Harry Potter One Shots

Murder, She Wrote Pt. IV (Tom Riddle)

A/N: The (highly?) requested next part to Murder, She Wrote. Here's what life might have looked like if you'd chosen to side with Tom at the end of Pt. III. There may be an alternative ending if I can find the time to write it. This is perhaps one of the most dysfunctional pairings I've ever written.

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You

Someone was screaming again.

I'd become so accustomed to it that I rarely bothered to muffle the noise with spells anymore. Sometimes, on nights like these, I wondered what would have happened if I'd followed through and gone to Dumbledore all those years ago. It didn't matter now, I supposed. What was done was done and there was no changing the past.

For what seemed like hours, I stared into the great stone hearth and watched the flames lick across the wood. Nagini, my ever faithful companion, slept curled about my feet, indifferent to the moans of pain and terror that bled in from the hall. Sighing, I refocused my attention to the giant tome laid out across my lap. It was the tenth I'd consulted in as many days, and although  its yellowed pages promised knowledge beyond most wizards' comprehension, I was beginning to doubt whether the information I sought lived within its yellowed pages.

As I turned to begin the next chapter, the screams cut off abruptly. The silence it left was eerie, as if I'd forgotten how quiet it could be otherwise. I cocked my head, curious. Tom never finished this early. How odd. Nagini must have thought so too, for she came awake with a questioning sort of hiss. Her large head swung towards the door then back to me,  tongue dancing out to taste the air. I shrugged in response, idly stroking her scales as I re-shelved the book with a flick of my wand. 

A few moments later, I heard the doors to the study swing open and close.

"You're not supposed to be here."

Tom's voice was like velvet, the words stirring up countless memories. A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips. How many times had he said that exact phrase to me? Unlike in our school days, there was no hidden malice but a teasing edge that belied his good mood.

"And where should I be?" I answered, finally turning to face him. Even in the low light of the fire, he was devastatingly beautiful, the flames throwing the wicked planes of his face into sharp relief. He crossed the room in three long strides, enclosing one of my hands in his.

"By my side," his murmured, bringing my hand to his mouth. "Forever." He turned it over, and I briefly felt the scratch of his teeth against my skin before he pressed a kiss to the inside of my wrist.  It looked so small against his palm, and I knew he could easily break it if he tried. I shivered, desire—and a hint of fear—coursing through me. 

That was the thing about Tom. There was always something unpredictable about him, something dangerous. In some ways, it was like living with a wild animal. Even once you'd tamed it, you could never be sure. I'd liked to think that I'd anchored him, that I'd curbed the most dangerous part of his appetite and helped him see reason when he was blinded by power and pride. I was certain that in the years since we'd left Hogwarts,  I'd pulled him back from the brink of madness more times than a few times. But still, there was a jaggedness to him that even I could not soften.

I felt his lips travel up the curve of my arm and over my shoulder. His fingers abandoned mine to brush back my hair when his kisses met my neck. I sighed his name. It came out more like a prayer.

"No one else could call me that and still live," he mused, nipping at my stuttering pulse.

"Good thing I'm not anyone else," I replied, drawing him down for a kiss. Even with the roaring fire, I'd been so cold without him. His touch seemed to restore the warmth to my body, chasing away the chill left deep in my bones. He groaned, pulling me up from the chair and against him, hands buried in my hair as his tongue swept across my own.