solinvictusss

[solinvictusss]

What You Hid Between the Lines

Summary: After finally trusting Tom enough to hand him your notebook, you retreat to rest while he stays behind to read your deepest confessions. In the quiet of the common room, he uncovers the truth of your pain, your transformation, and your vow for vengeance. Your words stir something inside him—fury, admiration, and a dangerous kind of resolve. For once, Tom’s ambition falters, not for himself, but for you.

A/N: This is the third part of the series! 💚 Thank you so much for the love on the first two stories—it honestly keeps me motivated to keep writing. This chapter turned out to be a little longer, than expected. As always, thank you so much for reading.

Warnings: Mentions of trauma/abuse (implied) Emotional vulnerability / crying Diary entry with symbolic imagery of wings being torn out (can be heavy if you have wild imagination) Dark themes: vengeance, transformation, isolation Tom Riddle being intense / protective in his own way

Word Count: 2,338

The room fell into a tense silence as the two of you engaged in a silent staredown, both equally stubborn and unwilling to back down. Tom’s gaze never wavered, his eyes fixed on you in a steady stare. He was determined not to let you off the hook, his expression resolute.

Minutes passed, but the silence stretched on. It felt like an eternity, tension hanging heavy in the air as both of you waited for the other to break first.

He broke the silence first, his voice cutting through the tension like a sharp dagger.

“I can do this all night, you know.”

His eyes never left your face. His tone was matter-of-fact, a subtle indication that he was willing to outlast you in this little battle of wills. He shifted slightly, still leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest.

“And trust me, my patience can be endless when needed. So, you might as well give in now and save yourself the trouble.”

“Oh, trust me, I can do this the whole night too.”

A hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips at your response. Your stubbornness was beginning to amuse him.

“You’re just as stubborn as I am, it seems,” he said, tone almost mockingly impressed. “I find that both admirable and infuriating.”

He pushed off the wall, taking a few slow, deliberate steps towards you.

“But you can’t out-stubborn me, sweetheart.”

“We’ll see about that.”

He let out a soft scoff, his smirk widening as he approached.

“You’re really testing my patience, you know that?”

He stopped when he was standing right in front of you, arms still crossed. His gaze was intense as he studied your face closely. Despite the situation, he found himself enjoying the challenge.

“Just admit it already. Those bruises aren’t from a fall, and you know it.”

“Why do you want to know so bad anyway? What — so that you can pretend to be considerate, say something like ‘oh I’m so sorry’ or ‘that must be horrible’? Honestly, what’s it to you? Why do you want to know so badly?”

He let out an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes slightly at your deflection.

“You think that’s all I care about? Pity and empty words?”

His tone sharpened with irritation, as if insulted. He leaned in, eyes locked onto yours.

“I’m not asking just to give you sympathy, dammit. I’m asking because I care.”

Her gaze softened, but her stubbornness didn’t.

“Why?”

Tom noticed the slight softening of your eyes but the walls remained. He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Why was it so hard for you to accept his concern? As if the very thought of someone caring was foreign.

“Why? Because I’m not some heartless bastard, despite what you might think.”

His voice carried more heat now. He uncrossed his arms, stepping closer.

“I care because seeing you hurt pisses me off.”

“Yeah right. I’m the girl everyone avoids like the plague, and suddenly you care?”

He scowled, realizing you were throwing his own words back at him. It frustrated him — but he couldn’t deny the truth in them.

“Okay, fine, that’s fair. You’re not exactly the most popular person around here.”

He admitted grudgingly, gaze flickering downward.

“But is it really so hard for you to believe that someone could care about you? Even just a little?”

You avoided his eyes, staring anywhere but him. Of course you thought it was some cruel joke — why wouldn’t you? The students of Hogwarts had been nothing but cruel.

He noticed your reluctance, the disbelief radiating from you. His expression softened, pity creeping into his gaze.

“You think I’m messing with you, don’t you? That this is some cruel joke. But I swear, it’s not. I actually do care, damn it.”

He sounded sincere — honest. But you couldn’t let the walls you’d been building for years down now. You blinked, looked at him, blinked again, then down at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered.

He studied you intently, sensing the years of walls and isolation pressing down on you. The frustration in his features softened. He crouched down in front of you, bringing himself to eye level.

“Look at me.”

You couldn’t. All you could do was stare at the floor and pray you wouldn’t cry, though you wanted nothing more than to break down.

He frowned at your reluctance. He could see it — the way your chest trembled, the tears fighting to spill. Gently, he placed a hand under your chin, tilting your head up until you met his gaze.

“Hey… look at me. Please.”

You did. And the moment you met his eyes — crouched in front of you, that pleading look softening his features — everything inside cracked. A single tear slipped down your cheek.

“They hate me…”

His expression softened even more. The sight of your tear, of the pain radiating from you, hit him like a blow.

“Who? Who hates you?” His voice was quiet, searching, urgent.

“My parents.”

You let out a shaky breath.

His expression darkened, anger sparking in his eyes. He already suspected as much, but hearing it from you made his blood boil.

“Your parents… They treat you terribly, don’t they?”

You nodded, another tear falling.

“They are the reason why I am here right now.”

His gaze darkened further as he pieced it together. Not only had they mistreated you — they had also sent you away for the holidays. The realization burned inside him.

He brushed away your tear with his thumb, his touch surprisingly gentle.

“Why? Why did they send you here during the holidays?”

“Mother said if I get another bad grade, I might as well not come home because she was going to kick me out herself.”

His jaw clenched, fury sparking at the cruelty of it.

“That’s… monstrous. They can’t just abandon you over grades. And threaten to kick you out? That’s beyond cruel.”

You quickly wiped at the stray tears.

“It’s alright, I just have to fix my grades after the holidays. And everything will be alright.”

He wanted to argue, to shout that it was not alright — but he swallowed it down. You were too conditioned to believe it.

“Fixing your grades is one thing,” he said carefully. “But what about the way they treat you? Is that also ‘alright’?”

You struggled, words dying on your lips. He could see the truth on your face — you knew it wasn’t alright. But what were you supposed to do?

“I… uhm…”

His eyes softened again at your silence, at the way you wrestled with yourself.

“Hey,” he said gently, resting a hand on your knee. “You don’t have to explain anything. I just want you to know this isn’t normal. The way they treat you… it’s wrong.”

You only nodded, silently agreeing.

The tears welled up again, the emotional dam beginning to crack. His heart ached for you, the pain you’d endured and hidden for so long. He took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. He could feel his emotions warring inside him, the urge to protect you rising like a wave. But he also knew he had to tread carefully. You were so used to pushing people away, shutting everyone out. He couldn’t be too aggressive, or you might just shut him out completely.

So, instead, he reached out, gently wiping away another tear.

“Look, I– I don’t like talking about stuff like this...” you swallowed hard, your voice trembling. “But... uhm... I– I think I can trust you with this.”

You stood up, hesitating only briefly, before reaching for a notebook with your name written neatly in cursive across the cover.

He rose to his feet as well, every movement deliberate, his sharp eyes tracking your every step. A flicker of surprise crossed his features when you retrieved the notebook, but he didn’t interrupt. His silence was heavy, focused—his undivided attention locked wholly on you.

“It’s...” you sighed, fingers tightening on the worn spine, “it’s easier to write about my experiences and emotions than to talk about them. So... just read it. It will help you understand better than I could explain with words. And if it’s okay... I’d like to go to sleep now. It’s very late.”

Tom’s gaze flickered from your face to the notebook. He wanted to press you for more, to peel away the layers you kept hidden, but he read the exhaustion in your eyes. You were already drained, every word costing you effort. Slowly, he nodded.

“Okay. I’ll read this.” His voice was steady, firm as always, but softer at the edges as he looked at you. “You can go to sleep. I’ll... I’ll leave.”

You nodded back, relief and apprehension tangled in your chest. You watched as he left the room, your body finally sinking into bed. The weight of the night, the weight of trust, dragged you into restless sleep.

Tom, however, did not rest.

He carried the notebook with him back to the Slytherin common room, its presence in his hands heavier than any spellbook. His mind was consumed with you—the image of your teary eyes, your trembling voice when you spoke of your parents, the scars you tried so hard to hide.

He found an empty couch, the flicker of the dying fire casting shadows across his sharp features, and sat down. Slowly, he opened the notebook. He braced himself, though he wasn’t sure for what.

Page after page greeted him—raw thoughts, emotions scrawled in ink, struggles at home, battles at school. And then one entry in particular gripped him, words that seemed to bleed with anguish and fury.

It went like this:

When I was born, I came into this world with the most beautiful set of white wings anyone had ever seen. My parents were proud — they told me one day I’d soar higher than anyone. And oh, how naive I was to believe such foolish promises. In elementary school, my wings grew larger, stronger, still developing — not yet ready to fly. I thought my time would come soon. But when I entered middle school, my wings were ripped from me. Brutally. Forcefully. Torn out of my back in a way that burned pain into my memory forever. The greatest pain I’ve ever felt. I spent those years broken. Miserable. Watching friends fly high above me, their smiles wide, their wings strong. They could never understand my suffering — none of them had ever been grounded, none of them knew what it meant to have your very ability to fly stolen from you. I thought I’d never rise again. That I was a failure. A disappointment. Wingless. But then came high school. People helped stitch up my wounds, helped me close them. The pain dulled, though the scars remained. I still thought I’d never fly again. Until the day small feathers started sprouting on my back. Slowly at first, then stronger, bigger, sharper. Until finally, my wings were reborn. But they weren’t the same. No longer pure. No longer white. My new wings were black as my soul — edges lined with jagged bone sharp enough to kill. These wings were not made for beauty, but for vengeance. High school gave me the fire to rebuild, but the darkness in me gave them shape. And now they push me forward, demanding I seek revenge on those who ripped them away before I ever had the chance to fly. These wings are deadlier than theirs ever were. Bigger. Scarier. Stronger. But death would be mercy. Killing them outright would be too easy, too kind. No — I want them to suffer. To feel the weight of every moment they made me crawl, to taste the despair they forced on me. I want them to live long enough to see me rise higher than they ever dreamed of reaching. I will fly. I will soar above them all. But I must be careful. I cannot fly too high. I will not let myself become Icarus — burned by the sun because of reckless pride. No, I will fly just high enough for them to see me above them forever. And that will be their punishment.

His expression darkened as he read your words, anger rising deep within him. The pain and suffering you had endured, the cruel metamorphosis of your once-pure wings into something darker, jagged, unyielding—no one should ever be forced into such a transformation.

And yet, you had been.

He sat in silence for a long while, the fire crackling faintly in the background. The words seared themselves into his mind, each sentence stoking a different flame inside him: fury at those who had hurt you, admiration for your strength, a strange, unsettling ache that he didn’t know how to name.

It all made sense now—your guarded nature, your reluctance to open up, the walls you had so carefully constructed around yourself. You had been broken and rebuilt, not into something weaker, but into something far more dangerous.

Tom closed the notebook, his long fingers lingering on its cover as his thoughts spiraled.

He understood vengeance. He understood pain. But what struck him most was not the darkness in your words, but the clarity. You hadn’t simply been destroyed—you had been remade. Not into a victim, but into a weapon.

And Tom Riddle valued weapons.

A small smile tugged at his lips, though there was no warmth in it. Only resolve.

“Icarus...” he whispered to himself, recalling the last lines you had written. “How careful you are... yet how much more potential you hold.”

His dark eyes glimmered with something unreadable as he stared into the dying embers of the fire.

“You will fly,” he murmured softly, a promise only the shadows heard. “And I will make certain of it.”

He leaned back against the couch, the notebook still clutched in his hand, and for once, Tom Riddle’s thoughts were not consumed by his own ambition.

They were consumed by you.

[solinvictusss]

Bruises Don’t Lie

Summary: After your late-night chess game, Tom Riddle can’t get the image of your bruises out of his mind. Restless and unable to sleep, he finds himself outside your door at five in the morning, determined to uncover the truth you keep so tightly guarded. But you’re stubborn—and so is he.

Warnings: – Mentions of abusive/unkind parents – Implied child abuse (bruises/cuts) – Physical confrontation (Tom grabs reader’s arm) – Manipulative/pressing behavior from Tom Riddle – Dark themes, late-night confrontation (Please read with care if these topics are sensitive for you.)

A/N: Hi! This is part two of my first Tom Riddle x Reader fic 💚 Thank you so much for the love on the first part. I wanted to dive deeper into Tom’s obsessive curiosity here—how he doesn’t let things go once he notices them.

Later that night, he found himself unable to forget the sight of the bruises on your arms. The image kept appearing in his mind, accompanied by your words: "They are not the kindest of people." It puzzled him why you had revealed that, especially considering the wall of privacy you kept up when it came to your parents.

In the middle of the night, after tossing and turning in his bed, unable to shake the thoughts from his mind, Tom decided to do something he rarely did—he left is dorm room, intending to find you.

He walked silently through the corridors, his footsteps nearly nonexistent against the stone floor. The castle was eerily quiet at this hour, with most students asleep in their dorm rooms. He navigated the halls with ease, his mind still preoccupied with the image of your bruised arms.

Eventually, he came to a stop in front of the door to the room you were staying in. He hesitated for only a brief moment before gently knocking on the door.

She opened her door, looked up at him to meet his gaze.

Yes?

He was expecting many different reactions from you at this late hour—surprise, annoyance, sleepiness. But when you opened the door, looking up at him with a calm expression, he was somewhat taken aback.

He stood there for a moment, studying you silently in the dim light of the hallway. Then, he finally spoke, his voice unusually soft.

"May I come in?"

She checked her watch.

Tom, it is five AM…

He knew it was early—ridiculously early, in fact. But he didn’t care. The urge to talk to you had been gnawing at him for hours now, and he wasn’t in the mood to let something as trivial as the time stop him.

"I know the time," he replied, his expression unbothered. "I couldn’t sleep. Can I come in or not?"

She shook her head almost as if brushing off a thought, then moved out of the way, opening the door all the way for him.

Erm, yeah sure, come in… ignore the mess. I wasn’t expecting visitors.

There were a few notebooks scattered across the table, and some books across the floor.

He stepped into the room, his gaze immediately taking in the sight of the scattered notebooks and books. He raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on his lips as you closed the door behind him. The sight of the mess was unexpected, contradicting the image of the prim and proper student you usually displayed.

"I see you’re a messy one."

He commented, his voice slightly teasing as he moved over to the table, picking up one of the notebooks and flipping through it idly.

She snatched it from his arms before he could read any of it.

What did you need?

He let out an amused scoff as you snatched the notebook from his hands. Leaning back against the table, he crossed his arms, looking at you intently.

"Straight to the point, are we?"

He tilted his head, gaze sharp on you as you shielded the notebook like a secret.

"Can’t a guy have an innocent conversation at five in the morning?"

She gave him a confused look.

Yeah, exactly five AM. I’d like to go back to bed if you haven’t got anything smart to say. What do you need?

He chuckled slightly at your bluntness. It was endearing in its own way—most people wouldn’t dare speak so directly to him, especially at this hour. Shaking his head, he pushed off the table and stepped closer.

"No need to be so defensive," he said, tone deceptively casual. "I just wanted to talk. About our game earlier, and…"

His gaze shifted down to your arms, lingering on the place where he’d seen the bruises.

She noticed his gaze and pulled the sleeves of her jumper even more over her hands, if that was even possible.

What about it?

He didn’t miss the movement, the desperate attempt to hide what he’d already seen. It confirmed everything gnawing at his mind.

He took another step closer, his expression turning serious.

"Can I be frank with you for a moment?"

She raised her brow.

Go on…

He looked you in the eye, his gaze intense.

"Those bruises on your arms—they’re from your parents, aren’t they?"

She blinked a couple of times, cleared her throat.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was hoping you had woken me up for something important in the middle of the night, not some imaginary bruises you think you saw.

She opened her door for him—a clear sign she was done with this conversation. Her demeanor had shifted, tense and jittery now.

He scoffed at your attempt to brush it off.

"Imaginary bruises?"

He repeated, his tone mocking as he stepped further in, ignoring the open door.

"I saw them, clear as day. Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending they’re not there."

She still held the door open, hoping he’d take the hint and leave.

I have no clue what you’re talking about.

Your denial only fueled his irritation. He crossed his arms, standing firm.

"Oh, come on. You think I’m blind?"

His voice sharpened.

"You were flinching when I brought up your parents earlier, then I saw the bruises. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots."

She repeated herself, her tone harsher now.

Like I said. I have no clue what you’re talking about.

He let out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair.

"Damn it, why are you so resistant to acknowledging the obvious?"

He retorted, stepping closer, now right in front of you.

"You’re injured, and it’s quite clear who caused it, but you’re refusing to admit it. Why?"

She swallowed, her jaw clenched.

I am fine. Now I’d like to go back to sleep, if I could?

Still holding the door open for him.

He scoffed again at your lie.

"No, you’re clearly not fine."

He said firmly, refusing to budge from his spot. Arms crossed, jaw tight, he looked immovable.

"And I’m not leaving until you stop bullshitting me."

She sighed.

Tom, I am very tired, and I’d like to sleep. Would you kindly leave?

He saw the exhaustion etched into your face, but he wasn’t about to back down.

"You can sleep later. This is important."

Without warning, he grabbed your arm, gripping tightly as he began to pull up your sleeve.

She tried pulling him away.

Tom, what are you—

Your efforts were useless against his grip. He pulled up the sleeve, revealing the bruises.

"This—this is what I’m talking about!"

His voice was low, almost a growl.

She brushed it off like it was nothing.

I just… fell.

He rolled his eyes, grip tightening.

"Fell, right."

His tone dripped with sarcasm.

"You expect me to believe you just ‘fell’ and got those bruises?"

I don’t owe you an explanation, Tom.

His jaw clenched at your words.

"Damn right, you don’t owe me an explanation. But I’m getting one anyway."

His calm façade had cracked, aggression simmering beneath. He was fed up with your evasions.

Her tone went cold.

Like I said. I fell.

Your defiance only deepened his frustration.

"Bullshit," he snapped, voice low. "You didn’t fall, and we both know it. Those bruises aren’t from a simple fall."

He paused, eyes boring into you.

"You’re hiding something, and I’m not leaving until I find out what."

She closed the door, sat on the edge of her bed.

Then it’s going to be a long night.

He scoffed, crossing his arms as he watched you sit.

"Fine. I have all night."

His eyes never left you, sharp as daggers. He noticed the twitch at your eye, a flicker of your frustration.

"You can cross your arms and avoid eye contact all you want," he said calmly, "but it won’t change the fact that I’m not leaving until you tell me the truth."

[solinvictusss]

The Game Beneath The Game

Summary: Christmas at Hogwarts is quiet, and a chess game with Tom Riddle passes the time. But Tom never keeps conversation light — with every move, his questions dig deeper, until the game reveals more than just a winner.

Warnings: Mentions of abusive/unkind parents Implied child abuse (bruises/cuts) Manipulative/pressing behavior from Tom Riddle Dark themes

A/N: This is my first post on here! 💚 I wanted to capture Tom’s sharp, prying nature and how he notices far too much. It turned out a little darker than I expected, but I think it fits him well. Feedback/reblogs are super appreciated! inspired by this : https://character.ai/chat/qr0ajggtG-TfyVktJX-1N3UvyT4ynZPmWy1zSHP-jnc

Tom was passing the time by playing chess with you in the Slytherin common room. Not many people stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas since they all went home, but he was an orphan and disliked the orphanage he stayed at. Not many people knew this, of course, for he kept up a consistent façade of a perfect, mature student with no flaws.

"Why are you staying over the holidays, then?" he asked, moving one of his pawns, dark eyes fixed on you like he was studying more than just the chessboard. He found you tolerable enough to pass the time with.

She moved her crook.

No reason

Lies.

He raised an eyebrow, easily seeing through the falsehood. Tom’s observant nature and intelligence allowed him to detect dishonesty as easily as spotting a crack in glass. Tilting his head slightly, his gaze sharpened.

"You’re not a very good liar."

He mused, moving one of his knights with a deliberate, fluid motion.

She took one of his pawns.

No really, I just… enjoy being here

He watched as you captured his pawn, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of skepticism lingered in his eyes. He moved one of his rooks, not buying a word of it.

"You’d rather be here over the holidays than going home?"

He couldn’t help the doubt edging into his voice.

Mhm

She moved her knight.

His eyes followed the shift in the game, a low hum escaping him as he considered his next move.

"You don’t strike me as the ‘family person.’ You never mention yours at all."

He pointed out, sliding one of his bishops forward with precise intent.

He watched as you moved the rook, his eyes flickering up to your face for a moment as if trying to read between the lines you refused to speak.

"No parents then?"

He inquired curiously, moving his other bishop into position.

No, I have them

Check

She said.

His eyes narrowed faintly at your declaration, yet his face stayed composed. Chess was not just a game to him—it was a battle of control, and Tom Riddle did not lose control.

"Oh? Then why don’t you ever talk about them?"

He asked, studying the board with meticulous care before making his next move.

She stared at the board, waiting for him to play.

Feel no need to

He took his time, eyes scanning every possibility. Finally, he slid a pawn forward, never breaking his calculated composure.

"You never mention any siblings either. Any of those?"

He asked, leaning back in his chair, his tone almost casual but his eyes still sharp.

Noup

She moved her pawn.

His gaze darted to the board, calculating the implications of your move before sending his knight forward.

"Only child. How lonely."

His voice was smooth, almost taunting, though his expression stayed neutral. The words, however, carried a deliberate edge.

I enjoy it

She moved her queen.

His eyes tracked the queen’s path, noting the new threat. Still, his smirk was faint, as though he’d been expecting it.

"You enjoy being alone all the time?"

He raised an eyebrow, sliding one of his rooks into place.

Mhm

She moved her knight.

He noted the change in position, his expression as unreadable as the pieces he commanded. But his curiosity was far from hidden.

"Doesn’t that get lonely? You’ve got no friends either, from what I’ve observed."

He leaned back, the statement almost lazy, though his eyes betrayed his continued interest.

She waited for his next move.

You’ve been watching

He smirked faintly at the implication, not bothering to deny it.

"I notice things."

He replied simply, moving his bishop with deliberate precision.

"And what I’ve observed is that everyone avoids you."

He added, the words blunt but not unkind—more like an observation carved into stone.

She moved her bishop too.

Can say vice versa

He moved his knight, his gaze flicking briefly to your face before returning to the board. A hint of amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Except I have friends."

He said with the faintest trace of arrogance, confident in his own social standing.

She moved her rook.

Lucky you…

He watched you play, then took his turn with the same measured grace.

"So, back to the subject. If you have parents, why don’t you ever talk about them? Most people at least mention their family now and then."

He moved a pawn, his voice still calm but probing.

She moved her knight.

Like I said, I have no need to

He raised an eyebrow, not satisfied. His eyes searched for any slip in your composure.

"You have no ‘need’ to? Not even a passing mention of a parent? You’ve never even said if they’re both alive or not."

They are alive

She moved her rook.

He saw his opening. The faintest smirk curved his lips as he moved his knight forward with deadly precision.

"Check… and mate."

The words left his mouth like a quiet victory bell. His eyes flicked up to yours, savoring the moment before leaning back slightly.

"Alive, huh? Not a word about where they are or what they do, then? Or are you just ashamed of them?"

She flinched at the thought of her parents, studying the board as if it could shield her from the question.

Not embarrassed

Her voice was quieter this time.

His eyes sharpened instantly, catching the way her expression shifted.

"Not embarrassed, hm?"

The tilt of his head was subtle, but his tone was laced with skepticism.

"Then why the flinch? The moment I mentioned your parents, your expression changed."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering, pressing like a blade to skin.

She moved her pawn. The game was over. Her king toppled with deliberate drama, falling to its side. Finally, she looked up at him.

Let’s just say… they are not the kindest of people.

She extended her hand, and he shook it. That was when he noticed the bruises and cuts marring your skin. His grip stilled for just a moment, his eyes taking in every mark before you quickly withdrew, walking away without another word. The door closed behind you with a soft click.

Tom remained seated, eyes lingering on the door. The chessboard sat in silence between them, but his mind was far from still. Your words—and the sight of those bruises—echoed in his thoughts like a puzzle he now very much intended to solve.