Harry Potter One Shots

Murder, She Wrote Pt. II (Tom Riddle)

The hall was dimly lit, my makeshift paper lantern scattering teardrops of light across the abandoned corridor. It wasn't nearly enough to read by, so instead I passed the time by enchanting the ink. Tapping the tip of my wand against the yellowing pages, I watched the words rise from the paper, humming to myself as they began to form delicate silhouettes that waltzed from one end of the binding to the other.

"You're not supposed to be here."

My humming faltered, the figurines collapsing back into the pages—lifeless as dolls.

"Neither are you," I whispered, my voice guarded.

"It's been too long," came the response. "I've been looking for you." Riddle's words echoed in the empty chamber as he stepped out from the shadows, blocking the doorway. "Have you been avoiding me, (Y/N)? I'm hurt." His sneer showed he was anything but.

"Go away, Riddle."

"You know you missed me."

"Go. Away."

And then he was gone. Leaving nothing but a blood red peony in his wake.

• • •

Tom

She was undeniable. Unshakeable. She clung to him at every turn, invading his thoughts, his fears, his dreams. Days passed without her, yet she remained irrevocably burned into his mind—so much so that the Tom worried he might be ill. It was as though he had spent far too long gazing into the sun, and the sun was she and she the sun.

It was with painful agony, a searing longing, that he watched her from afar. He felt her slender finger curl about her wand as though they were his own, felt her lips brush together as though they were his reciting the spell. Tom Riddle was utterly bemused. What sorcery, what trickery, was this?

He cornered her one night, looking for answers. He demanded, on the verge of hysteria, to make it stop. He could not eat, he could not drink, he could not sleep without the thought of her. It was driving him bloody mad. Sometimes, he wondered if killing her would make it stop.

She'd simply ignored him. Brushing past him as though he was nothing more than air.

That night, he found himself in the restricted section of the library, looking for answers. Book after book he tore from the shelves, dust raining down upon him from above. He did not stop—not when the oil burnt out of his lamp, not when his fingers bled from cutting themselves on parchment. When the sun rose the next morning, he found himself victorious. He could end this misery, this insatiable thirst. With this, he could finally put a stop to the wild beating in his chest. He would have her, forever, beside him. He would control her, tame her light, her flames. As his Horcrux, she would burn him no more.

A/N: Hello! I am so sorry this is so short. I just wanted to get something out, I know it's been quite a while. Thank you to everyone who has read any of my work, I apologize for keeping you waiting. I've been extremely busy and could never seem to get this draft quite right. Please let me know what you think!