I didn’t make clear, are one and the same), refer to me without any qualms. I am eager to meet you and hopefully make your transition into the Riddle family smoother.

I am well aware you have also lived your life in the upper echelons of society. But, as I’m sure you know, there are multiple circles in our complicated community. The L/ns, the Weasleys, and the Potters, for example, have grown their fortunes truthfully and innocently. They have earned the respect of their people and those whom they employ. The Riddles, Blacks, and Berkshires, on the other hand, have climbed the ranks in unconventional means and by skipping a few rungs on the ladder. They thrive and make their living on the terror and duress they cause those under them.

I’m looking forward to making your acquaintance.

Lorenzo Berkshire

P.S. I hope I haven’t scared you off.

From the office of L/n

Daughter,

You’ll be pleased to hear the engagement has gone through. Your mother and I met your fiancé last night. He seems like a nice man. He will be able to provide for you. His family is influential.

We will return home late tomorrow evening. You will depart for Riddle Estate in a week. Begin packing.

Your father

From the desk of Ginevra

Y/n,

You worry me with your lack of communication. Usually, you can’t wait to gossip with me. We have such fun at dinners and balls, yet with the most important aspect of yourself, you don’t respond. I’m simply worried, my friend. Are you alright? I can envision you curled in your bed, not letting anyone, even your nursemaid, into your room. Please do not let your impending marriage affect your state of health. It will turn out alright. Everyone I know (even me!) had apprehensions about their marriage. And with everyone I know, it turned out alright.

Misters Sirius and Remus visited Harry and I the day before last. They came to see James and Albus, but I know there was a hidden reason as well. They know of our friendship and came to ask if the rumours are true. As much as my husband adores them, Sirius in particular can be prone to gossip. The pair tittered and tsked when I told them of your fiancé. Sirius wishes to distance himself from his family, and I know he has pre-existing thoughts of the Black family, and by extension, the Riddles.

Sometimes I take a moment to gaze at the family tree upon my drawing room wall. It is full of interconnected lines and squiggles that sometimes, it makes my head hurt! The web of family ties is complicated and if we’re not somehow related already, I know that we will be once your marriage takes place. It seems the Black family spreads its roots into the Weasley family and the Riddle family- the latter of which you’ll soon be synonymous with.

Give yourself some grace. Your fiancé falls far from the tree; I am sure of it.

Please write to me. I need to make sure my closest friend is doing well.

Best wishes,

Ginny

P.S. Hermione wishes to inform you that, from what she’s heard, your Mr. Riddle is quite attractive. I have yet to hear any of the rumours myself, but at least your husband will be pleasing to the eye. Perhaps it will make the marriage more bearable.

***

Mattheo strode leisurely through Riddle Manor. It was one of the many estates his family owned, and it was soon to be officially his. Just as soon as he married the L/n girl.

The manor was spacious, which Mattheo couldn’t help but detest. How was he and a wife supposed to fill this void of empty rooms and dark halls? He knew servants and cooks would move in, but they wouldn’t occupy the dozens of upper rooms that were vacated.

For a brief moment, Mattheo couldn’t help but envision a set of children running around the halls. One of the children would run up to him, shouting, “Papa! Papa!” Mattheo would scoop the child up, grinning, and would carry them to their room. The room would be bright and cheerful, and maybe, just maybe, you would be sitting on a settee, cradling a newborn or helping an older child with their school work.

But for now, the room was dark and uninviting and he had yet to meet his future wife. He had seen a portrait of the L/n family and while they were in lavish, colourful clothing, Mr. and Mrs. L/n seemed cold and stoic - just like his parents. The children, an older son and younger daughter (whom he presumed to be you), seemed kinder and by their body language, Mattheo could tell that the two siblings were close.

Mattheo slowly made his way down the hall. There were three wings of the manor; two were residential and the other was designed for taking guests. The East Wing - in which he and Miss. L/n would stay - was also fit with an office for him. He was expected to take over half of the family business once he got married. The West Wing would remain empty for now, sans for a large library and the furniture in the bedrooms.

The boy knew that his bride was to arrive later that day. She would stay at Riddle Estate until the end of the week. Just three short days before they were to be wed in name. Mattheo would move into Riddle Manor tonight, giving servants time to wipe the dust off of tables, shine the silverware, and fluff the pillows.

Mattheo walked the halls of his new home. His mind was devoid of any thoughts. Perhaps it was simply because he was always numb. Even when he heard of his engagement, Mattheo didn’t make a fuss. He didn’t remember thinking anything. Nothing such as ‘Oh, I can’t wait to meet her!’ or even, ‘I can’t believe mother and father are arranging my marriage! She better be obedient.’

No, Mattheo had thought nothing of the sort. He had spent his childhood quietly observing his father and mother, noticing the amount of fear they could inflict on people just by silence. You didn’t have to be loud and dramatic to be powerful. You simply couldn’t be afraid to follow up on your promises - however deadly they were.

The only question Mattheo had asked when Bellatrix informed him of his engagement was, “and what do we gain from the L/n’s?”

Bellatrix had shot him an callous and apathetic look. “Do not ask questions you needn’t the answers to, boy.”

Mattheo had glowered, but shut his mouth.

As he neared the foyer, Mattheo couldn’t help but think how marriage was a component in all aspects of his life. When he got married to the L/n girl, he would inherit a portion of his father’s estates, company, and wealth. Mattheo chucked to himself. Maybe he should’ve gotten married sooner.

***

“Pray tell, why weren’t you here when she arrived?” Bellatrix snarled as she gripped Mattheo’s arm. Her nails dug into his suit as she dragged him towards the drawing room.

“I was busy,” Mattheo replied harshly. Love was not a thing that came instinctively to his family.

“Doing what? Planning your suidide?” Bellatrix scoffed. “I would march to the Underworld and choke Hades to bring you back.” Mattheo glanced down at his mother, hesitantly surprised. But he knew better than to raise his hopes and dreams. “We need this contract with the L/n’s,” Bellatrix continued and Mattheo’s jaw ticked. Of course. She didn’t love him; she never had. Her son was purely business. He should’ve known better.

“Maybe if you would tell me what the L/n’s provide for us,” Mattheo pulled Bellatrix back before she threw open the door to where you were. “Then I would be more complacent.”

Bellatrix sneered. “You think you’re smart, boy. You think you have everything figured out in that pretty little head of yours. But remember: you’re nothing without the Riddle family name backing you up.” She paused and licked her lips. “But if you must know,” Bellatrix sighed, giving into Mattheo. “The L/n’s just came into some very… lucrative land that we could gain from if you marry Miss. Y/n L/n.”

Mattheo’s eyes flickered to the drawing room door. After a moment, he asked, “is that her name? Y/n?”

Bellatrix stared at him, aghast. “You didn’t bother to learn her name?!” She scoffed. “With a son like you…”

She pushed open the drawing room doors and Mattheo trudged after her, muttering, “at least I know her name now.”

You had been waiting for seven minutes and thirty nine seconds in the drawing room of Riddle Estate, the trackage of time dependent on the old grandfather clock standing ominously in the corner. Its pendulum swung back and forth continuously as its second hand ticked by. Mrs. Riddle had left seven minutes and thirty nine seconds ago to fetch her son.

While the room was perfectly clean, not a speck of dust on even the highest chandelier, it was still a cold and morose room, yet oddly epochal. The wood was the darkest mahogany you had ever seen and the lights cast odd shadows on the dark green wallpaper that had inlays of gold.

Your teacup that you were trying to hold steady was filled with a sad excuse for tea. There was a ring of gold around the mouth of the teacup. On the table beside you, a notch that looked as if someone dug a knife into the surface caught your attention. It was the little things like this that you noticed when you had nothing else to do. Your mind was trying to distract you.

The door then swung open and there stood your fiancé, his stare daring you to oppose him.

“Uh,” you stood, your teacup and saucer still in hand. You quickly placed them on the table, right over the knife nick. “Y/n L/n,” you introduced yourself. You bowed your head in an informal curtsy.

Mattheo’s eyes flickered over your face. “Mattheo Riddle,” he said coldly. His voice was practically velvet. You didn’t mean to look him up and down, but you couldn’t help it. He was to be your husband, after all.

Mattheo’s hair coiled at the end and his eyes were just as dark as his curls. His nose had a scarred cut on it that looked as if it was just beginning to heal. Your fiancés cheekbones were practically sculpted from marble and for a moment, you believed that the gods had simply breathed life into a statue. Did this make you Pygmalion and Mattheo Galatea?

If it weren’t for their lethal eyes and stern posture, perhaps more would be friendly to the Riddles.

Mattheo spoke, “you’re to be my fiancée.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” You had the urge to add ‘sir’ at the end, but you bit your tongue.

Bellatrix hissed something to Mattheo and thrust a small object into his hands. Mattheo rolled his eyes and stalked towards you. “My family ring,” he grumbled. He held out an intricate silver ring with three bands interweaving. A green jewel cut into a thin diamond shape sat steadily in the middle. “It has been in the Riddle family for generations. It’s tradition to pass it down to the wife of the firstborn son. And now that is you…”

He trailed off and handed the ring to you, it laying flat on his palm. You took it from him, trying to minimise contact with Mattheo. You nodded in thanks and slid it into your ring finger.

It seemed too concrete to fathom.

Mattheo stared at the ring on your finger. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “My… wife,” he murmured halfheartedly.

***

Three weeks had passed since the wedding and it was as if you had never gotten married in the first place. Yes, it was unsettling to wake up in a bed that wasn’t your own next to a man that you were supposed to call your own. But other than necessary, Mattheo had hardly uttered a word to you.

In the three weeks you had stayed there, you had seen Mattheo a total of twenty eight times, including mornings and nights when you were forced to sleep in the same bed.

Your mornings, afternoons, and nights were all incredibly boring. You took long meals, pushing your food around. Sometimes you just sat by the window and watched the wind blow bits of grass and dirt past the window. The servants were still extracting the dust between the couch cushions and you tried to stay out of the way, but it only made you feel more isolated.

Mattheo was holed up in his office day in and day out. He had now inherited a large portion of his father’s company and Mattheo was determined to uphold the honour bestowed upon him. He had drafted contracts, sold and bought land, and even hosted a few dinner parties for his associates.

You detested the dinner parties. Thankfully, Mattheo had yet to invite you to one - hell, he had yet to speak to you about the dinner parties. You had learned of the first dinner party when you had wandered downstairs one late evening because you were thirsty. You had stared at the group of strangers, all dressed in elegance, as they stared back at you in your night clothes. Not saying a word, you had sighed and returned upstairs.

You hadn’t been eager for the marriage, but wouldn't it befit Mattheo to show some affection? Or at least acknowledge your presence?

While you had continuously tried to get your husband to open up to you, his answers had been short and venomous.

It had been a long, monotonous day for you. You had returned to the master bedroom about two hours earlier than you normally would have if you were at home.

With the wealth that you came from, the opulence was sure to be evident, but you had underestimated the Riddle family’s prestige. When Mattheo had first shown you your shared bedroom, you had to allow a flicker of surprise break through your facade. The bedroom was larger than any room in your old home and had a large bed in the middle. The lamps on the bedside table were always dimly lit and the design of the room was the same as the rest of the house - dark and bereft of love and care.

Your hair had been brushed enough, but you kept brushing simply for something to do while Mattheo finished up in the bathroom. Mattheo walked out of the ensuite with a towel wrapped around his waist. His curls were plastered to his forehead and a bead of water ran down his sternum.

Your eyes flickered to his figure through the mirror, taking in the dips and curves of Mattheo’s muscles as he silently got ready for bed. You tore your gaze away, berating yourself.

You built up your courage and tried to think of a conversation starter. You commented, “my parents wrote to me today.” After no reply from Mattheo, you continued, “they asked me when we would give them grandchildren.” You set your hairbrush down and stared at Mattheo through the mirror, looking for some sort of reaction.

Mattheo hummed noncommittally and put on some sleep pants. He used his towel to begin drying his hair. “It would be behoove us to produce some heirs,” he spoke. His tone was dismissive, as if children were nothing more than an obligation or duty to fulfil.

“Right,” you muttered, knowing that an uninterested reaction was all you were going to get out of him.

You stood and moved towards the bed. “Goodnight,” you whispered, turning off the bedside lamp and tucking yourself into bed. Mattheo was still putting on his nightclothes and had yet to get into bed.

As you turned off the light and got into bed, Mattheo finished drying himself off and slid into his own pyjamas. He sat down beside you, but didn't bother turning off his own lamp. Instead, he laid against the headboard, reading a book. "Goodnight," he finally mumbled, not even looking at you.

You curled into your blanket. After a moment, you asked quietly, “what book are you reading?”

He looked at you over the top of his book. "None of your business," he replied curtly.

You simply uttered, “okay.”

Mattheo felt an unwanted and unusual feeling root itself deep in his stomach. He scoffed and said sarcastically, "fine. Go ahead and keep asking questions all night long if it amuses you so." He opened his book again and pretended to read.

A longing and lonely pang resonated in your chest at his harsh words. You didn’t respond and instead turned your face into your pillow. You had known that your marriage was to be loveless, but it still hurt at every unspoken word. Perhaps, if you had been five years younger when you married Mattheo, your spirit would still be alive with the juvenile belief that you could stand up to him.

Mattheo huffed and his gaze turned up to stare at the wall ahead of him. “If you’re so miserable, then why don’t you just leave?” he snapped, not even bothering to hide his bitterness. “I am sure your family would simply love to have you back.” He flipped another page in his book, not even bothering to look at the printed words.

“I never said I was miserable,” you answered quietly, even though Mattheo knew it wasn’t true. Perhaps, though, you believed it to be true. You took a steadying breath, closing your eyes.

Your husband smirked and leaned against the headboard. “What do you call your attitude, then? Why are you so downtrodden and defeated? Surely, you can’t blame me for being frustrated by it.” He knew that he should be taking account of making you feel this way, but he still tried to justify his behaviour.

“Goodnight,” you reiterated.

Mattheo sighed dramatically. “Whatever,” he grunted. He closed his book, threw it on the nightstand, and turned off his lamp. The room was encased in darkness except for the dim moonlight coming through the window. He shifted towards the edge of the bed, making sure a noticeable gap was between the two of you.

He thought back to your conversation. “Why don’t you just leave?”

It was too late now to apologise.

***

Mattheo let the door swing shut behind him, returning to Riddle Manor after an outing with friends. He glanced around, waiting for a servant to take his coat, but no one answered. An eyebrow cocked, Mattheo slowly walked up the stairs, hearing you instruct the servants on something, every other sentence of yours either containing, ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. Up on the landing, he found you directing a servant who was pulling a rack of your clothing. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “Have you lost your damn mind? Are you trying to send a message or something?”

“You’ve made it perfectly clear that you have no interest in me, so I’m trying to make this marriage as civilised as possible,” you said diplomatically. “I believe that if I move to the West Wing and leave you in the East Wing, it will benefit our marriage.”

“What exactly do you hope to accomplish with this piteous attempt at attention?” he asked rhetorically. “Do you think it’ll make me want you more?” He stuck his tongue in his cheek, grinning incredulously. “You’re delusional if you think that’s even remotely possible.” He stepped closer to you, towering over you with anger in his eyes. “This is not some game, L/n. This is marriage. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.”

“I’m aware that we’re married, Riddle,” you retorted. “And don’t refer to me by L/n anymore. I am now a Riddle - just like you. However, I am not going to live in a state of constant sorrow and dejection. Having a wing of the mansion to myself may help.”

Mattheo’s jaw tightened as he stared at you, irritated by your resistance. “Fine,” he growled. “But don’t expect me to come running after you when you decide you want attention. You’re on your own now.” He turned away from you and walked into his now solo bedroom. “Just remember - this is your choice.”

You felt your anger inflate. “I thought you would like this!” Your voice rose and you tugged a hand through your hair. It was the first time in your marriage that you had fought back. “I have done everything I can to please you, yet nothing is enough for you!” Your voice turned desperate. “What do you want from me?”

He stopped in his tracks, turning around with surprise and disgust on his face. “Dammit, Y/n! Don’t yell at me like that!” His voice thundered, stepping towards you. “I never asked for any of this! I didn’t ask for a wife or for you to try so hard to please me! All of this is ridiculous.” His hand slashed through the air to make a point. “All I want is some space. Space to figure out what the hell I want. But let’s make one thing clear: I don’t care about you.”

“Am I not giving you space?” Your fists clenched at your sides. “I am moving out of the bedroom and out of your way. Yet, you erupt at me and get angry over nothing! You send me mixed messages and I don’t know what to do.”

Mattheo took a breath, trying to regain control over his emotions. “I am not erupting! Lord, you are so sensitive!” he snapped, running a hand over his face. “Can’t you listen for once? I am not sending you mixed signals. I am trying to figure out my place in this unorthodox situation we’re in.”

After a beat of silence, you asked firmly, “did you talk about me?” After seeing a flicker of confusion on his face, you clarified, “when you were out with your friends, did you talk about me? Did you rant about how annoying I was? Did you complain about marriage?”

His lips parted before taking a breath. “Yes, I talked about you,” he admitted begrudgingly. “I complained about how frustrating I find you and how frustrated I am with my parents for arranging this senseless marriage.”

“What did they say?” you insisted. “Did they sympathise? Did they laugh at me? Did they add fuel to your fire by commenting about how… how ‘needy’ and ‘sensitive’ I am?”

Mattheo made a low sound in his chest and rubbed his temples, frustrated by your persistence. “They agreed with me, yes. A few believed that you are too emotionally attached and sentimental. Others chalked it up to the pains of an average marriage.”

Your anger flared up and you said, “Let me tell you this: I never wanted marriage either. But I at least tried. I tried to be a nice and loving wife and a kind human.” You turned on your heel, marching out of the bedroom and towards the West Wing.

Mattheo watched you go, an unwanted feeling of guilt washing over him. He sighed and walked over to the window. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Why is everything so damn complicated?”

For the next couple of weeks, you stayed true to your word. You avoided Mattheo and his office and stayed in your wing of the mansion. After a week or two, you decided to explore the mansion, stumbling upon a magnificent library. You inhaled in veneration when someone cleared their throat. Mattheo stood behind you, raising an brow. After a silence, you said recalcitrantly, “you never told me that Riddle Manor had a library.”

He smirked at your thinly veiled hatred, amused despite himself. “Well, now you know,” he said dryly. “It’s a perk of living in a Riddle household.” He walked over to a bookshelf and began browsing for a book he required for a contract that was being drafting. He showed no sign of embarrassment or discomfort at your presence. “You may use it whenever you want. But don’t expect me to join a book club or anything juvenile.”

“I would never dream of it,” you said sarcastically. You step further into the library and can’t help but gape at the vastness. You trailed your fingers over the book spines, breathing in the smell of old books. You crouched down to examine a series of poetry titles. “I can read any of these?” you asked hesitantly.

He nodded and leaned against the shelf behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Feel free to read whatever you would like. They’re here for the entire household. Well, the servants don’t have time to read books, so in a Riddle household, the parents and children use the library the most.” Your hand faltered over the titles. “If you find something that catches your eye, go ahead and take it. I won’t stop you.” There was a hint of curiosity in his voice, as if he wished to know what topics and books piqued your interest. You hummed quietly, not fully acknowledging his words. You were already picking up a book and leafing through it. Mattheo watched you for a moment, his eyes softening briefly.

Everyday, you returned to the library. It was an escape from the walls of your room and the walls that Mattheo had put up around his heart.

Eventually, the servants recognised your routine and began to start a fire in the fireplace to keep you warm. They moved a loveseat in front of the fire that you gratefully used. You devoured the poetry collection, including Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe, and started on the classics. Every once in a while, Mattheo would come into the library, but he wouldn’t talk. He simply took a book and returned to his study. Sometimes, you wondered if he remembered you lived in the mansion with him.

Mattheo found himself frequenting the library more often, looking for books he had never needed before. A swell of pride filled him whenever he saw you by the fire, knowing that something in his home brought you such comfort. He still refused to speak to you, maintaining distance and ignoring your existence, but he found himself increasingly drawn to your presence.

One day, on a whim, he decided to take a risk and left a stack of his favourite books on the table next to your chair. That afternoon, you found the stack of books. You smiled despite yourself, though you didn't make any comment to Mattheo. You picked up the first book, sat down in the chair, and began to read.

A week later, Mattheo was hosting a dinner party for his associates. He didn’t say a word about it to you, though you heard the servants preparing for it. You decided not to go, opting to stay in your safe haven of the library.

After an hour or so of faint music, you heard the door to the library squeak open and your head whipped up. You saw one of Mattheo’s friends, Tom, enter and look around. He spotted you and his lips curled up into a smirk. “So you’re the wife we’ve heard so much about?”

Your stomach clenched and you replied, “I guess so.”

Tom’s smirk grew wider as he took in your terse response, enjoying your obvious discomfort. He approached you with a lecherous gaze in his eyes before asking, “and how do you find life as Mrs. Riddle? Are you enjoying your… arrangement?” His words dripped with sarcasm, not believing for a moment that you and Mattheo were married for love.

You stared at him. “It has its perks,” you said simply.

Tom laughed derisively at your response, not convinced by your nonchalance. “And what are those perks?” he asked, moving closer to you. “Extravagant gifts? Luxurious vacations? Or simply the privilege of being married to such a powerful man?”

You squared your shoulders. “I am powerful without a man,” you said sharply. “I do not need a man to determine my worth and prowess.”

Tom scoffed. “Really? How exactly did you become powerful on your own?” he asked, challenging you. “I find it hard to believe that you could ever achieve anything significant without the backing of a powerful husband behind you.” He leaned in closer, grinning.

You closed your book with a snap. “The L/n family,” you said, talking of your maiden lineage, “has had control over many estates and affairs for decades. Without Mattheo Riddle, I would’ve inherited half of it, second only to my brother. I would’ve had four auspicious companies at my ready disposal, capable of doing most anything. So, yes, sir, I would have been momentous without him.”

Tom’s smirk faded as he recognised your family name. He remained undeterred, however, stating, “that explains why your husband was so eager to marry you. He must see you as a valuable asset to his business empire.”

As you opened your mouth to retort, the door banged open and Mattheo strode into the library.

Mattheo had noticed Tom’s absence from his party, but when it became too long to be excused as a restroom break, Mattheo had asked his brother, Enzo, if he had seen where he had gone. Enzo had smiled a small smile and whispered, “Tom went to the library. Where your darling wife stays hidden.”

Mattheo saw red.

He barged into the library, a deadly, lethal, and borderline possessive look deep in his eyes. When he saw Tom flanking you, Mattheo’s expression darkened and his hands clenched into a ready fist. “What the hell are you doing here?” Mattheo demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “This is a private wing of my home - not some place for you to bother my wife.”

Mattheo moved closer to you, placing himself between you and Tom as if to protect you from further harm.

Tom quickly stepped back and placed a confident demeanour on his face. “I was simply having a conversation with your lovely wife here,” Tom gritted his teeth.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, showing clearly that Tom was lying and intruding. You saw Mattheo’s eyes flicker down to you, his eyes softening reassuringly before snapping back to Tom, malice in his gaze.

“Don’t lie to me,” Mattheo snapped at Tom. “There’s no need for any sort of interaction or conversation with my wife unless I am present.” Mattheo placed a hand on the top of your chair, his fingers gripping it and his bicep flexing slightly to warn Tom.

Tom’s eyes flicked with something you hadn’t seen before: fear. Fear commonly associated with the Riddle name. He adjusted his collar and straightened his posture. “Of course, Mr. Riddle,” he said bitterly.

You raised a brow. “I think it’s time for you to go now,” you said, your face stoic. Tom bowed his head slightly before exiting the library. You didn’t look up to meet Mattheo’s eye. You murmured, “you didn’t have to do that. I had it covered.”

Mattheo watched Tom until he completely left the room before turning to look down on you. His voice was threatening, “you may have been able to handle Tom, but I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting or harassing you while you’re under my roof. Consider this a warning - if anyone tries to cross you again, they will regret it.”

“Perhaps you should tell your coworkers that. Not me,” you replied.

Mattheo’s expression was cold. “Fine. I will,” he growled. “I will not sit idly by and allow anyone to disrespect my wife.” He let go of your chair and adjusted the cuffs of his suit. As if in a business meeting, he said, “And consider this another warning: if you continue to act so stubbornly, I won’t hesitate to remind you of your place in this marriage.”

“My place in this marriage is your wife!” you cried out, finally standing up. “Your equal! Something you seem to forget until it’s convenient for you. Or until another man threatens your… your property! I doubt you see me any differently than this house or your assets.”

Mattheo grabbed onto your arm tightly, pulling you close and leaning down so his face was inches from yours. “Do not ever speak to me like that. You are not my equal - you are my wife and I decide what is best for both of us. If you cannot accept that, then you should reconsider your place in this marriage.” He released your arm and turned away from you, striding towards the door. “I suggest you reflect on your behaviour,” he added icily, leaving the room without looking back.

After he left the library, you let out a scream of frustration. You shoved the pile of books that Mattheo had carefully curated to the floor. They tumbled down, book after book, covers opening and pages bending. Tears pricked at your eyes as you examined the scene.

You slumped into your chair, the fire in front of your crackling softly, emitting a calming warmth.

Eventually, you fell asleep in the chair, tear stains on your cheeks. In the morning, you woke to the serene morning light filtering into the room - a vast contrast to your mood. The fire had dissolved into crackling embers. Tucked on top of you was a thick blanket and the stack of books that you had pushed over had been re-piled and stood majestically atop the table.

You sighed, knowing you should thank the servants for taking care of you and cleaning up.

After you walked to the kitchen, your footfalls heavy, you thanked the servants, who were finishing preparing breakfast. They exchanged glances and one piped up, “Ma’am, while we appreciate the sentiment, we didn’t do that. We weren’t aware that you were still in the library. We believed you had retired to bed before the social last night.” They paused and then added, “however, Mr. Riddle didn’t go to bed. He was in his study until morning light.”

“Oh,” was all you could say. You bid them an awkward goodbye before entering the dining hall.

Mattheo was already seated at the head of the table, his expression exhausted and distant. He didn’t acknowledge you when you approached, focusing instead on the uneaten plate of food in front of him.

You sat down opposite him and muttered, “the servants informed me that you blanketed me last night and cleaned up the books.” You hesitated and finally said, “thank you.”

Mattheo looked up briefly, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t respond directly. “It was necessary,” he said simply. “You should not be cold and uncomfortable in your own home.” He doesn’t make any effort to engage in conversation beyond that. Something was weighing heavily on his mind and he seemed preoccupied by it.

You hummed in response. Eventually, you stood and whispered to your husband before walking out, “you are not as cold as you want to seem. You needn’t keep the facade up with me.”

Mattheo looked up briefly before returning to his food. His expression relaxed, but he didn’t respond.

***

Later that day, Mattheo sat in his study as he always did. A knock came from the door and he glanced at the clock. It was a bit early for lunch to be delivered, but he announced, “come in.”

The door creaked open and your head peeked into the room. Mattheo’s brows furrowed - not with malice, but with scrutiny. You entered and sat in one of the two seats next to his fireplace. Silently, you cracked open a book you had brought and began to read.

Mattheo watched you intently, his gaze never wavering as he took in every detail of your face. He tried to find any acrimonious intent behind your actions, but you looked so peaceful. He found himself noticing the details of your face and your beauty as the fire cast warm highlights on your eyes. “What are you doing?” he asked eventually, his voice holding an armour of needed suspicion.

“Reading,” you said simply.

Mattheo frowned, not convinced by your answer. Why would you read in his study after the way he had been treating you? He leaned back in his chair, his work forgotten. “Isn’t there something more important that you could be occupying your time with?” he challenged.

“Not particularly,” you responded. “You’re in charge of the companies and estates. I have nothing to do. I thought I would accompany you. You must get lonely in a study by yourself.”

Mattheo narrowed his eyes, but ultimately nodded slowly. “Alright,” he agreed after a moment. “But don’t think I will stop working simply because my wife is here.” His posture grew taut as he began looking over documents again. “This is still my office and I expect you to behave accordingly.”

“I’m simply reading,” you murmured, a smile inching its way up your lips.

Henceforth, a routine was established. Every morning, you would knock on Mattheo’s study door, usually an hour or so after he began working. There was rarely conversation, the silence being broken by Mattheo’s scratch of a quill or you turning pages, occasionally being disrupted by the loud crack of a log in the fire.

One day, you had finished your book (it was an excellent book, one from the pile Mattheo had recommended) and stood to go retrieve another one. At the sound of your footsteps leaving his office, Mattheo’s head darted up and he suddenly asked, “where are you going?”

You paused and turned back to him. “I’m to get a new book. Unfortunately, as wonderful as this one was, it had an ending like all books do.”

Mattheo frowned and a hint of vulnerability broke through his exterior. “Get a servant to do it,” he offered.

“Well, I don’t know which one I want,” you counted, raising a brow in a smirk.

He huffed and shook his head, returning his eyes to his documents. He grumbled, “I will commission the servants to build you a small bookshelf for my office. You can keep your books there.” You stood, watching him for a moment, admiring him until his gaze snapped up. “Well, go get your book,” he said sharply. “… but hurry back,” he added in a mumble.

You finally smiled at him before exiting and Mattheo gazed at the place you once stood, trying to memorise how your lips curled up and your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

He rather liked it when you smiled.

***

“Are you alright?”

You sniffed and laughed. “Yes, yes. I’m being foolish.” You wiped some tears from your eyes. “My book is very good.”

Mattheo chuckled lowly. “And what made you cry, hm?”

“A daughter and father interaction,” you replied quietly.

“Was the father cruel to the daughter?” Mattheo laughed tersely, shaking his head at his documents. “Are your feelings not strong enough to withstand their wrath?”

You frowned at Mattheo, setting the book down. “No,” you corrected slowly. “The father was being kind to his daughter. He was supporting her and loving her; as a father should.” There was a pause as Mattheo looked up at you. “I know that the Riddles are a harsher family - I’ve known ever since I knew I was to marry you. But… but are you alright?”

You felt absurd asking the question. Yet, when Mattheo couldn’t meet your eye, a wistful sadness blanketing the room, you felt as if you should’ve asked the simple question weeks earlier.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then Mattheo turned in his chair so his back was facing you. "I'm fine," he finally answered, his voice rough and strained. "I am used to dealing with it, I suppose." Despite his insistence that he didn't need anyone's pity or concern, your words seem to have affected him more deeply than he wanted to admit.

“May I ask a question?” you asked softly.

Mattheo hesitated for a moment before nodding, his eyes never leaving the window as he spoke. "Ask away," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He then cleared his throat and said, "but I won’t give a warm and fuzzy answer."

There was a pregnant pause in the air as you gathered your courage up and suddenly thrust your fears upon your husband. “If we ever have children, which we’re somewhat expected to,” you added hurriedly. “I don’t want them to grow up in a household where they feel as if they have to vie for love or attention. And I don’t want me to be the only one giving them attention.” Mattheo turned his head so his face was angled toward you, but his eyes could still stray to the window if need be. “If we have kids, can you promise that you’ll love them? Even if you don’t love me?”

Even though your voice was steady, Mattheo knew of the vulnerability deeply rooted within you.

He nodded cautiously, his expression serious. "I promise," he said firmly. "I may not love you, but I will love our children unconditionally. They will never have to compete for my affection or feel neglected. I may not be a fond father, but I will provide for them and protect them as best I can." A protectiveness filled his veins just at the thought of something happening to his future children.

You nodded once, a sad smile on your face. “Perhaps we’ll have a big family. Enough children to start a sports team.” You smiled at the thought, laughing lightly.

Mattheo smiled, despite himself, imagining a large brood of children running around the manor. It was an oddly appealing idea, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud. "We'll see," he said noncommittally. "I'd rather have lots of sons; they'll carry on the family name and ensure my legacy continues." He turned back around and attempted to focus on his work.

“And daughters too.” You frowned, staring at your husband, even if he wouldn’t spare you a glance. “Daughters can carry on the family name just as well as sons.” A muscle in your jaw ticked.

Mattheo scowled at your defiance, his eyes narrowing slightly. Why hadn’t you just fallen into line? "Fine, daughters too," he reluctantly agrees. "But make no mistake, they will be raised to be strong and capable like their brothers. The Riddle name demands nothing less."

“And the sons can be soft and caring and sensitive,” you said firmly, crossing your arms. “I thought we agreed that they wouldn’t have to vie for affection. I thought we agreed that they wouldn’t have needless competition in their life. I don’t want them to grow up… like, well… you.” You finally uttered the words that had been hanging off your tongue dangerously.

Mattheo’s expression hardened as he clenched his fist tightly. "Fine!" he snapped. "They can be whatever the hell you want them to be! But don't expect me to sit back and watch while they become weaklings and failures. We need to teach them to be strong and ruthless like I am." He stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair in the process.

You jump up after him, crossing towards him. You whirled to a stop in front of him, jabbing a finger towards his chest. “Listen here, Riddle. Just because someone is kind and vulnerable doesn’t mean they’re weak!” You growled, “and just because you grew up like that, does not mean that’s the type of household I am going to have.”

Mattheo stepped forward and his hand flew up to grip your wrist. His eyes blazed with anger, but then something changed in his expression and he took a step back, looking surprised at his own reaction. "You're right," he admitted begrudgingly. "I shouldn't have assumed that being vulnerable meant being weak." He ran a hand through his hair, looking embarrassed, yet resolute in his decision. "But don't expect me to be a pushover either. I'll still teach them to be strong and independent."

“Strong and independent are good qualities,” you conceded. “Both for the boys and girls.”

"Agreed," he said. Mattheo straightened his cuffs and cleared his throat. "Our children will be taught to be strong and independent, regardless of gender. They will know that they are loved and valued by both of us, equally." He held out his hand to you, indicating that the argument was over - for now at least. "Deal?"

“Deal.” You shook his hand defiantly. It was a business deal, but a good deal at least.

Mattheo exhaled and brushed past you. “I’m to a meeting,” he informed you. It was a simple comment , one that was an offhand remark, but to you, Mattheo had just let you into his life. It was something he had never done before. Even if it was just a response to where he was off to, it was a window into his life. A life that now may have enough room to hold you.

Mattheo paused when he reached the door. “I never knew the way I grew up was wrong until I saw other families. I saw the parents bending down to listen to their children instead of hushing them. I saw parents comforting their children after scraped knees, not pushing them to the kitchen for some rubbing alcohol. I saw parents beaming when their child could plunk out the simplest of tunes on the piano. No one else got berated for being out of rhythm or playing a D instead of an E. I never saw another child get slapped by their parents or scolded as harshly as I was. It was around then I realised that something was wrong. But what was I to do about it?”

Words dried in your throat. You wanted to cry at his words, but you felt dried out. How could someone treat their child like that? It explained so much…

Your husband was a fragile man, you were just realising. And he was trying to pick up the pieces and present them to you in the only way he knew how.

"The stars remind me of you,” he said quietly, the change in conversation sudden. “I mean that in the best possible way.” His voice was the softest and most tender as you had ever heard it. You hoped he would keep speaking the melodies that made your heart sing in tune.

“How so?” you asked, afraid to break the plane of existence that you and Mattheo were carefully standing on.

"They are so beautiful, yet so far away. I may see them, but I can never touch them."

***

The servants didn’t know what to do. The master and mistress, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, seemed to be at a ceasefire. The cooks lamented at how they had seemed to be doing so well. The maids thought they were destined to doom from the start. The butlers gossiped about Mr. Riddle’s letters to a Mr. Tom, terminating their long-term partnership. The scullery maid still had hope that the husband and wife would come to their senses and live a happy life.

It perplexed the servants when the mistress requested to move her belongings back into the master bedroom and the master looked on, a soft smile on his lips. It confused the servants when the Mr and Mrs began taking meals together and talking in hushed tones late into the night. And it bamboozled the servants when, one summer afternoon, the Lord of the household stood from his desk, cautiously moved to his Lady that was reading by the open window, and asked her to accompany him on a walk. She had accepted.

There was to be a dinner party, this time hosted at Mr. Draco Malfoy’s manor, that Mr. Riddle was expected to attend. Per usual, the master didn’t invite the mistress, but she was content to stay home. A maid briefly heard the madam whisper to her husband, “hurry home, please? I don’t like it when you’re away.” The maid had scurried away before she could hear the reply.

Mattheo returned home that night, just before the sun was setting. He climbed the steps, unbuttoning his cuffs and loosening his tie. The soft glow of light was still shining under your shared bedroom - something he still hadn’t gotten used to - and Mattheo couldn’t help but smile.

“Why are you still up?” he asked quietly when he entered the room.

“You promised to be home early and I wanted to see you before I go to bed,” you reminded him, a small book in your hands.

“Right, right.” Mattheo chuckled and shook his head, slinging off his tie and jacket.

“How was the dinner?”

Mattheo hummed noncommittally. “Not the worst. A couple of my good friends, Theo and Pansy, were there to help alleviate the pain of socialising. But… I found something odd happening.”

“And what was that, husband?” Mattheo took a moment to relish in the way that word curled off your tongue effortlessly.

“I found myself wishing you were there. Nay,” he quickly corrected himself. “I wished I was here with you.”

“Oh?” Your eyes flickered up towards Mattheo, a slight blush coming to your cheeks. “Why… what do you mean by that?”

Mattheo began to unbutton his shirt and moved towards his closet. “Well,” he admitted, mumbling to himself. “I simply mean that instead of having to socialise with people who are too tightly wound and whose only intent is to take my money,” he chucked his belt into his closet and rolled up his sleeves, “I would rather be at home with my darling wife.”

A smile inched up your lips. “Really? Tell me more about this darling wife of yours.”

Mattheo hummed, stepping towards the bed. He crawled down on the bed, leaning on his forearms to lean up towards you. “My wife… I’ve come to care deeply about her. She is a beautiful, elegant woman, one who has a fiery tongue about her and an intelligent brain that even I cannot rival. She always seems to get her way, even when I try to fight back. It’s as if my wife has a command over me that I have willingly submitted to. And I am not ashamed to say so.” He lightly caressed your arm, sending a trail of goosebumps up your skin.

“You must be careful, Mattheo,” you uttered. “That sounds an awful lot like love.”

Mattheo brought his eyes up to meet yours, the sting of tears building up behind them. His voice cracked as he said, “that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name, Y/n.”

Your lips parted in shock. “I- I didn’t realise. I’m sorry-”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” Mattheo demanded before reaching up to pull you into a kiss.

His lips were soft and meaningful against yours, hungrily trying to gather every ounce of love from you. His kisses were feverish at first, his strong hand coming up to cup your jawline, his fingers just teasing behind your ear, before his lips slowed. Mattheo was a starved man and he wouldn’t let anyone take away his only solace. He shifted so he could be closer to you, gently taking the book from your hands as you surrendered yourself to him. Your hands found his silk shirt, gripping it in your fists. He placed the book on the nightstand and moved so he was hovering over you, never once letting a second go by without feeling your skin against his.

Mattheo slowly, achingly pulled away from you and his eyes fluttered open to meet yours. “My darling, my love, my life,” he murmured, dragging a knuckle down your cheek. “I apologise for everything I have ever done or said that made you feel inferior. I would be happy to kneel for you in front of my associates and family members - just to show them how much power you have over me.” He took a breath before persisting, “I was foolish. I was incompetent. I didn’t realise how much love I held for you. It is, and always will be, only you. I will promise you this: you will be the only woman I ever touch, the only voice I ever want to hear, the only skin I will ever caress, and the only eyes I ever want to see. I will wake and fall, every morning and night, thinking of you. You are the other half of my heart, for it is you who I love. I will place the galaxies and stars in the night sky for you. If you are ever unhappy, my love, I will not rest until I see you smile again. If you are ever mad, my love, I shall smite whatever upsets you, even if it is I. And I would die a happy man if you could give me only an ounce of what I give you.”

Your breath shook and you swore Mattheo had injected ambrosia into your veins for you were sure your blood was singing with the love that was filling your soul. “I wrote a letter to your mother today,” you offered quietly, as if your mere words could ever compare to the love poem Mattheo had just gifted to you. “And I thanked her.” Mattheo’s eyes flashed with confusion. You continued, “I thanked her for birthing such a wonderful husband and for raising him. I know you u wish to renounce your family, but as of now, I want to thank them with all my heart. Mattheo, I love you.”

“And I you,” Mattheo whispered, bringing his forehead down to rest on yours. His nose bumped against your cheek and he couldn’t contain his grin anymore. “How did I ever get so lucky?” he mumbled.

You laughed lightly. “Luck? Fate?”

Mattheo shook his head and his nose brushed light curves over your skin. “No, my wife. Simply love. Pure, unconditional love.”

***

The house was bright, the curtains pulled as far open as they could be. Some servants scuttled around, holding laundry or preparing for dinner. Meanwhile, Mattheo strode leisurely through the halls, smiling lovingly as his nephews chased each other through the halls. “What do I say, boys?” he called after them.

“Have fun, be safe, and don’t get caught!” they yelled back before running around a corner.

Enzo jogged after them and grumbled to Mattheo, “it’s not your duty to rule them up.”

“As their favourite uncle, yes, it is.”

“Your wife is in Andromeda’s room,” Enzo told his brother before sprinting off after his sons. Enzo wasn’t usually at Riddle Manor, but today was a special day. It was Orion’s birthday.

Mattheo chuckled to himself before Orion raced up the steps, panting. “Papa! Papa!”

Mattheo grinned widely and scooped Orion up. “Are you alright, hm? What’ve you been up to?”

“Aunt Pansy’s carriage just pulled up!” Orion bounced in Mattheo’s arms, beaming.

“And you’re not even dressed,” Mattheo stared at Orion, pretending to be stunned. “Where’s your mother, Ori?”

“She’s helping Andy get dressed,” Orion announced. Mattheo nodded and carried his son to his daughter’s room. “Mum!” Orion cried out, seeing Y/n standing behind Andromeda, knotting her hair into a braid.

“Oh, my darling,” Y/n tied Andy’s hair up before crossing to Mattheo and taking Orion from his arms. “Are you excited for your birthday?”

Orion hummed excitedly and wiggled down from Y/n’s arms. He darted to Andromeda and wrapped himself around her in a tight hug. Andromeda grumbled, but allowed him to cling to her as she finished her hair and rouge.

Mattheo took Y/n’s hand and pulled her back toward him, nudging his nose against hers. “Look at that,” he murmured, reaching down to play with the silver and green ring on your finger. “Mine.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. Slowly, as to not arouse suspicion from your children, he backed you up and caged you against the wall in his arms. “Seven years with you and two beautiful children to show for it.”

“Hey, mum? Where’s my- eugh!” Andromeda turned around and reeled back from the scene in front of her. “For the love of Salazar, please get a room!”

“We are in a room.” Mattheo smirked, glancing up from the crook of your neck.

“Aren’t you two, if I'm doing my calculations correctly, nearing thirty years old?” Andromeda tsked and rolled her eyes.

“You believe that simply because we’re getting older, I’m going to stop loving your mother?” Mattheo chuckled before pressing a light kiss to your jawline.

You shivered and tucked your face into your husband’s chest. “Matty, spare the poor children,” you chastised lightly. “What do you need, darling?” you turned towards Andromeda.

“You used to call me that,” Mattheo whined. He stepped back from you, letting you out of his embrace.

Andromeda sighed and asked, “where is my white shawl? It’ll go well with the dress I’m planning to wear to Orion’s party.”

“Why does it matter what you wear to Orion’s party?” Mattheo asked, puzzled.

“Because Albus Potter is going to be here,” you said as if it were obvious.

“Harry Potter’s son?” Mattheo asked incredulously. “That scumbag?”

Both you and Andromeda ignored Mattheo and Orion left the room at the sound of Aunt Pansy entering the foyer and shouting out for her favourite nephew.

“Your shawl should be in the library,” you answered. “Ori was using it as a blanket yesterday.”

Andromeda sighed and turned towards the door. “He needs to stop taking my things. Just last week he stole my candelabra so he could read in the dark. Perhaps you should accelerate his schooling. He’s getting bored, you know.”

“We’ll raise our own son, thank you, Andromeda,” Mattheo raised a brow. Andy huffed and and flicked her dress out behind her dramatically, exiting the room. Mattheo turned to you and said, “they get that from you. The love of reading.”

“Yes, but they get their flair for the dramatics from you. And lest us not forget, you keep fuelling our love of literature by buying more books and expanding our library,” you countered.

Mattheo hummed. “‘Tis true. But how could I live without spoiling my wife and children?” He whirled you around in his arms and pressed a long kiss to your lips. “Speaking of children, what would you think of expanding our family?”

You let out a laugh. “You simply like the act of making a bigger family.”

“I love my children too,” Mattheo defended.

You reached up and brushed some of his hair away from his face. “Yes you do,” you smiled up at him. “You love your family very much.”

“Always.”

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