Tom Riddle One Shots

Our Game

First person

Smut reminder

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This big house gets boring during break. 

Corridors stretch into darkness and candles go out with one wrong breath. I would rather be at Hogwarts, at least there are other people who could keep me company. But here, here is desolate money. I never understood why mama and papa always brought me home for breaks, they were never here anyways. Always something to do with... well something.

I sit on the couch, my feet tucked under me to keep my blood warm. A dimming candle on the coffee table in front of me is the only light source for the book I'm reading. The book is handwritten, scrawled writing making me squint to understand. The book isn't actually much of a book at all; though it could be.

Tom Riddle has been a peer of mine since first year and every day, since first year, I've seen him write in this journal. At first I didn't pay any attention, every kid had a diary of sorts some point in their life. But as he got older, I realized two things: 

1. He had the same journal, not the same model, but the exact same journal for 6 years that he's written in every day.

2. I wanted to know what he was writing about.

Thus began my obsession with the brooding brunette. Following him after classes, listening in on conversations with professors, and, sometimes, even talking to him(for small stuff such as potions help). I didn't do this often, usually only as a reward for finding out information. I treated him as an idol of sorts, something godly.

At times, it felt as if he knew how all my thoughts swarmed around him. The way he'd peak up at me from behind his books at the library or how his hand would brush mine while making a potion. In some ways, he was toying with me just how I was, him.

Our own little game.

I smirk as I fold the corner of the page I'm reading back and forth, such a shame he wasn't able to catch me stealing his notebook, that would've made our game a whole lot more entertaining.

The wind howls outside, pushing up against the windows, pleading to be let in. I turn to the window, the darkening sky filled with soon-to-be rain clouds. I sigh and lay the journal face down, the page I was reading pressed up against the couch cushion. 

I walk over and press down on the window closest to me, checking to make sure it won't let water in. As big as this house is, it's not up to date on safety requirements. The thought of water gets me thirsty and I decide I should go to the kitchen and make me some tea. The thought of a good-peppermint tea alongside Tom's dark thoughts bring a grin to my face. It's going to be a goodnight.

I turn around and my thoughts on tea almost distract me from the boy sitting on the couch with Tom's journal in hand. I pause my smile not dropping as the boy looks up and gives me a quick smile as well.

"I just came to pick up my notebook. It must've gotten mixed up in your stuff." Tom bites his lip as he studies me. "Somehow."

I take a few steps towards him, the incoming rain and tea now the least of my interests. "I'm not quite done with it yet though. It's by far my favorite story and I'd like to finish it."

His smile wavers at my playful tone and I can't help but widen mine. He hesitates but ends up patting the spot next to him. I silently take it, my eyes not leaves his.

"There's no ending yet. I'd hate for you to be disappointed."

"Disappointed? How could Tom Riddle ever disappoint me?" I reach out and lightly cup his cheek and a part of me is surprised he doesn't slap my hand away. His skin is as soft as I expected it to be, and my fingers can't help but travel down his jaw. He leans into my touch, his lips parting. My smile drop as I watch him, the playfulness turning into strict focus.