tomriddlehyperfixataion

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

the dark lord and his distraction / tom riddle

pairing: fem!reader x tom riddle

content: muggleborn!reader, swearing

summary: you distract tom from his plans. and he hates it.

a/n: this is my pt. 2 to the lamb and her wolf! idk if i like this but i kinda do but Arghh idk. there will prob be a part 3. love u guys!

read part one here!

⋆ ࣪.  ⁺⑅ ⋰˚ *.ﾟ .˳⁺⁎˚ ˚⁎⁺˳ . ༺ ˖࣪ ˖࣪ ∗

“Hello!” you chirp, skipping over, books in hand.

Tom’s not looking for company. In fact, he was actively avoiding it. He couldn’t continue to be distracted by you. He had work to be done, meetings to be held. But he’s a weak man recently. “Hello.”

You set your things down and lace your arms around his neck suddenly. He’s absolutely horrified. “Thank you for your help studying, Tommy, I’ve passed my exam with full marks!”

He clears his throat and you leave a patch of goosebumps in your wake. “You’re welcome,” he drawls. “You wouldn’t have to spend so much extra time revising if you’d only paid attention in class.”

Tom knows you’re merely a distraction, an inconvenience to be ignored. Deadweight to his plans. You’d be a mistake. It’s obvious what he should do. He should send you off on your merry way and end whatever friendship has blossomed between you, so you at least have a chance at living. For someone so obsessed with immortality, Tom knew he was a dead man the moment you strut into his life, all smiles and Mary Jane’s. But he’s selfish, and so you were dead right with him, that very minute.

He doesn’t like anything you bring. He doesn’t like the reactions you elicit from calling him Tommy and he doesn’t like how you make him happy. Or hopeful. There is no hope for him. He’s destined to live a half-life and he doesn’t like that he wants to make you live that life too.

And you’re not entirely stupid. You know there’s something strange about him and that’s exactly why you come every day with your books and snacks. You’re curious. He’s haunting— a concoction of allure and fear and it’s all but enticing. “Well, who wants to do that? You’re a far better teacher.”

His face casts the ghost of a smile. “Don’t you have chess club in 15 minutes?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there,” you say, easily. Then the realisation dawns on you: You’ve never given him your schedule. “Wait a second,” you laugh. “How do you know that?”

He holds an even tone. “Not hard to guess.”

You blink. Change the topic. “You’re very pretty, you know?”

His knees almost give out and he’s seated comfortably on a chair. “Thank you,” he whispers, trying hard not to sound surprised. He’s not unaware of his good looks, but how anyone could be so casual about it is beyond him.

You’re an aberration, he thinks. No, he’s sure. You write notes in the margins of his textbooks and fall asleep on his shoulder. And when you do so, you let out the cutest little snores and purr. Like a fucking kitten. It drives him to insanity and even deeper into his spiral.

“No, like, you are super pretty. It’s kind of otherworldly.”

He’s not too sure what to say. He’s never rendered speechless by anyone, but fuck, you’re his exception to just about everything. Instead, he stiffens and breathes out a small, “That’s kind.”

Your cheeks dimple and Tom swears he sees his future. But that’s crazy. He has to remember who you are and hell, who he is. He’s the Dark Lord, evil, no matter how you see him in that pretty head of yours. And you’re a filthy Mudblood.

It’s been two days and he hasn’t seen you anywhere. He’s starting to think there *is* no cure to his hysteria because he acts crazy in both your presence and absence. He thinks about you too much in both. He’s looked everywhere; in all your classes and even your dorm that he’s managed to find.

He’s about giving up. There is no point because you’re meant to be temporary.

“Hi,” you say, breathlessly as you appear behind him, startling him into oblivion. He’s a skilled Legilimens so he should’ve heard your thoughts as you creeped up, but he was too busy with his own about you.

He conceals his relief and narrows his eyes. “You have been gone.”

You look a little disheveled but beautiful as ever. Tom doesn’t sweat, but it feels like he’s going to. “Family stuff. You know how it goes!”

Tom doesn’t know how it goes. He’s used to abandonment and lonely holidays. He doesn’t know how it goes but he knows how it feels to dread the Christmases and Easters and summers because all he can look forward to is disappointment.

He winces. You notice and cringe. You don’t know much about his family but judging by that reaction, it’s no good. “Mm,” he manages. It’s silence for a bit. Comfortable silence. He’s secretly relishing in your company. “I didn’t like it when you were gone.”

What a fucking tool.

The corners of your lips curl into a soft grin. “You are adorable!” you giggle. He’s mortified.

You haven’t really told any of your friends about your blooming acquaintanceship with Tom Riddle. After all, he’s not really known for his friendliness. But you trust Camilla. And you’ve used up the last of your excuses for bailing on meals to study with him.

“Riddle. Are you joking me?”

Your eyebrows quirk up. “No. He’s a breath of fresh air from the Hogwarts hustle. Not much of a talker though. I do most of that.”

She smiles a little like it’s expected of you but it fades once she refocuses. “He doesn’t like us Muggleborns, you know.”

“That’s silly.”

“Only true. I heard Mulciber whispering about it. Like, they really don’t like us. No wonder he’s such a git towards me in class.”

“Have you ever actually spoken to Tom, though?” You fold your arms over your chest. You’re not too sure why you’re being defensive.

“Well, no—“

“That’s what I thought! You don’t give people chances, Camilla. You rely on gossip to fuel your opinions,” you spit.

Camilla puts her hands up in surrender and starts talking about the cute Ravenclaw boy she’s planning to ask out.

“Oh! And I think Murphy fancies you! He asked me to ask you how you felt about him.”

You thought about him for a moment. He’s nothing special but he’s attractive and you’re honestly willing to give it a shot.

Tom is fuming, hearing what you think. Listening from around the corner and it’s creepy and borderline stalker-ish but he’s begun to feel a strange protectiveness over you. Frenzy and all that.

So, yes. You’re merely a distraction, an inconvenience to be ignored. Deadweight to his plans. But… you were a desire. A selfish, greedy desire.

And Tom always gets what he wants.

taglist for this series! @helalokithor @mli345 (can’t find ur blog so sorry!!) lmk if u want to be added!

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

Pre wwii what would conditions in the orphanage Tom grew up in hsve been like? (Ie in the 1926-37 period)

Honestly, conditions would've been pretty shit. Firstly disease was rife, especially as the East End (where Wool's presumably is) was a slum throughout the Industrial Revolution and into the 20th century (with it only really changing post WWII). Tom would be familiar with stuff like mumps and whooping cough, even if he never got sick himself due to magic protecting him (as we see with Harry). But they'd also be other diseases like tuberculosis, diphtheria, scarlet fever, rickets, polio and even the flu. It's likely multiple children at the orphanage would have physical disabilities due to polio maybe even with callipers (a permanent kind of splint to help people who'd suffered from polio walk). While children would often be isolated with most illnesses, it would be incredibly difficult for an orphanage to do so, and it's probable that children died as bouts of sickness and disease spread through the orphanage. Kids who were one day at dinner are gone the next.

The first legal precedent for adopting children occurs with the Adoption of Children Act in 1926, so legal adoption how we understand it today, was fairly new. Children were lined up on Sundays, washed and in their best clothes (after attending church!) for rich people to adopt, but it tended to be a way for getting free labour rather than out of an actual desire to have children to love and care for.

I'm not sure what JKR was basing her orphanage off (likely something modern), but Tom probably wouldn't have gotten his own room, even if he was considered 'insane'. There simply wasn't enough room. Children shared a dormitory, one that could be overstuffed and cramped, sometimes even with several children to a bed. Food was similar — it was a cramped long hall (almost like a smaller, horrible version of the great hall) with rows of tables and children waiting their turn for a meal. They were probably only given one or two a day; likely gruel in the morning and bread with a stew in the evening. Tom's diet would've been vegetarian because meat was insanely expensive, although he may have had meat on Christmas and potentially Sundays if the orphanage could afford it.

On that note, Tom and the other orphans would've been Christian, most likely CoE. Although Catholic orphanages did exist, Wool's is not named after a Saint and so was more likely Protestant. Tom would've gone to church every Sunday, perhaps in a chapel on Wool's grounds, although if not, it would've been at the local church. He also would've been expected to pray. He'd go to Sunday School alongside normal school (which would've been at the local public school or perhaps, if Wool's was especially large, which I don't think it was, there would've been one of the staff who could teach or they'd bring someone in). For Christmas itself, Tom would likely get an orange which was incredibly special due to his diet likely not including fruit.

Tom would've shared everything, including clothes. He probably didn't even have underwear, and may sometimes have had to wear dresses/frocks, especially when he was younger, due to a lack of clothes. These clothes would've been stiff and itchy, potentially with lice. They would've been washed once a week, as with the orphans themselves (in large buckets!), and been hung out to dry on huge lines. Depending on how many clothes there were to go round, Tom would've spent this time in underwear (although sometimes orphans didn't even have this) or in another pair of clothes that had been worn by other children hundreds of times before. It's no wonder Tom stole — he literally had nothing, not even his own clothes (and perhaps not even underwear either).

Tom would've been expected to care for children younger than him, including babies, from a very young age. Even if he didn't enjoy it, Tom would've been good with young children and it's no wonder he was able to make Head Boy at Hogwarts because of it.

The Great Depression would've made these conditions worse. Although some of the conditions would've improved over the years, the Great Depression meant that everything was more expensive. Meals were probably downsized, if not cut entirely to one a day. The amount of kids at the orphanage probably rose during this time due to parents having to abandon children, which would've been especially prevalent in the East End which, as I've mentioned previously, was just slums and dockyard. Meat probably disappeared completely from Tom's diet, even at Christmas.

All in all, Tom's early life and conditions at the orphanage were grim. Kids died around him, conditions were cramped with diseases, illness and lice, he'd not even have his own clothes, meals would be limited, he'd spend his free time looking after kids younger than him and he'd fear being adopted. The roaring twenties were shit and the thirties shitter still. Hogwarts would've been the best thing that ever happened to Tom — it's no wonder he called it his home.

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

⚡→🐍←⚡

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

pairing: Tom riddle x Fem reader

warnings: Horcruxes, Manipulation, Tom being Tom,

summary: 16-year-old (y/n) finds a mysterious black book on the floor of after it slips out of Ginny Weasleys caldron, curious, she picks it up and keeps it-which leads to one thing after another and discovers the book is far more than it seems.

-Part 1-

=

From the corner of her eye; (y/n) spotted a thin black book with gold corners slip out of the youngest Weasley's cauldron as they walked out of the book shop after Malfoys dad and Weasley's dad had a fist fight in the middle of the shop.

Curious, (y/n) walked over to the book and picked it up, it was unassuming, plain even, but with nice black leather and gold plated corners. flipping the book over, her eyes drew to the letters at the base of the back cover.

"Tom, Marvolo, Riddle," (y/n) said quietly to herself, rubbing her thumb across the gold imprint. Must've been whoever owned this book, but then why did little Weasley have it in her cauldron? (y/n) knew the bookshop sometimes did take used books to resell at a cheaper price but...this was clearly someone's personal property.

With a quick flip through the book, she discovered it to be blank, it seemed to be a diary, or a journal, or a notebook of some kind, and clearly; someone cared about it enough to have a name embedded into the back. There was no price tag either.

After a long moment of thought, (y/n) slipped the book into her bag and left the bookstore.

-

She forgot about the book for a good month, only rediscovering it on a busy morning when she had accidentally slept in and was rushing to get to class, grabbing her bag and the black gold embedded book fell out, hitting the floor with a small thud.

She winced, kneeling to snatch the book up, muttering a small sorry to it-she had a habit of doing that to inanimate objects(she wasn't the only one really) and shoved the book back in her bag-not finding time to put it away in her room and rushing down the stairs, panting as she ran through the halls towards her first class, which she was almost late for.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon-yes!" (y/n) cheered as she slid through the door, Professor McGonagall looking a strange mix of amused and stern as (y/n) went to her desk with a grin. "Sorry I'm almost late! slept in," (y/n) said sheepishly and some of her classmates laughed, all in good nature-minus a few-(y/n) was quite known for sleeping in and almost missing class. Still, thankfully, she almost always made it in the nick of time.

"It would do you well to get an alarm clock, Ms. Johnson. Let's begin."

(y/n) took out her notebook and began writing down anything McGonagall was saying during class, only for her notebook to run out of pages only two spreads of notes in. "shit," she muttered under her breath, digging around in her bag to see if she had any extra paper to spare-her hand hit the leather-bound book and paused, sighing before she pulled it out and set it on her desk.

It was a really nice book, (y/n) thought, dipping her quill and opening the book, getting right back to work writing her notes, putting a little date in the upper left corner. An hour passed and she had five pages worth of notes from transfiguration class, she mentally thanked the leather-bound book for being her saving grace and carefully put it back in her bag after charming the ink completely dry.

Her day goes normal until she's in potions class and bored. she had stopped taking notes after Professor Snape went on and on about the properties of...she didn't even remember, potions class had always been a weak point for her, and she had started doodling in the leather-bound notebook, smirking to herself as she drew out a greasy cartoon-like Snape on the page.

"Ms. Johnson." Snape snaps from the front of class and she jolts to attention, her blood draining from her face as he strut towards her, the distasteful look he always had on his face deepened. "And what exactly is more important than listening to my lecture?" (y/n) opened her mouth to defend herself, squeaking into silence as he snatched the book and looked it over, his lip twitching down as (y/n) prepared for death or detention for drawing a caricature of Snape.

But Snape just huffed and slammed the book back down on her work desk and she froze, looking at the page she had drawn the greasy Snape...he was nowhere to be found, replaced by two-page spreads of notes for potions...that she hadn't written, and that wasn't her handwriting.

"Wha-" she breathed out, Snape glaring at her before heading back to the front of the class as her eyes stayed locked onto the book, grabbing it and looking at the notes. They were-brilliantly written, easy to understand, and not her handwriting. "What the fuck." she muttered to herself, suddenly feeling unnerved and curious at the same time.

How had her Snape doodle disappeared to be replaced by notes, not of her handwriting, and clearly having an understanding of potions that she did not have?

She snapped the book closed and put it back in her bag, perhaps it was an enchanted book that allowed the user to not get caught goofing off??? no that was far too specific of an enchantment, plus an enchantment like that would probably copy her handwriting, not-use someone else's...unless that handwriting belonged to the original owner of the book?

Class ended and (y/n) quickly left potions, glad she had a free period before charms class. She leaned against a wall to avoid the rush of first years trying to remember where to go and pulled out the black leather-bound book, thumbing over the gold corners and then flipping it over, gazing at the gold-embedded name at the bottom. Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Opening the book only left further confusion, the notes she had written throughout the day were replaced by new ones-they held the same handwriting as the ones that appeared in potions class, and they were good notes, the ghostwriter that took her ink and rewrote it easily a bloody genius because what the fuck the notes were brilliant.

She snapped the book closed again and escaped up to her dorm, tossing the leather-bound book onto her bed and grabbing a fresh notebook from her dresser, casting one last glance at the gold-plated book before leaving.

-

She leaves the book alone for a few days but her curiosity gets the better of her and she picks it up again late one night, curled up in her bed as she stares down at the black leather-bound book, rubbing her thumb over the embedded name in the back. She opens the book, finding the re-written notes still there.

She sighs, grabbing a pen from her pencil cup holder, and turning to a blank page. "This is so stupid, it's probably just some charmed notebook." (y/n) mutters to herself, laying her pen upon the blank page, unsure of what to write to make the enchanted notes appear...maybe if she put down some stupid notes, the book would fix them automatically?

She tested out that theory, writing down some notes a five-year-old would've written if one didn't understand magic, and after a few moments the ink she put down absorbed into the page and before her very eyes-was re-written by some sort of-genius. "holy shit." she muttered, flipping to another blank page.

"Either this is some sort of enchanted notebook or I'm going crazy," she wrote down, muttering to herself as she did. She almost threw the book across the room as the ink absorbed into the page again and handwriting that wasn't her own appeared again-this time-like someone was actually writing back to her, and not like the book was designed to rewrite her notes.

'not to worry, you're not insane, simply misunderstanding the mechanics of my diary.'

(y/n)'s jaw dropped and she dropped the book and slammed it shut. "this isn't happening, this isn't happening-no way, no fucking way." she muttered to herself for a few minutes before she peeled open the book again, staring down at the words that had appeared right before her eyes.

"This has to be a joke." she wrote back, hurried and messy and the ink was absorbed into the page like before and the elegant handwriting appeared again.

'it's not a joke, this is my diary, now how did you come by it? I've been curious about who has been writing notes in one of my possessions?'

(y/n) stared in near awe-mostly horror-at the written words...so-somehow-the diary of...Tom Riddle she guessed, was enchanted to respond like he was responding to...she didn't even know.

"How is this possible?? this is-a diary? i thought it was just a note book or something-wait no-how are you writing back to me? is it like a personality enchantment or something else? This is wild holy shit."

(y/n) wrote back quickly, writing so fast that whoever it was within the book had no time to respond until she sat back, waiting for the page to take her ink.

'you write a lot. And yes. It's a diary, my diary. I'm Tom Riddle and yes it's a personality enchantment.'

(y/n) was almost giddy, still very horrified by it all, but giddy.

'Also, language.'

oh well, fuck him then.

-

After getting over the shock, and horror, of someone actually enchanting their entire personality of their 16-year-old self into a diary...(y/n) began to, well, bug the fuck out of Tom Riddle.

"howd you enchant your personality into your diary?"

'An old spell I found in the library, it's probably banned by now as it was very dangerous'

"what house are you in" "were in" "hold up when were you born?"

'so many questions. Slytherin. 1926.'

"wow you're old as fuck!"

'language, its unbecoming of a lady to speak in such a manner, and I'm not old! I'm 16,'

"alright alright...what was world war 2 like?"

'I'm done talking with you. and it's All Right. not alright.'

"Grammar Nazi."

'excuse me??'

"oh right-sorry-thats a very real term for you isn't it? my bad."

'you're so...crude.'

"please im probably the most entertaining person you've written to in 50 years."

...

"im right arent i?"

'i'm done talking to you.'

"Alright tommy."

'NO'

'and its ALLright'

"grammar police~! also, both are grammatically correct-allright is preferred use in formal writing-and I'm writing to a diary with a personality, not a collage essay...so~"

'I'm done with this conversation.'

"you're no fun."

-

(y/n) began carrying the diary around with her everywhere, writing to Tom during class, snickering to herself when she'd write the most horrendous notes only for Tom to rewrite them for her, she had a feeling it wasn't because he wanted to be nice-but because he just couldn't bear to see such horrible notes in HIS diary.

'for once, you could attempt to pay attention and write proper notes.'

"But where's the fun in that?" (y/n) wrote back with a stupid grin, looking up at Professor Snape as he lectured about the draught of sleeping death.

'i don't know. not making me rewrite your notes?'

"I'm not making you do that at all, you're doing that all on your own Tommy bear"

'do not call me that. and i know you're writing your notes horribly to make me rewrite them because you find it funny. so if you would kindly knock it off.'

"nah"

'you are so-'

(y/n) closed the book just as Snape wandered the classroom, looking over the potions and sneering at each one, only smoothing his expression as he looked over the Slytherin student potions-he was so biased, (y/n) had to admit that, but even with her in Slytherin...

"Another poor performance ms. Johnson, I suspect that your potion could hardly make a dust bunny fall asleep, much less a person." Snape drawled and (y/n) just gave an awkward shrug- she'd always been horrid at potions, easily her weakest class since first year, and she never attempted to defend herself from Snape's insults. Snape sneered at her and turned, his cloak flaring dramatically and he walked to the front of class.

(y/n) opened the diary again, seeing the exchange between her and Tom gone. She picked up her quill and wrote to him again.

"you still there?"

'i don't have anywhere to go. so yes. I'm still here.'

oohh he was sassy today! that was always fun.

"yeah yeah-hey, were are you any good at potions? I'm dreadful and Professor Snape's going to flunk me out if i don't straighten my performance out."

'Well that's your fault is it not? You hardly pay attention, doodling and talking to me instead of listening to the professor's lessons. why should I help you?'

"I'll-" (y/n) thought to herself, what could she give Tom in return for him tutoring her in potions? Better yet what could she blackmail him with?...what could she even blackmail a personality enchantment with?? what would a personality enchantment even want? "I'm drawing a blank, what would you want in return for tutoring me in potions?"

(y/n) glances back up at Professor Snape to make sure he's not looking over her shoulder or anything and looks back down to see Tom writing back to her. '...there are a few things i would like to know. there are a group of boys i am, friends, with. if you wouldn't mind telling me about them or their families in your time? and in return, ill...help you in potions.'

really? just some basic future information? eh, fine-a low price for getting potions tutoring.

"deal. who were your friends and what exactly do you wanna know?"

-

(y/n) thought it was...funny? ironic? that Tom had been...was friends with Draco Malfoy's grandfather-Abraxas Malfoy, there's a few other boys-all younger than her, all in Slytherin, that Tom had been friends with their grandfathers like Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle. Knowing he was friends with blood purists, since all those boys 'opinions' had been deep seeded for generations, maybe (y/n) a bit weary since she was muggle-born but (y/n) needed that potions tutoring so she kept quiet and told Tom what he wanted to know.

Abraxas had a grandson named Draco and he was a little shit, and his father was high up in the ministry and was known to be an ex-death eater-

'what is a death eater?'

Tom suddenly asked and (y/n) blinked, pausing in her writing about the Slytherin kids and their dads. "oh uh-right you were before all that-um, from what I know, Death eaters were these followers to this guy called Voldermort, he was a big dark wizard that was really dangerous and stuff, enough to where everyone calls him 'he-who-must-not-be-named or you-know-who."

There was a short pause in Tom's response and then he wrote to her again. 'you say, was, is Voldemort dead?'

"yeah, for a while now, some kid named Harry Potter destroyed him about...11 years ago I think, voldemort attacked him when he was a year old and killed his parents, and then tried to kill Harry-only for Harry to survive the killing curse and it killed Voldemort instead, something about it rebounding. Everyone calls him the boy who lived."

There was another pause and then Tom wrote to her again.

'tell me more. please.'

-end of p1(i dont know what to do with this fic im just going off vibes :D)

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

tom riddle—the man who fell from earth.

summary: tom riddle’s love language is literature.

word count: 1.4k

fanfiction no. 001

hey! this is my first fanfic on this blog so reblogs are really appreciated but also just any interaction :D

tom riddle? don’t waste your time, they’d tell you. heartless, merciless and unsettling in his every appearance, the very air around him seemed heavy and polluted. his superiority radiated from him—it was his very aura—piercing those who dared to meet his eye and challenging them to rethink their own inferiority, knowing they could not. he held himself so confidently, and his confidence was not misplaced.

his presence was always known, though he was often sly and discreet himself, but it was hard to ignore the shift in atmosphere when he was nearby.

but you tried harder still, to become lost within your world of fiction, and force the world around you to dissipate. with the right book, this was not a difficult task by any means, and only in the most raucous or unrelenting circumstances could you be lifted from your reverie.

“y/n!” your friend hissed louder than before, looking awkwardly and apologetically between you and tom riddle.

“what is it?” you asked impatiently, shaking their hand off your shoulder.

“it’s nothing,” another voice responded, causing you to look up to where tom riddle was looming above you with a faint smirk on his face.

gulping down your embarrassment, you took a shaky breath in, “am i in your seat?” you asked him, knowing the answer he would give you.

“yes,” he replied, walking around the table as he pulled his blazer sleeves down to his wrists, “but you can have it today,” he added, sitting down opposite you and your friend.

professor slughorn was not far behind mr. riddle, and addressed the class almost immediately, leaving you silent before the heartless boy, left to wonder what made him give up his seat to you.

such a tedious textbook and yet your face was buried in it for the better part of your potions lesson, avoiding the eyes that crept above the book’s spine. they were hard as stone, but with the right light, small, soft crevices appeared within them—it was as if you were catching a glimpse of the soft underbelly.

mere days had passed until you and tom met again. this time, you were alone. caught in a rainstorm, you waited under the cover of stone in the edges of the courtyard, watching students stumble over the wet cobblestone frantically. you held your bag tightly to your chest and watched the heavens above you unleash.

as you leant further over to see past the roof, searching for blue skies, your balance became increasingly unsteady. in an attempt to save your bag and books falling to the soaked ground to be ruined, you tried to regain composure without spreading your arms. as you became resigned to your fate, sure you would feel the hard ground collide with either your bottom or knees, a tight grip secured around your waist.

saving you from one embarrassment, you faced another humiliation upon turning around to view your rescuer—tom riddle. he’d appeared out of nowhere and his hair was not wet, but perfectly dry, as was his uniform.

“what were you doing?” asked tom, cocking an eyebrow in disappointment.

“looking for blue sky,” you told the truth.

he scoffed in disbelief.

tom sat with you a while, waiting for the rain to stop. he wasn’t much of a talker, he rather communicated with his eyes and his expressions, which were often hard to read or understand. but he listened to you talk without interruption, and answered the few questions you shot his way.

“madame bovary?” tom’s eyes flicked to your bag which was falling open on the bench between you.

“yeah, have you read it?”

“once. i wasn’t keen.”

“why not?”

“i understand that the author’s ending was to further drive his narrative, but to me, he made her weak,” tom admitted.

“weak? i don’t think weak is the right word,” you shook your head in disagreement. “i think she was yearning,” you contradicted him.

“yearning?” his chuckle was hollow, disbelieving, “what for?”

“an escape. her whole life she felt trapped and overlooked.”

“and that is how you’d choose to find it? an escape.”

you were taken aback by his forward question, for you were discussing madame bovary, not yourself. “well, no.”

tom simply nodded as if to conclude that he was right, and though you had further thoughts swirling in your brain, you dare not speak them out loud. instead, you changed the subject again and carried on much the same as before—you talking, tom listening.

｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡★｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ+｡

as the days turned into a week gone by, tom had made very few appearances. however, each time you saw him, you could not forget the exchange, and found yourself reliving it in your mind several times a day. everyone’s unsolicited advice had disintegrated and fell on deaf ears, for you no longer cared for advice unless it was from desired lips.

“what are you thinking about?” asked tom, approaching your table at the library.

“potions,” you fibbed, watching him adjust his shirt sleeves as he sat beside you.

“that’s your astronomy text book,” he replied matter-of-factly.

you looked down at the table where your textbook was wide open, showing several images of constellations with detailed captions. you scoffed, avoiding his eye, thus missing the small smirk that stretched in the corner of his mouth.

“i have something for you.”

“you do?” you asked, and it seemed your heart was responding too.

tom reached into his pocket and pulled out a book with a neatly decorated cover and handed it over to you. keeping your eyes fixed to his, you accepted his gift with a polite but giddy smile.

‘jane eyre’

“i’ve been meaning to read this for a while,” you confessed, tracing your fingertips over the illustration on the cover. “thank you.”

“do tell me your thoughts when you’re finished,” said tom before getting up to leave.

so abrupt. it was as if he was almost embarrassed to have you know he was thinking of you, or at least he had been. you flicked through the pages and breathed in that familiar aroma of a fresh book and began at the beginning.

for such a detail heavy and long novel, you devoured each chapter within minutes. staying up late to finish just another page and reading within every spare second of your day became the norm until you had consumed the last word of the gifted book.

you clasped the book against your chest tightly, skipping down the halls of hogwarts as you looked for tom. you’d talked him rarely over time you were reading ‘jane eyre’ but you had seen him often. and always he saw you, carrying that book around as if it was your lifeline, your blood supply.

“i finished,” you informed him triumphantly, sitting down on the library bench next to him.

“and what did you think?” he questioned with a satisfied grin, closing his textbook gently and straightening his back.

“i think,” you began, “i understand why you like it better than ‘madame bovary’.”

“but what did you think about it?” he asked again, not much inclined to listen to his own thoughts through your words.

“i thought it was incredible. jane seemed…”

“yes?”

“like someone who would understand.”

tom relaxed, unaware he had been leaning forward and hanging onto your every word. he agreed with you, of course. he thought he might agree with everything you said. but he didn’t know how to tell you.

“can i give you another?” he asked. strange, for he did not often find himself asking for permission.

“i’d like that,” you accepted, inching your hand closer to his on the bench.

tom didn’t notice at first, nodding in approval and beginning to think of the next title he would give you. he always seemed lost in thought, like he was analysing both you and the situation you were in. what did he think of you? you wondered.

you slid your pinky between his little finger and ring finger and watched tom clench his jaw. his entire body tensed from the small interaction, the small and simple touch. and for a moment, he let himself forget about books and propriety, swiftly cupping your face in his cold hands and pressing a reckless kiss to your lips. he had to be quick, he feared he wouldn’t be able to do it if he wasn’t fast enough.

“you should read ‘sense and sensibility’ next,” he whispered lowly, “i have a copy.”

though your heart was leaping bounds and your breath was trembling, you managed a small response—“i’d love to borrow it.”

tom pulled away and collected himself, reopening his textbook, which you noted was astronomy, and said, “it’s yours.”

alright, hope you enjoyed that ! i don’t have a tag list but let me know if you want to be tagged in my writing :D

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

Hi! How are you doing? Congrats on the 1k!!!!

I was wondering if it would be alright if I please requested Tom getting jealous because the reader spends so much time with Nagini?

hello, i’m good! thank you for sending this in cutie!!

untitled | tom riddle

pairing: tom riddle x reader

genre: fluff, established relationships, OOC tom, he’s a big baby basically

part of my 1k celebration event !

There’s a few pros to introducing you to Nagini.

One: Tom knows without a doubt that Nagini will keep you safe —not that he doesn’t trust you to do it but that it’s always better to be extra careful when it comes to your well being.

And two: Nagini pesters Tom less now that she has you.

Although, Tom’s starting to think of it as more of a con rather than a pro now. Seeing as she’s got you wrapped around her; literally.

You’re sat on Tom’s bed, posture careful as Nagini settles herself around you, her head poking through your hair. You’re talking to her, not paying heed to the head boy sat a few inches away from you.

It’s when Nagini nuzzles her face against yours that Tom decided that he had enough. Grabbing at Nagini with a huff, his movements fast and gentle at the same time; careful not to hurt his companion.

He picks her up and hurriedly makes his way out the door before placing her down just outside of it. “Stop stealing my girlfriend,” he murmurs in parseltongue, leaving you more than just confused on what was going on. “Find someone else to hog.”

And with a final hiss from Nagini, Tom shuts the door before turning to face you. He tries to keep his face stern, looking poise and perfect as he gazes at you but the small pout slips through nonetheless.

“What’s wrong, you big baby?” You say with a teasing tilt in your voice, eyeing him carefully as he made his way back to you. “Did Nagini do something?”

He doesn’t answer you; instead sitting down next to you as close as possible as he asks you. “If Nagini and I were drowning, who’d you save first?”

You think for it for a split second. “Both of you can swim.”

“The question is theoretical,” he quips with a roll of his eyes, “you’re smart enough to know that it’s a question on whom you care for more. So, in these drastic situations, who’d you save; me or Nagini?”

Conversations like this were stupid. Tom, for all his brilliance, had a knack for asking you stupid things. It’s one of the cons of dating the lad, good thing his pros out way his cons, you suppose.

“Neither,” you tell him, “I’d much rather save my time.”

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

“You came.”

“As always, Harry Potter, your powers of observation astound,” the Dark Lord carps. “Care to explain why we’re both here?”

And there’s the million-dollar question. He hesitates for a moment, sticking his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting more. “You can feel it, yeah? Everything’s coming to a head.”

After staring for a few beats, Voldemort gives a terse nod.

Harry nods a couple times awkwardly in return, licking his dry lips. “So. We’re expected to fight, and at least one of us is meant to die.”

Voldemort tenses at his side. “If you intend to ask for mercy–”

“No, no,” Harry says, anxiously dragging a hand through his wild hair and leaving it even more of a mess. “I know there’s no middle ground, for either of us.”

His words catch in his throat, stuck in the anger and frustration and exhaustion of years of fighting and losing people with no real gain.

“But,” Voldemort prompts.

“But,” Harry agrees. “Have you ever ridden a Ferris wheel?”

Voldemort blinks and frowns at the apparent non-sequitur. He says, “I beg your pardon?” but the meaning is clearly ‘Are you mad?’

“Because I haven’t. My relatives,” and his voice breaks on the word because it’s only accurate in the most technical of senses. “Used to go to the local funfair every year. My cousin would always come back with candy apples and caramel corn and some gigantic plush animal he’d say he’d won.”

He smiles, but he can feel how ragged it is. “Fat chance, that. Guaranteed my uncle bought it for him.”

“Potter, what in Merlin’s name are you on about?” He’s apparently worn through Voldemort’s limited patience and the wizard is looking vaguely murderous.

“Right, sorry. Point is, I’ve never been, and I’m guessing you’ve never been to a funfair either. I doubt it was a priority at Wool’s.”

Voldemort’s wand appears in his hand and ‘vaguely’ has shifted quickly into ‘distinctly murderous.’

“Y’know, It’s funny what you fixate on when contemplating your mortality and what you’ll regret not having done when you die,” Harry continues quickly, trying to defuse the situation. “There are lots of things I haven’t done, and so many things I’ll miss. But I keep getting caught up on riding a bloody Ferris wheel, of all things.”

He’d considered asking his friends – he had. But it wouldn’t be new for Hermione, who’d had a pretty normal childhood, magic aside, and Ron wouldn’t get why it was important even once he’d wrapped his mind around the idea of a Ferris wheel. Ron had grown up with flying broomsticks, after all. 

“I thought about who else might understand why it meant something, and, well,” Harry huffs, shuffling his feet self-consciously. “Here you are.”

He refuses to look at Voldemort’s face – who knows what expression he’s wearing, but it’s probably derisive in the extreme – instead focusing on the Dark Lord’s wand in case he has to defend himself.

“You invited me to go to a fair with you,” Voldemort says levelly. “Because we’re going to battle to the death soon.”

Well, when he puts it like that.

(naïve melody)

#wait this was so cute the fuck

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

Riddle’s extremely fearful and aggressive reaction to Dumbledore when he thinks he’s a doctor (and the fact that he assumes this at all and believes he is being lied to) has some pretty dark implications (which of course no one follows up on). Do you have thoughts?

thank you very much for the ask, anon!

and yes - this has occurred to me too... which means that my thoughts come with a trigger warning for the sexual abuse of a child, and are under the cut.

the relevant scene in canon is, of course, this:

“I am Professor Dumbledore.” “Professor?” repeated Riddle. He looked wary. “Is that like doctor? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?”  He was pointing at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left. “No, no,” said Dumbledore, smiling.  “I don’t believe you,” said Riddle. “She wants me looked at, doesn’t she? Tell the truth!”  He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if anything, warier still. “Who are you?” “I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school - your new school, if you would like to come.”  Riddle’s reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious.  “You can’t kid me! The asylum, that’s where you’re from, isn’t it? ‘Professor,’ yes, of course - well, I’m not going, see? That old cat’s the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they’ll tell you!”

the surface-level reading of this scene - which is clearly what the text wants us to go for - is that riddle thinks he's about to be institutionalised for being "mad" - and, specifically, that he thinks that what dumbledore has been told is his "madness" is actually his magic.

[he is also clearly meant to be read as panicking a little bit that he's fucked around torturing his fellow children and is now about to find out...]

that riddle accepts he's a wizard so easily - and that he is so reassured by dumbledore agreeing that he's not mad - is something the text wants us to read as sinister. him immediately describing himself as "special" is set up as a precursor to the adult voldemort's delusions of grandeur - which the entire arc of the series, ending in his death as an ordinary man, is designed to undermine.

but i've always disliked this reading. the eleven-year-old riddle - a magical child raised around non-magical people - is objectively correct to describe his powers as "special" [in that they make him identifiably different from the crowd] within the context in which he lives. the word choice is nowhere near as deep as dumbledore decides - he's clearly known since he was very young that he's a wizard, but he didn't have the precise language to describe this fundamental part of himself until dumbledore offered it; prior to that, "special" is a perfectly reasonable alternative term.

and, in always knowing that he's a wizard, he also knows that he doesn't have a mental illness - but he must also know that this is something it's near impossible for him to prove.

in the real world, if i spoke to a patient who told me:

“I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.”

then i would be correct to describe them as experiencing psychosis. and i might - depending on their other symptoms - have reasonable cause to admit them [voluntarily or not] for psychiatric treatment.

riddle is - of course - demonstrably not psychotic. but it's not unreasonable that mrs cole would assume he is - the world she lives in, as a muggle [even if she's a religious one], is one in which people do not possess the ability to move objects or control animals with their minds, and if one of her charges is convinced that he can, then she's justified in seeking medical intervention.

[that psychiatric treatment in the 1930s can be described without exaggeration as inhumane is another matter...]

which is to say, i think we can easily suppose that mrs cole has - prior to dumbledore's arrival - succeeded in having riddle "looked at", and that the idea that he's mentally ill and should be committed to an asylum has been mentioned before. i think most of us would be instinctively [and angrily] wary of doctors if this happened to us, regardless of how nice the doctors in question were.

and maybe that's all there is to it.

and maybe it isn't...

in the doylist text, the eleven-year-old riddle's personality is the way it is because he's the villain of the series. where harry is preternaturally capable, even as a child, of all the things the series defines as admirable - above all, enduring difficulty without complaint - riddle is preternaturally incapable of them. he's meant to come across as unambiguously sinister - and the fact that the text repeatedly emphasises that he has control over his unpleasant traits invites us to view him as someone who is acting with full agency. that he lives in an orphanage is a trope which the text uses, like a campy horror film might, predominately to underscore how creepy he is - and the text, in keeping with its general lack of interest in states and their institutions, never really prompts us to interrogate the impact of his childhood upon the course his life takes.

[this is despite the fact that voldemort's reliving of the night he killed the potters in deathly hallows is an incredibly accurate depiction of ptsd...]

but it's also the case that the eleven-year-old riddle's behaviour and personality fits a pattern we might expect to see in a child who is being abused, sexually or otherwise:

he's aggressive, he has a hair-trigger temper, and he becomes distressed even by behaviour - such as dumbledore speaking mildly and calmly - which would not ordinarily be expected to provoke such a reaction.

his broader emotional state is fractious. his mood changes sharply, he seems to feel emotions very profoundly, he struggles to control his emotional response to things, he's extremely easily irritated, he's attention-seeking - and he particularly seeks negative attention, and he's very highly-strung. his admission in deathly hallows that he feels calm before he kills - or before he otherwise eradicates a threat or a problem - comes with the flip-side that he's someone who appears, when things aren't going well or he finds himself in a situation which he can't control, to become quite anxious. which is a trauma response.

he's extremely isolated. the text presents the fact that he has no friends as a deliberate choice - "lord voldemort has never had a friend, nor do i believe that he has ever wanted one" - and his relationship with everyone else he ever meets, including his fellow orphans, as defined by the text as exclusively involving him controlling, manipulating, and punishing them. or: he is always the more powerful person in the pairing. but this need for control can be read as self-protective just as easily as it can be read as sinister. there are hints in canon that riddle is not just some malevolent force in the orphanage preying on mild-mannered innocents. for example, billy stubbs, the owner of the rabbit he kills, is targeted by riddle as revenge: “Billy Stubbs’s rabbit... well, Tom said he didn’t do it and I don’t see how he could have done, but even so, it didn’t hang itself from the rafters, did it? [...] But I’m jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before." on the rare occasions billy turns up in fics, he's usually - i find - written very like neville - sweet and guileless and a bit pathetic. but the alternative reading - especially when we take into account that riddle attacks the rabbit rather than billy himself - is that billy is someone he would be afraid to physically confront. indeed, it's striking that voldemort - at all stages of his life - is described as being quite physically fragile. not only is he very thin, but he's always cold and his heartbeat is described several times in canon as irregular. i think this is supposed to be a comment on the physical changes he undergoes the more horcruxes he makes - although the idea that the soul would affect the heart doesn't actually align with how the series understands the soul to relate to the body - but it can also be interpreted perfectly legitimately as something he was experiencing prior to splitting his soul. i am committed to the headcanon that riddle was quite a sickly child - and that this is one of the things which drives his fear of death - and i'm also committed to the idea that his obsession with magic is because the enormity of his magical power makes up for his physical lack. he can defeat - and humiliate and frighten and remove the threat of - billy or dennis [or even an adult man?] with magic. without it, if they were to physically overpower him, then he wouldn't be able to throw them off.

he is extremely nervous about being alone in a room with dumbledore - someone he doesn't know, and who he assumes is connected to a profession [and, maybe, who knows any other doctors he's been previously made to see...] of which he is frightened.

he doesn't trust or confide in anyone - which, as a child, means particularly that he doesn't trust or confide in adults in positions of responsibility. he's clearly uneasy with the idea of finding himself in the subordinate position in an adult-child relationship when dumbledore offers to take him shopping for school supplies - potentially because he's worried that dumbledore will try and dictate or restrict what he's allowed to buy unless he behaves in a certain way... and i am always very struck that dumbledore says in half-blood prince: "He was very guarded with me; he felt, I am sure, that in the thrill of discovering his true identity he had told me a little too much. He was careful never to reveal as much again." this is presented in the text as evidence that dumbledore is the only person of whom voldemort is afraid - by which the text means that voldemort acknowledges that dumbledore knows that an ordinary man, mortal and unimpressive, lurks behind the mask of unassailable power he has created for himself; and which the text thinks is a good thing. but we can also read it as a self-protective act on riddle's part. in his excitement, he offers dumbledore information [that he is known to be a liar, that he is in trouble a lot, that mrs cole dislikes him and is disinclined to believe anything he says] which would give dumbledore - or anyone in a similar position of power and presumed respectability - cover to abuse him, safe in the knowledge that he would be unlikely to be believed if he reported it.

he doesn't appear to feel safe in the orphanage and he's frequently absent from it - by his own admission, he spends a huge amount of time wandering around london on his own, which may even involve him staying away for several days at a time. nobody appears to notice or care about this.

he's very independent - which the text again presents as evidence of his deliberate self-isolation and rejection of the bonds of love and friendship - and his independence is unusual for a child his age [i.e. that he is capable of doing all his own shopping for school].

his knowledge of violence - i.e. how he designs the trip to the cave to be maximally psychologically devastating for dennis and amy and devoid of repercussions for himself - is also more advanced and methodical than would be expected in a child of his age. again, the text uses this to emphasise how inextricable the child-voldemort is from his adult self - and also, to some extent, to underscore the intellectual brilliance [his magic is also more advanced than is normal for a child] which his narrative archetype [the exceptional villain who is defeated by the everyman hero] requires. but we can also read it as evidence of his own victimisation. a common sign that a child is being sexually abused is that they display a knowledge of sexual behaviour which is more advanced than is reasonable for a child of their age - for example, knowing in detail how a sex act is performed, or fluently using sexual slang which they have no chance of knowing either from age-appropriate settings like school-based sex education or conversations with a parent or trusted adult, or from the sort of enthusiastic hoarding of rude words and phrases all children enjoy as they grow up. riddle's precise, clinical knowledge of how to manipulate, frighten, torture, and control can be seen as something similar. if he can - at eleven or younger - methodically break down another child until they're "never quite right" again, then this is because he's learned how to from someone.

he keeps secrets. and he also goes out of his way to extract them. his grooming of ginny in chamber of secrets - he manipulates her into confiding things she wants to keep to herself, promises he won't tell anyone, and then uses the threat that he will to get her to do his bidding - is an absolutely textbook example of how abusers use the idea of secrecy to control their victims. it doesn't make his abuse of ginny any less inexcusable if we assume he learns this from being on the other side of things.

dumbledore understands his little cache of objects as trophies he's taken from victims - and the text takes the view that dumbledore is correct in this assessment. that hoarding trophies is something widely associated with serial killers means that this is yet another thing which underlines how creepy - and how like his adult self - the child-voldemort is. but it's also the case that the adult - and teenage - voldemort places a lot of emphasis on gift-giving as part of his control over other people. the two most obvious examples in canon are wormtail being given his shiny hand as a reward for helping voldemort get his body back, and slughorn being buttered up with crystallised pineapple before voldemort asks him about horcruxes. the text thinks this is sinister - and one of the reasons it does this is because gift-giving is a grooming tactic. the text also clearly thinks this isn't behaviour voldemort has learned from the other side. and yet a common sign that a child is being abused is if they have possessions it doesn't make sense for them to own [i.e. a child from a low-income background who is suddenly decked in designer clothes] and which they can't or won't explain how they came by. riddle's cache isn't luxurious - although he's so poor that a yoyo or a mouth organ probably is a luxury to him - but there's also nothing in canon which precludes the objects being presents, rather than stolen goods. if the spell dumbledore uses to make the box rattle is caused by a statement which is both relatively ambiguous and dependent on dumbledore's subjective personal morality - is there anything in this room he's acquired through nefarious means? - then the spell would still work as it does in canon if riddle was an abuse victim given the objects as "rewards". dumbledore's tendency to locate right and wrong in the individual and dumbledore's belief that good people should steadfastly endure misery means he can be written entirely canon-coherently as someone who would think a victim who appeared to collude in their own abuse - such as a victim who "offered" a sexual act because their abuser promised them something if they did - was behaving consensually, manipulatively, and nefariously. and it's worth noting that when riddle doesn't know what dumbledore has done to make the box rattle, he is "unnerved". when he realises dumbledore thinks he's stolen the objects - and that he has no interest in forcing him to admit this aloud - he is "unabashed". perhaps because he's just received proof that an experience he doesn't want to talk about is still secret...

on the other hand, the objects could indeed be stolen - because petty criminality and anti-social behaviour, especially in pre-teen children, is also a sign of abuse.

he can be extremely obsequious - when dumbledore tells him to watch how he speaks he becomes "unrecognisably polite", he ruthlessly flatters slughorn, and he is cringingly deferential to hepzibah smith. the text understands this as evidence that his apparent charm is only superficial - another trait associated in the popular imagination with serial killers [and it's striking that so much about the young voldemort - handsome, charming, seemingly quiet and polite, true evil lurking underneath the mask - is exactly like the pop-culture persona which has been created for ted bundy...]. voldemort himself agrees that his charm is performative in chamber of secrets: “If I say it myself, Harry, I’ve always been able to charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted." but his obsequiousness is also a fawn response - a way of minimising a threat by attempting to please the person issuing it. he becomes "unrecognisably polite" - after all - in response to this: Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts - ” “Of course I am!” “Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir.’ ”  Riddle’s expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognisably polite voice, “I’m sorry, sir. I meant - please, Professor, could you show me - ?”  riddle could reasonably interpret what dumbledore says here as a threat to prevent him attending hogwarts - even though dumbledore evidently doesn't mean it in this way - and he switches to being fawning because this is something he really doesn't want to happen...

do i think that any of this is what the text was actually going for? no. and nor do i think that reading riddle as a victim of abuse excuses the violence which the adult voldemort goes on to perpetuate.

but i think it is a reading of his characterisation which is both canon-plausible and interesting - a strange, sickly child with a reputation for cruelty and dishonesty being abused by the respectable doctor who is constantly called in to treat his coughs and wheezes, who buys him little presents and charms him into telling him secrets, who then [to paraphrase the teenage voldemort] feeds him a few secrets of his own, safe in the knowledge that nobody will ever believe him if he tries to get help.

and i also think this a reading which is sincerely important.

a significant contributor to the prevalence of child abuse - no matter what exact form this abuse takes - is that we are culturally conditioned to imagine that both the abuser and the victim will look and behave in a certain way if the abuse is "real".

and this means, all too often, that we take child abuse more seriously when the victim is "sympathetic" - when they're from a stable home, and their family are respectable, and they do well in school, and they're polite and sweet, and they look innocent, and they behave perfectly appropriately for their age, and nobody would ever dare to say that they come across as older than they are, and they're white, and they don't have a history of lying, and they don't have a history of attention-seeking, and they don't have a criminal record, and they're not abusive themselves, and there's absolutely no way of suggesting that they colluded in their abuse, and the perpetrator was someone who looks like a child abuser.

someone who is creepy, low-status, ugly, unpopular. someone who everyone can tell is socially abnormal, someone who nobody would ever intentionally permit to be around their children. not someone who is charming, well-respected, attractive, rich, popular, trustworthy. not someone who has a loving family and a happy home. not someone we might be friends with.

but many perpetrators of child abuse are these second group of people. and many victims of child abuse are "unsympathetic", when their social positions and reputations are compared to their abusers' own.

they lie. they steal. they're attention-seeking. they're vindictive. they have trouble distinguishing between imagination and reality. they're violent. they're bullies. they hurt animals. they abuse other children. they take drugs. they're mentally-ill. they come from broken homes. they're in the care of the state. they're dirty. they're poor. they're odd. they're behind at school and badly-behaved in the classroom. they do things which allow their abuse to be dismissed as something they brought upon themselves - they speak or dress in certain ways, they pose provocatively in pictures and post them on the internet, they are known to be sexually active outside of the context of their abuse, they lie about being over the age of consent, they engage in sexual behaviour with an adult abuser in a way which appears [even though it isn't, and there's never a circumstance in which it will be] to be consensual or for their own personal gain, they are flattered by the attention they receive from someone who is important or attractive grooming them, they have complicated - and not always wholly negative - feelings towards their abusers.

and they are still - unequivocally - victims, and what happens to them is still - unequivocally - abuse.

tom riddle is an unsympathetic victim - not only of any potential abuse, but also of the horrors of his life which are explicit on the canon page: that he is raised in an orphanage; that he is grieving; that he knows nothing about his family; that he is thought to be mad.

the absence of any institutional response to his childhood experiences - dumbledore, by his own admission, discloses nothing about riddle to his fellow teachers - is a flaw repeated again and again in the worldbuilding of the harry potter series.

hogwarts - and the wizarding [and muggle] state more broadly - doesn't intervene in any case of neglect or abuse, from harry to snape to voldemort's own parents. the series' individualistic morality means that we aren't supposed to interrogate these collective failings. and the series' black-and-white view of good and evil - and its general belief that violence is fine if the person it happens to "deserves" it - means that it has no interest in examining the ways that poverty, isolation, and neglect are risk factors; that straightforwardly unpleasant people can still be victims; that victims can go on to become perpetrators without their victimhood ceasing to matter; and that the abuse of children usually takes place not in silence and secrecy, concealed in ways which make it fine for adults not to notice it and not to intervene, but in plain sight.

this is knowledge it never hurts to refresh. thinking about lord voldemort's childhood might be an usual way of doing so... but it is an effective one nonetheless...

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

I'd planned for this to be edgier, but I was evidently in a fluffy mood.

Graffiti artist, and all together bad egg, Tom Riddle, meets wholesome jock, son-of-a-cop Harry Potter.

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

The Gaunts

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

he does rrrRRRrrrrR

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

Lord Voldemort

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

FUCK YOUR NOSTALGIA

JK ROWLING IS A HOLOCAUST DENIER

JK ROWLING IS A HOLOCAUST DENIER

JK ROWLING IS A HOLOCAUST DENIER

JK ROWLING IS A HOLOCAUST DENIER

JOANNE KATHLEEN ROWLING IS A HOLOCAUST DENIER

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

Tom Marvolo Riddle

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

i'm back (finally) 🎉🎉🎊

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

Infatuation - T.R.

A/N: Here it is! Part two to Adoration! It took me a couple days to write coz I’m a slow writer lol, but I had a lot of fun with it. I hope it lives up to the first one! It has more plot to it than porn, so I hope that’s okay.

Gif is not my own; it was found on Pinterest, uploaded by Wattpad

No use of Y/N. Reader is Dumbledore’s daughter. It’s mostly unedited and only my second time writing smut so please be nice 💛 Comments, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

CW: mentions of hatred; talk of revenge plans; descriptions of male arousal and such; sexual fantasies; a brief moment of nausea and self-hatred; religious trauma, I guess; Tom being a bit of a sub; (badly written) graphic descriptions of a blow job; praise kink; infatuation with the reader

Does contain mature content so NO MINORS PLEASE!!! Just keep scrolling!!

1588 words

Tom avoids you for a whole week. It’s hard to do. Every time he sees your smile or hears your laugh, his body reacts to it.

It’s the most uncomfortable he’s ever been in his life, forced to use all his tactics to will away his sudden unwelcome erections. After that first incident, he refuses to grant himself proper relief.

It diverts his attention from his grand revenge plan. It’s an almost perfect plan. He’ll humiliate you in public, make it so you never smile at him again. He’ll finally be free from the intense discomfort you’re unknowingly putting him through.

It’s almost perfect…

… except he can’t seem to make himself follow through.

It’s not for lack of hatred. He has plenty of that when it comes to you. Nor is it for lack of willpower. It takes more than a firm will to ignore just how achingly hard you make him.

It’s just… every time he sees your smile, something within him stops. It makes him look like a fool; just standing there, staring at you. And then you smile and wave, just at him, and he’s instantly hard again.

He hates it. He despises it. He wants to scream with rage every time it happens.

His grand revenge plan, ruined by your stupid smile!

He sulks in his room, plotting on how best to get his revenge.

Finally the idea comes to him. It’s a stupid idea; a last ditch attempt at revenge. Take advantage of your friendliness. Of your smiles. Get close to you, and then hex you so bad you can’t walk afterwards.

Tom clings to the idea like a lifeline. All he has to do it get close to you somehow. And then his problems will be over.

The solution presents itself a few days later. You’re in need of tutoring. And who better to tutor you than Tom Riddle himself?

His plan goes swimmingly. Perfect. Absolutely wonderfully.

Until your first study session with him.

He’s already hard.

It’s not even been twenty minutes and you’ve smiled at him four times. FOUR! Who even smiles that much?!

Tom grits his teeth and forces a polite smile as you ask him another question about your homework. He answers evenly, calmly; despite the raging erection he’s just managing to hide under the table.

It throbs with need, begging him to touch it, relieve it, do something about it. Tom refuses.

He’s trying so hard to pay attention to your questions, to focus on your homework, but it’s just so difficult.

You sigh and prop your chin on your hand, gazing at him with a look of confusion. “Tom, are you listening to me?”

He forces his thoughts away from unholy places, using all his willpower to focus on you. “Yes?”

“I asked if you know the wand movements for Silencio? I have a hard time remembering.”

A hard time…

Tom’s thoughts go right back to imagining your soft hands running along his cock… stroking it… whispering soft praises…

“Tom!” You rest your hand on his, snapping him out of his reverie. You’re frowning now. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he forces out, moving his hand away. “You wanted to know the wand movements for…”

“Silencio. I know you make a swooping motion and then flick, but do I flick up or down?” You gaze at him expectantly.

“Down.” Now that you’re not smiling it’s easier for him to focus. He takes a deep breath and exhales, trying to will away his erection.

No such luck.

After scribbling down the answer in your notes, you cast the spell, summoning a bubble of quiet around the two of you. You beam with pride, and Tom’s stomach erupts with butterflies and heat.

This was a terrible idea. A truly, horribly, absolutely terrible idea.

“… Tom. Tom. Tommy.”

He blinks, refocusing on you. “What?”

You hide a grin. “Where are you going off to? In your mind?”

He flushes a bit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You lean closer. Tom panics a bit, resting his hands in his lap to hide himself. The motion makes you glance down.

“Oh.”

Tom’s face flushed hot, his stomach churning with anxiety. “It’s just a natural thing! It doesn’t mean anything!”

You tilt your head, giving him a look. He flushes redder and shrinks a bit in his seat.

You know his secret now. Even death would be better than this. You, his mortal enemy, knowing he has a uncontrollable—

“Do you want some help?”

Your words startle him from his thoughts. “What?”

You gesture to his lap. “Do you want some help?”

He stares at you, utterly baffled. You’re not mad. You’re not disgusted. You’re not shocked and appalled. You’re just…

“You want to…” Tom hesitates. It doesn’t seem like a joke, but he’s not too sure. “How?”

You smile and duck under the table. His breathing stops. You crawl over to him and gently nudge his legs apart, settling yourself between them. You smile up at him, and he stifles a whimper at the sight.

You look beautiful, your perfect features warm with a smile.

“Have you ever had a girl do this before?” You ask softly, resting your hands on his thighs. The touch is electrifying.

Tom shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak. You look a bit surprised, but your smile grows a little. “I’m gonna use my mouth.”

His brain crashes. Your… mouth…? Your perfect, wonderful, smiling mouth on his dick?

“Oh, yes, please,” he breathes out, a soft whine to his tone.

A pleased look crosses your face. You move your hands up to undo his belt, and your palm bumps against his erection. His hips jolt and he lets out a choked sound. Even just that small touch feels better than his own hand ever could.

You undo his belt and pull down his clothes enough to reveal his aching cock. The revulsion hits Tom immediately. He clasps a hand to his mouth, fighting the urge to vomit. He forces himself to look away, trying not to cry.

You were so perfect, wanting to help him; and yet here he was, a dirty disgusting person. Tom squeezes his eyes shut, the orphanage nuns’ words echoing in his mind. Tainted. Evil. Unholy. Devil-ridden.

And then—

“You’re so pretty, Tom,” you breathe, fingers reaching up to gently trace the veins on his cock. He whimpers at the touch, hips lifting up, seeking more of your touch.

His eyes open, peeking down at you. Your expression is awed. Hungry. Eager.

You look up at him and smile, leaning forward to lap at the tip of his cock. Tom moans, fingers gripping the arms of his chair. Your tongue is hot, warm, wet. The feeling is exquisite.

His mind melts to mush as you wrap your lips around his dick. He moans again, head falling back against his seat as you start to suck on his cock, ravishing it with your tongue.

You rest your hands on his thighs, keeping him from bucking up his hips as you bob your head up and down his cock. Tom tries hard to stifle his moans, but to no avail. You’re just too good.

You swirl your tongue around the tip of his cock, pulling back before taking him down again. Tom whimpers at the feeling, one of his hands falling to your head. He can’t help himself; it feels too good.

He pushes your head down a bit, making you choke on his cock. He stops immediately, panic flaring in his chest. You’re going to stop, or get mad, or something!

But instead you moan. You moan around his cock, making him shudder from the vibrations. You move your head down voluntarily, choking yourself on his cock.

Tom’s hand fists in your hair. He moans loudly, head falling back once again. Your mouth and throat feel heavenly, all hot and wet and tight. It’s so much better than his hand.

He can feel the familiar feeling build up. He’s going to cum. He tries to force a warning from his throat but all he can do is whine as he cums down your throat.

It’s like pure heaven. It’s a wonderful, haze-inducing release that leaves him breathless. Tom gazes blankly up at the ceiling, body twitching from the aftershocks.

You slowly pull off, pressing a kiss to the tip of his dick. It makes him jerk and whine again. He looks down at you. You’re sitting there, licking your lips. Giving him such a look of praise. It makes him melt.

“How was it?” You ask, gently running your hands up and down his thighs. He shivers and struggles to answer. It takes him a moment to gather his words.

“Perfect,” he whispers. “I— I didn’t know it could feel that good.”

You smile, clearly pleased with yourself. You crawl out from under the table and settle back into your seat. “Let’s finish studying now, alright?”

Tom nods and tucks himself away. There’s nothing on his mind but a lingering sense of awe. “Yeah,” he murmurs, a faint smile playing across his lips. “Alright.”

You reach out and give his hand a soft squeeze, smiling warmly at him. It sets off a warm glow in his chest that makes his body all tingly. His cheeks flush and he looks down at his hands.

Perhaps his plan can wait for now. If you’re willing to do that again… maybe there is some value in keeping you around after all.

Taglist: @jillian2003 (sorry it won’t let me tag you properly)

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

This Dance - T. R. x male!Reader

This is just a self-indulgent little fic for week four of @thatdammchickennugget’s hogmarch challenge, using the prompt ‘May I have this dance’. This is my first time writing for a male reader so please be nice 💛 Fic is unedited with no use of Y/N

CW: reader is a Hufflepuff with some insecurities and doubts, slight hurt/comfort, and mentions of Bellatrix Black

957 words

“Excuse me. May I have this dance?”

You look up, eyes wet with tears. Your suit is stained with melted snow from how long you’ve been out here. Your face is blotchy from crying. You’re sure whomever’s asking is doing it as a prank.

But your breath catches. There, in front of you, majestic in his suit, is Tom Riddle

You stare up at him blankly. “What?”

Tom blinks down at you, as if not expecting your question. “May I have this dance?”

You look around, as if expecting to be laughed at. But there’s no one. You can barely hear the music from inside.

“You… want to dance… with me?”

Your incredulity is not hard to understand. Tom is the most popular guy in school, and the most handsome and charming guy you know. So why is he asking you to dance?

As far as anybody’s concerned, you’re a nobody. The too-quiet Hufflepuff boy on the outskirts of several friend groups, but never actually in the middle of one.

You’re the boy people pick on, the butt of jokes when no one else is around. You’re not popular or special, though your friends certainly are. Maybe one of them sent him out here as a favor.

“Yes.” Tom’s answer interrupts your depressing thoughts. You blink, having forgotten you’d asked him a question at all.

“I want to dance with you,” he continues, arching a perfect eyebrow. “That’s why I asked.”

“But… why?” You slowly pick yourself up and wipe at your eyes. Even when you’re standing up, he still towers over you. Just another reason his fangirls love him.

“Dance with me,” he says, “and I’ll tell you.”

Slowly, you nod. You weren’t really going to say no anyway. He is the most popular boy is school, after all. A dance with him is a rarity some people would kill for.

You think of Bellatrix Black specifically.

“So,” Tom’s smooth voice again interrupts your thoughts. You don’t really mind it. “What are you doing out here alone?”

“My date dumped me,” you mutter. Thinking about it makes your heart hurt. You’d been so over the moon that your crush had said yes to going to the Yule Ball with you, only for them to ditch you once the dance started.

“Hmm.” Tom’s eyes narrow. “How unfortunate for them. You’re quite a good dance partner.”

“Thanks.” You can’t deny the spark his compliment ignites in you. You try to temper it with the knowledge that he’s probably just being nice.

You dance in silence for a while after that. Tom’s gaze keeps lingering on you and it makes you nervous. So you keep quiet while frantically trying to think of something to say.

Finally, with an air of uncomfortable awkwardness, you ask, “So… why’d you want to dance with me?”

Tom’s gaze flickers with amusement. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well,” you hesitate. “I mean, I’m a guy, first off… and I’m not very popular or anything… and we’ve barely ever spoken to each other.”

“I’m aware you’re a guy,” Tom says, tilting his head a little. “That’s why I asked you to dance.”

You pause. You’d never really considered the possibility before that Tom was into guys. It makes your stomach flutter a little.

Thankfully sparing you from having to respond, Tom steps back and bows gracefully, ending the dance. You bow back, relieved and disappointed. You want to hang out with him more.

“Would you like to come inside with me?” Tom asks.

You blink in surprise and nod. “Uh, sure.”

Tom holds out his hand. You take it, trying so hard not to smile. It’s dumb; the way your stomach flutters at such a simple gesture.

Tom leads you back inside. You’re expecting him to drop your hand as soon as you get inside the castle, but he doesn’t let go. He just continues holding your hand all the way to the Great Hall.

A few people stare when you enter. Tom’s fangirls, no doubt; with venomous looks on their faces. You’re not really surprised but it still makes you nervous. You start to let go, but Tom grips your hand tighter.

“Ignore them,” he says firmly. Your cheeks warm.

You look up at him. “You’re sure you wanna be seen with me?”

“Of course.” Tom looks down at you. “Why wouldn’t I wish to be seen with you?”

“I—“ You don’t know what to say to that. Your insecurities seem laughable in the face of his smooth confidence.

“I just wanted to make sure,” you mumble, gripping his hand a little tighter. You feel like he can see right through you, and you don’t want him to let go.

Tom smirks a bit. He leans down, close enough that his breath ghosts over your ear. It makes your body shiver and your stomach flutter.

“I’d rather be seen with you than with any of the girls here,” he whispers, voice soft and silky. Practically dripping with charm. “My reasons are my own, but do not think that’s cause for you to doubt me. I chose you.”

Your heart feels like it’s about to burst. Your face is hot, your stomach filled with butterflies.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay.”

Tom smiles, a thin smile but a genuine one. He holds out his free hand to you. “Shall we dance?”

You take his hand with a shy nod. Perhaps it’s his effortless charm, or the way his words soothe your anxieties, or even just his good looks themselves; but something about him is irresistible.

You’d say yes to anything he asked. The smirk on his face shows he knows it. You’re done for, and you don’t think you've ever been more excited for anything in your life.