aphoticarachne

[aphoticarachne]

What is this feeling?

Tom Riddle x Reader

Chapter IV

chapter iii

wherein the potion brewing begins

a/n: i really like this chapter, i enjoyed writing Tom's perspective in this entire thing.

Tom wanted to tear the wretched thing beating inside his chest clean out, had it not been for the Horcrux shackling it in place.

Sleep was a distant, taunting phantom that refused to grace him. His thoughts churned like a violent sea, each wave dragging him under. After your confrontation in the Prefects’ bathroom, he had returned to Slughorn’s gathering with a mask of indifference, only to be assailed by questions that gnawed at his patience.

"She wasn’t feeling well,” he’d said flatly, the excuse sliding off his tongue before anyone could ask too much.

The responses were insufferable.

“Oh dear, poor thing. I hope she rests.”

“Should someone check on her this evening?”

“Has she visited Madam Pomfrey yet?”

Their nauseating concern coiled around him like a noose, tightening with every pitying remark. It wasn’t their sympathy that irritated him—it was the fact that it was directed toward you.

He had excused himself from the gathering entirely, leaving the warmth of the room for the cold solace of solitude.

The night stretched on interminably. When dawn finally arrived, he stood before the mirror, his reflection staring back at him with disdain. He combed his hair with brutal precision, fastening his robes until they sat perfectly on his frame, as though an impeccable appearance might restore order to his chaotic mind.

Unable to linger within the walls of the castle, he ventured outside, the crisp morning air biting at his skin. His feet carried him to the Whomping Willow, its gnarled branches clawing at the sky like cursed hands.

He halted.

There you stood, your figure framed by the skeletal silhouette of the tree. The wind toyed with your hair, and for a moment, it seemed as though the storm had birthed you—a force untamed, defiant in the face of all it touched.

Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line as his hands slid into his pockets, his posture stiffening. Even in the stillness of morning, you were an intrusion, a disruption he couldn’t ignore. You were chaos incarnate, and for reasons he loathed to admit, you had taken root in the darkest corners of his mind.

As much as he detested you—loathed you—he stayed rooted in his spot, his dark eyes fixed on your every movement. He told himself he was merely studying you, calculating your next irritating display, yet his gaze lingered far longer than it should have.

Your infuriatingly elegant hair swayed with the morning wind, each strand catching the golden light as though it was designed to mock him. You stood there, still as a statue, gazing up at the Whomping Willow as though it were some grand monument.

Tom frowned, his jaw tightening. There was a peculiar tightness in his chest, a gnawing sensation that slithered through him like poison. Whenever he saw you, something foreign stirred within him—something unnamed. And that was what unsettled him the most.

Surely, it had to be hatred. Yes, pure, unfiltered hatred. What else could explain the way his stomach twisted at the sound of your name? Or the way his hands clenched into fists whenever he saw others vying for your attention? Hatred was logical. Hatred was safe.

But the sight of Archibald Fawley striding toward you disrupted his careful rationalization.

The boy was already grinning, that irritatingly cocky smirk plastered on his face as though he owned the very ground he walked on. His light brown hair tousled in the wind, his uniform pressed to perfection. He stopped in front of you, speaking in that jovial, self-satisfied tone that Tom despised.

From his vantage point, Tom’s lips curled into a sneer. Fawley—a boy so arrogant, so transparently hollow—had the audacity to stand so close to you, to make you laugh, to bask in the light of your attention.

His throat tightened. His wand hand twitched in his pocket, the desire to cast something sharp and cruel simmering beneath his calm exterior. A simple hex—nothing too conspicuous. Just enough to knock Fawley down a few pegs, to remind him of his place.

And yet, before Tom could utter a single syllable, you turned away. Without so much as a backward glance, you left Fawley standing there alone, your figure retreating toward the castle with an elegance that made his blood boil.

Tom exhaled sharply, forcing his grip on his wand to loosen.

It wasn’t possessiveness, he assured himself. No, this was something else entirely. He hated you, hated how you drew people to you with such ease, hated how you existed in spaces that should have belonged to him alone. That was all it was.

And yet, even as the wind carried Fawley’s laughter to his ears, Tom couldn’t shake the lingering thought that the boy’s proximity to you felt like an offense—an encroachment on something that was his.

Tom followed you without thought, as though tethered to your steps by some unseen force. It was a habit he hated acknowledging, an instinct he resented. Yet here he was, his movements silent and calculated, like a shadow that only he noticed. He was terrifyingly good at it, though he’d never admit it.

He trailed you at a careful distance, his sharp eyes fixed on the path ahead. A flick of his wand sent a quiet jinx toward Fawley, who had yet to leave the courtyard. Tom smirked to himself as the boy stumbled on the stairs, his usual cocky composure cracking as he fumbled to regain balance.

Satisfied, Tom stepped into the castle.

Ahead, he watched your figure retreat down the corridor. The sharp click of your heels echoed in the quiet halls, a sound that set his teeth on edge. Those ridiculous boots. He recalled, unbidden, how you’d written to your parents after your school-issued shoes had given out, demanding something better—something elegant and entirely impractical. It had annoyed him then, how indulgent your family was, how you seemed to get whatever you wanted. Yet now, the sound of those heels was unmistakably you, and he hated that he could recognize it.

That detail stuck in his mind. Why, he couldn’t say.

His jaw tightened as you passed into the glow of the early morning sunlight streaming through the high castle windows. The way the light played against your hair, catching in soft waves, made his chest constrict—just for a moment. It wasn’t admiration, he told himself. It couldn’t be. It was irritation, pure and simple.

You rounded the corner toward the Great Hall, your robes flowing behind you like black silk. Tom slowed his pace, his lips pressing into a thin line. There was something infuriating about the way you moved, like you were untouchable, perfectly composed, and entirely oblivious to the chaos you caused in others.

Your steps purposeful, likely in search of an early breakfast.

Tom lingered in the hallway for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. There was something maddening about the way you carried yourself, a grace that felt infuriatingly deliberate, as though you knew precisely how to provoke him without ever saying a word.

And still, despite every ounce of loathing he could muster, he followed. Always.

Tom told himself he would leave, that he would stop this absurdity.

And yet, as always, he stayed. Hidden in plain sight, observing, watching, waiting—for what, even he couldn’t say.

Ever since your prolonged conversation with Archibald Fawley at the Slug Club dinner, He had taken it personally. Unreasonably. Almost manically.

The morning after, he had somehow found you near the Whomping Willow. He had somehow decided that it was his duty to escort you to your classes. He had somehow taken the liberty of sitting beside you and Zelda at lunch, his presence an unspoken imposition.

It was possessive in a way that wasn’t possessive—because Archibald Fawley didn’t form attachments, didn’t care about anyone but himself. Not really. That much, you knew.

But whatever this was—the way his eyes lingered on you, the way his patience frayed when others dared to take up your attention—it wasn’t nothing, either.

The hours blurred together, and before long, the clock struck four. Time to brew the potion.

You hadn’t forgotten last night. Of course you hadn’t.

The way his fingers had curled around your throat—long and cold and far too comfortable in their cruelty—had lingered in your mind all day. Made your stomach knot. Made your hands clench into fists.

He didn’t get to do that.

Your pace was measured, steady, as you made your way toward the Potions classroom, knowing full well that Tom abhorred lateness. You turned the last corridor, spotting the door ahead—only to halt in your tracks.

Because there, standing directly in your path, was Archie.

Wonderful.

"Hey!"

He greeted you with an easy grin, calling you by a nickname that made something unpleasant coil in your chest. That was reserved for friends. For people who actually mattered.

"Archie," you said, smoothing the irritation from your tone, "what are you doing here?"

"Just walking about." He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Thought you had somewhere to be." The cheer in his voice faltered ever so slightly. He remembered your excuse from earlier—that you had a project.

"I do. Potions," you replied, gaze sweeping over him.

"Oh, well—"

Whatever he was about to say was abruptly cut off by the slow, deliberate creak of the classroom door.

A sharp gust of air brushed against the back of your legs. A shadow stretched across the floor, swallowing yours whole.

"Fawley."

Tom’s voice was smooth, but entirely devoid of warmth. He didn’t acknowledge you. Didn’t even look at you. His eyes were locked onto Archie, glacial and calculating, stripping him down to nothing.

"She and I have a project to complete," Tom said, his tone clipped, final. "If you don’t mind."

Before you could so much as react, he reached for your wrist and pulled you inside, the door slamming shut behind you with a resounding thud.

You staggered slightly but quickly regained your balance, whipping around to glare at him.

"Why do you insist on surrounding yourself with people like him?" he asked, voice quiet, as if speaking more to himself than to you. He exhaled sharply and strode toward the cauldron, sleeves still neatly rolled up from earlier.

"You don’t get to dictate who I associate with," you snapped, arms folding as your gaze followed him.

"You’re late."

He still didn’t look at you, already focused on arranging the ingredients before him. "I said four o’clock sharp. Or is punctuality just as difficult for you as basic comprehension?"

You smirked. "Funny. I don’t recall being the one bested on last year’s report cards."

He stilled. His jaw ticked.

You could feel the irritation rolling off him as he double-checked the ingredients—until, finally, his expression shifted.

"You forgot the Valerian root."

Your voice cut through the thick, silent tension like a scalpel. You watched as the realization dawned on him, as his fingers curled ever so slightly around the table’s edge.

"It appears I have," he admitted after a moment, his voice quiet. Then, without so much as a glance in your direction—

"Well, be a good girl and fetch it for me, won’t you?"

A command. An expectation. A statement so dismissive it may as well have been patronizing.

He shrugged off his robe, draping it over the chair, before rolling up his sleeves further, unbothered. Unconcerned.

"I’m not your pet, Riddle."

"I never said you were. We are partners, aren’t we?"

You exhaled sharply, spinning on your heel toward the supply cabinet, muttering under your breath—

"Smug bastard."

You despised it—the condescension in his voice, the way he always seemed one step ahead, as if he knew your thoughts before you did.

Still, you held your tongue, retrieving the jar of Valerian Root and placing it precisely among the other ingredients.

With a sigh, you shrugged off your robe, draping it haphazardly over a chair. You had barely turned when Tom’s voice rang out behind you.

"Remove your jewelry." A warning, not a suggestion.

You exhaled sharply, already reaching for your rings. "How considerate of you," you drawled, casting him a sideways glance.

His expression didn’t shift, but something cold flickered in his gaze. "I’d rather not die in an explosion because of your incompetence."

You rolled your eyes, but before you could muster a biting retort, his voice pierced through the silence.

“Turn around.”

Tom’s words were sharp, and he stood before you, looming with that same unrelenting gaze that had unsettled you since your first year.

A frown creased your brow in confusion.

Reluctantly, you complied, pivoting to face away from him. His hands, cold as ice, swept your hair aside with surprising delicacy before grazing your skin. A sharp tremor cascaded through you, the touch sending an electric shiver down your spine.

He deftly unclasped your golden locket, the fine chain slipping from his fingers before he extended it to you with a quiet command.

You met his unwavering gaze as you accepted the necklace, heart inexplicably pounding.

It was… unexpectedly intimate.

As you both set to work, Tom immediately took it upon himself to direct the proceedings. “Powdered Asphodel Root,” he demanded, his hand extended toward you, waiting for the jar.

“I’m not your servant,” you shot back, your voice laced with contempt at his presumptuous tone.

“You’re not my servant. We’re partners,” Tom clarified, his teeth clenched in frustration, clearly irritated by your refusal to follow his instructions.

“You seem to conflate partners with subordinates,” you quipped, your voice dripping with derision. “Though, I suppose it makes sense—everyone around you seems conditioned to worship at your feet.”

Tom’s retort was cut short as you interrupted him. “The cauldron’s boiling.”

Tom muttered something under his breath, his annoyance palpable as he snatched the jar of Powdered Asphodel Root and added it to the cauldron.

You, having already committed the potion's brewing process to memory, moved with precision. Grasping the wooden spoon, you began to stir the contents, watching as the Asphodel Root dissolved seamlessly into the liquid, transforming it into a rich, dark purple hue.

"Where is the Stewed Mandrake Root?" you inquired, your hands moving skillfully as you stirred the potion with unwavering precision.

Tom, standing just beside you, glanced at the cauldron before his hand reached over to yours, grabbing the ingredient and dropping it carefully into the mixture.

You immediately noticed the potion's texture shift, growing more opaque and thicker, demanding you to stir with greater force to maintain the flow.

An overpowering, earthy stench filled the air, almost suffocating. You recoiled, gagging slightly as the smell hit your nostrils. "Merlin..." You grimaced, shaking your head to rid yourself of the foulness, before steeling yourself and continuing to stir the potion, determined to finish what had been started.

Your gaze swept over the cluttered workstation, irritation sparking as you noticed a conspicuous absence among the ingredients.

"Where is the Fluxweed?" you inquired, voice edged with impatience.

Tom's piercing stare landed on you, cold and unyielding. "Did you not retrieve it from the pantry?"

"You only instructed me to fetch the Valerian Root," you countered.

With a measured sigh, Tom strode toward the supply room, his movements deliberate. He scanned the shelves, fingers trailing over the labeled jars before turning back to you with a displeased expression.

"It hasn't been harvested yet," he stated flatly.

Annoyance flared within you. "And you didn’t think to confirm that before we started brewing?"

Unruffled, he replied, "We can preserve what we’ve already concocted. The deadline isn’t until next week."

Exhaling sharply, you conceded with a curt nod.

"When is the next full moon?"

"Tonight," you answered without hesitation, your tone matter-of-fact.

Tom regarded you with suspicion. "And how exactly do you know that?"

You tilted your head, a smirk tugging at your lips. "I take Divination."

He scoffed, shaking his head slightly. "Naturally."

Suppressing a surge of irritation, you slammed the wooden spoon onto the table with an audible thud and extinguished the flame beneath the cauldron.

"We’ll gather the Fluxweed after dinner. Professor Diggory’s garden should suffice," he declared, stepping past you to scrutinize the potion with unnerving intensity.

Your arms folded across your chest as you fixed him with a skeptical stare.

"And what exactly makes you think we’re allowed to just stroll into a professor’s private garden?"

Merlin, why did harvesting Fluxweed have to be such an ordeal? The timing had to be precise—plucked under the full moon or else it would wither into something entirely unusable, even toxic.

"You ask for permission, obviously," Tom replied smoothly, as if the solution were self-evident.

"Why me?" You arched a brow.

"Professor Diggory has a penchant for favoring his female students over his male ones." His voice was laced with dry amusement. "I’m certain he finds your . . . personality quite endearing and won’t hesitate to indulge your request."

A shudder ran down your spine at the implication. Professor Diggory had a well-known tendency to be overly accommodating toward his female students, his favoritism skirting the edge of discomfort. The mere thought made your skin crawl.

"Have you no shame?" You stood rigid, voice low, eyes fixed on Tom. He had orchestrated this so easily, as if it were nothing—as if you were nothing. Another pawn to be moved at his leisure, another piece in his carefully constructed game.

Tom tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching, as if he were amused by the question. "I wonder that myself sometimes."

You exhaled sharply, rolling your eyes, and reached for your cloak, your rings clinking as you pulled them onto your fingers. Tom raised his wand, murmured something under his breath, and just like that, the remnants of your work—scattered jars, a half-emptied vial of asphodel, the stained spoon—vanished into neat, sterile order.

"I'm leaving," you said. The words came out clipped, precise. You didn’t wait for his permission.

Tom's eyes followed you, calculating, lingering. "Running back to Fawley, then?"

Your fingers hesitated on the clasp of your cloak.

"What is your problem with Archie and I?"

"I don't have one."

"Could’ve fooled me."

His expression darkened, the usual effortless mockery replaced with something colder, something that sat between disdain and something else—something unreadable. He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. "Are you truly so blind? You, of all people, should know what Fawley is like—how he treats people, especially women like you."

A strange, creeping unease curled in your stomach.

"What are you implying?"

He regarded you for a long moment, as if considering something. Then, a blink, and the mask was back in place—cool, impassive. "Nothing."

Something in his voice sent a chill down your spine. Did he know something you didn’t? As Head Boy, Tom had the unfortunate privilege of knowing every scrap of gossip that circulated in the Slytherin common room.

You scoffed, pushing past him toward the door. Your fingers curled around the handle, but for some reason, you hesitated. The candlelight flickered, shadows stretching across the stone floor. You could feel him still watching you, his presence pressing against your spine like an invisible weight.

"After dinner," Tom reminded, his voice smooth, deliberate. "Don't be late."

You turned slightly, just enough to glimpse the sharp profile of his face, the way the low light caught in the waves of his slicked-back hair. There was something unnerving about him—something you couldn’t name.

And for some reason, as you stepped into the corridor, the chill in the air felt a little sharper than before.

Deena speaks .ᐟ

Oh my god I am so sorry this took so long to publish a lot has happened in my life.

Firstly, we had our annual prom last week Friday and my crush gave me a bouquet of roses and danced with me thrice.

He and I are talking as of now.

Also happy valentines day to all those who celebrate ! Love you all & thank you for the support you've been giving me, mwa!

[aphoticarachne]

SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK — luke castellan

tags: gut wretching angst, established relationship, betrayal, demigod!reader, um just luke in general

Pain and fury simmered beneath your skin, scorching like molten lava seeping through every vein, threatening to consume you whole.

You stood frozen, suffocated by the weight of betrayal as Luke bared his soul—his plans, his allegiance, the truth he had concealed from you all this time. A sickening wave of nausea clawed up your throat, lodging itself there, just as you were trapped here. With him.

"Baby, I know it's—"

"Don’t." Your voice, though barely above a whisper, carried the force of a blade. Sharp. Unforgiving. Tears brimmed at your lashes, threatening to spill, but you refused to let them fall. Instead, you stepped back, slow and deliberate, as if distance alone could sever the invisible thread still tethering you to him.

Luke's breath hitched, and in the moon’s pallid glow, you watched his expression contort. Shock, pain, then something colder. His crystalline eyes—ones that once held warmth—hardened into ice. Were you truly trying to flee from him? The very thought was an affront. A wound deeper than any blade.

"You can't do this to me," he murmured, his voice laced with desperation. "You—You promised. You said we'd be together. Forever."

He surged forward, hands reaching for yours, as if holding onto you would keep you from slipping away. Backbiter tumbled from his grip, landing on the damp forest floor with a soft thud, forgotten in his urgency to hold onto you.

But you recoiled as if burned. Fury, searing and absolute, surged through your veins. "You did this to us!" you spat, wrenching yourself from his grasp as though his very touch had become repulsive.

The moon’s silver light cascaded over him, accentuating the sharp angles of his face, the scar that traced his features—a mark you once traced with reverence, with devotion, you used to kiss it with the tenderness of a lover. But now, that face twisted into something grotesque, something unfamiliar, monstrous. No, you hadn’t misjudged him. You hadn’t failed to see him clearly before. He was never your Luke to begin with.

Luke's hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tight. He saw it now—the way your gaze shifted, as if he were a stranger, an enemy where a lover once stood. It cut deeper than any blade.

And now, everything was crumbling.

He had thought—no, he had believed—that your love for him would transcend all else. That it would overpower your devotion to Olympus, your blind fealty to the Gods who had forsaken you time and time again. He had stood by you, fought for you, chosen you when no one else had. And yet, when the moment of truth arrived, you chose them.

How foolish he was to have thought of that in the first place.

Your nails dug into your palms, crescent-shaped indentations forming in your flesh as you struggled to steady your voice. When you finally spoke, it was quiet—too quiet. But beneath it lay a warning, a threat woven into every syllable.

"Leave." Your stare burned into him, unwavering. "Leave before I do something we’ll both regret."

His entire world collapsed in a single breath.

You turned then, jaw clenched, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your resolve from shattering. You would not look back. Not this time.

Luke regarded you with an unreadable expression, though you knew him well enough to recognize the battle waging behind his eyes. He had always understood your defiance, your unwavering resolve. It was something he had admired, something he had loved. And now, it was the very thing that forced him to walk away.

Resignation settled over him like a heavy cloak, sorrow threading itself into the fine lines of his face. A single tear traced the jagged path of his scar, glistening under the silver glow of the moon. He inhaled deeply, his gaze roaming over you with quiet desperation, as if he could commit every detail of your existence to memory—the sharp curve of your jaw, the fire in your gaze, the tremble in your breath.

Then, as though time itself had fractured, Luke grasped your face and pulled you into a searing kiss, one that brimmed with longing, regret, and something far too raw to name. His lips moved against yours with an urgency that bordered on despair, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the space between you. This was an ending, a goodbye that neither of you could fully accept.

Your breaths intertwined, heat colliding, as if the universe itself had conspired to make you stay entangled just a moment longer. When he finally withdrew, you felt the ache of absence immediately, the ghost of him still lingering against your lips.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice a hushed vow, weighted with finality. His head shook slightly, resolve hardening his features. "This isn’t over, baby."

You stood paralyzed, a tempest of emotions surging through your chest as he stooped to retrieve Backbiter from the damp earth. With one fluid motion, he slashed the space before him, rending the air itself. A shimmering void opened in his wake, pulsing with dark energy.

He cast you one last, burning glance. And then—he was gone.

Just like that, your lover had abandoned you. Left you standing alone in the stillness of the forest. Left you to wrestle with the unbearable truth.

He was going to raise an army. He was going to lead a war.

And he was doing it for a Titan clawing his way out of Tartarus.

Wonderful.

Deena speaks .ᐟ

Surprise ! I'm a Luke Castellan fangirl

too. Been one since 2020.

What do you expect? I like my men fucked up.

Anyway, the next chapter of "What is this Feeling?" Is gonna be published tomorrow !

[aphoticarachne]

What is this feeling?

Tom Riddle x reader

Chapter iii

Chapter ii

Warning: choking?? Whoops

a/n: I hate this chapter sm oh my god

September’s chill clung to the stone walls of the castle, sharp and unrelenting. The Great Hall, usually alive with chatter, had quieted to a murmur as a few determined students hunched over their books. You sat at the far edge of the Slytherin table, the last traces of daylight casting fleeting shadows over the polished wood.

Zelda had insisted you leave the library, claiming you needed a break from your relentless study habits, though her version of "reviewing" was little more than thinly veiled gossip.

When you mentioned being paired with Tom Riddle for your Potions project, she recoiled as if struck, her disdain for him as palpable as his contempt for you.

"How do you even breathe in the same room as him?" Zelda hissed, her lips curling into something between a sneer and a grimace. "If it were me, I’d have cursed him six ways to Sunday."

"I hate him as much as you do," you murmured, your eyes fixed on the dense text before you, though the words blurred into meaningless lines.

"Hate isn’t enough," she snapped. "Everyone knows he’s been gunning for you since first year, and for what? You’re brighter than him, that’s what it is. Can’t handle the competition." She leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. "If I were you, I’d tell Slughorn to shove his cauldron—"

"Ladies."

His voice cut through the air like a knife, low and deliberate. You stiffened, the pages of your spellbook forgotten as you glanced up to meet his gaze.

Tom stood just beyond the table, perfectly composed as always, the golden light from the stained-glass windows spilling over his features, giving him an otherworldly, almost angelic quality. But you knew better—angels did not lurk in shadows, and they certainly didn’t wear that expression of quiet cruelty.

"Miss Zabini," he began, his tone sharp and dispassionate, "surely you’re aware students are expected to remain at their own House tables."

Zelda tilted her head, her lips curling into a slow, mocking smile. "Riddle, if you keep your tie any tighter, I imagine it’ll strangle what little humanity you’ve got left."

His expression didn’t waver, though something flickered behind his eyes. "Leave," he said, his voice calm but cold, "or I’ll be forced to inform your Head of House."

Mocking him under her breath, Zelda stood and shot you a grin before strolling off.

"You're insufferable, you know that?" you said, not bothering to look up as you turned another page in your book.

"Mayhaps if you didn't surround yourself with halfwits like that Gryffindor, you'd actually accomplish something worthwile." His words were as sharp as his gaze, which raked over you with a deliberate slowness that felt more invasive than curious.

"I’ve already finished my work. Why do you care? It’s the weekend, Riddle. Go find someone else to torment."

"Are you attending Slughorn's dinner tonight?" he asked, his voice carefully measured with seriousness.

The Slug Club—an infamous little cabal of Slughorn's favored students. Exclusive, elitist, and insufferably self-important. You and Tom had been inducted in your fourth year, both chosen for reasons that aligned with Slughorn's peculiar calculus of prestige and potential. The dinners were tedious at best, but you had never missed one. Not entirely out of obligation, though. You had quickly discovered that your presence, as unwelcome as it was to Tom, was an exquisite way to unsettle him. Watching his carefully constructed façade fracture, even for a moment, had become a quiet thrill.

You closed your spellbook deliberately, meeting his gaze with narrowed eyes. "I am," you replied, your lips curling into a smirk. "Why? You wish to escort me, Riddle?"

His expression hardened, that cool veneer slipping to reveal a glimmer of something darker, sharper. "I would sooner be scorched to ash by a Hungarian Horntail than be seen anywhere with you. Do not flatter yourself."

"Then why are you asking?" you countered, your tone cutting, the faintest edge of amusement lingering beneath your words.

For a moment, he seemed poised to answer, but the silence stretched, heavy and charged. Without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows of the hall, his cloak billowing behind him. You exhaled slowly, rolling your eyes at his endless need to cloak himself in that maddening, calculated mystery.

Slughorn's office was always transformed for these dinners—lavish, yet suffocating. The floating candles cast their warm glow over the room, illuminating the walls adorned with portraits of Slug Club alumni, all frozen in postures of smug accomplishment. The air carried a faint sweetness from the polished oak furniture and spiced wine, a reminder of Slughorn’s particular tastes.

The moment you stepped through the door, Slughorn himself greeted you with his usual joviality, his round face crinkling with delight as he clasped your hand. After enduring a few moments of pleasantries, you excused yourself, weaving through the small crowd to find Archibald Fawley. Archie, the Minister’s nephew and a fellow Slytherin, greeted you warmly, his smile earnest and open.

He was the sort of boy your father would have approved of—well-bred, intelligent, polite. But to you, he was only Archie. A loyal friend and nothing more. No matter how hard he tried to veil his feelings behind jokes or light conversation, you couldn’t return them. The gentle affection in his gaze was matched only by the regret you knew it caused him.

As you laughed softly at something Archie had said, a prickling sensation spread across the back of your neck. You felt the weight of a gaze before you saw it. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Abraxas Malfoy watching you, his expression unreadable, his goblet poised at his lips. His focus was unwavering, and though you were used to the unwanted attention of certain members of the Slug Club, his stare sent an uneasy chill down your spine. There was something about Abraxas—something not quite right.

On the other side of the room, Tom stood beside him, his dark eyes sharp and calculating as he observed the interaction. His expression betrayed nothing, but the faintest flicker of something—disdain? Irritation?—danced beneath the surface. He noticed everything. How Abraxas' attention drifted from their conversation to you, how his gaze lingered too long.

"Malfoy," Tom said, his voice cutting through the haze of Abraxas' thoughts.

Abraxas blinked, startled. "What?"

"You stare at her as if she's some unattainable prize," Tom murmured, his tone even but laced with quiet malice. "If you're so fascinated, go. Dance with her."

Abraxas furrowed his brow, unsure if he had misheard. "Excuse me?"

Tom stepped closer, his presence suddenly suffocating. "I don't repeat myself, Malfoy. You disgrace yourself gawking like a child. I expected better." His words were a low, venomous whisper, the faintest smirk curling at the corners of his mouth as his eyes flicked toward you.

Abraxas hesitated, his fingers tightening around his goblet. "I don’t want to—"

"Do you take me for a fool?" Tom interrupted, his voice colder now, more dangerous. "You, of all people, should know what I am capable of. Do not insult me with lies."

Abraxas faltered, the blood draining from his face. He set his goblet down with trembling hands and nodded, walking stiffly toward you. Tom watched, his expression unreadable, but his knuckles whitened against his own goblet as his eyes lingered on you—laughing, carefree, with Archie Fawley.

Why did Tom compel his closest companion—if such a term could truly be applied to anyone in his orbit—to dance with her? He didn’t know.

He didn’t know why his chest constricted as he watched her laugh at Fawley’s idiotic remarks. Or why the sight of her tilting her head toward Fawley with the kind of interest she never spared him made his jaw tighten and his nails dig crescents into his palm.

What he did know was that he wanted to tear Archibald Fawley apart, piece by agonizing piece. Those pathetic, worshipful eyes Fawley always turned on her—did she notice them? Did she care?

Tom noticed. He always did.

Abraxas approached with a practiced elegance, his every movement steeped in decorum. His polite greeting preceded the inevitable request for a dance. It was expected—ingrained in him like second nature. Across the room, Archie’s jaw tightened as he glanced at you, his silence brimming with quiet disapproval before he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

You sighed, resigning yourself to the Slytherin aristocrat's poised invitation. His hand in yours felt formal, detached, as though the act of spinning you around the dance floor was simply another choreographed performance.

But the weight of another gaze bore down on you—a darker, heavier presence. Tom Riddle. His stare cut through the golden glow of the room, sharp and oppressive. It wasn’t admiration or longing. No, it was something far more venomous, far more consuming. His watchful eyes burned through your composure, making your stomach churn and your skin crawl.

Abraxas' murmured praises were lost to you, his polished charm a dull hum against the tightening in your chest. The music softened into its interlude, and as the room swayed to the rhythm, so did you, trapped in a moment that felt suffocating.

Leaning closer, Abraxas whispered, his breath brushing your ear, "Are you alright?"

You nodded too quickly, your voice strained yet polite. "I just need to step out for a moment, if that's alright."

His brow furrowed in concern. "Do you need an escort? I would be more than—"

With that, you slipped away, leaving him standing alone as you made your escape, the weight of Tom’s relentless gaze still burning into your back.

The sharp clatter of your heels echoed through the silent, shadowy halls of Hogwarts. The suffocating air of the Great Hall still lingered in your chest, and you strode purposefully toward the nearest refuge you could find—the Prefects’ bathroom.

The grand, echoing space greeted you with silence as you gripped the edge of the porcelain sink, your knuckles white from the pressure. Your reflection stared back at you, disheveled and trembling.

What the hell was that?

The memory of Tom’s piercing gaze burned in your mind. It had felt suffocating, as though his eyes alone had stolen the air from your lungs. Could he have cursed you? Cast some silent hex when no one was watching? The idea gnawed at you, feeding the simmering rage that now bubbled to the surface.

No matter how petty your rivalry with Tom had been, you had always drawn the line at real harm. But now? Now, he’d crossed a line you couldn’t forgive. Your hands shook as the anger boiled over, spilling into a furious scream that ripped through the air, piercing the stillness of the bathroom.

"Fucking bastard," you hissed through gritted teeth, trembling with rage. Dead. You wanted him dead. The thought was intoxicating, your fury curling around the image of his blood-streaked face.

His blood on your hands would feel like a baptism.

"How dramatic," a voice drawled from the shadows, smooth and cutting. "You’ll wake the Hufflepuffs, and we can’t have that, can we?"

Your head snapped up. His voice. Low, familiar, mocking. For a moment, you thought you were imagining things until he stepped forward from the darkness, his pale face illuminated by the faint glow of the enchanted candles.

Tom Riddle.

The sight of him made your blood run cold and seethe all at once. He was too calm, too collected, as though he’d planned this confrontation down to the last syllable.

Had he been following you?

He tilted his head, the corner of his lips curling into a smirk that sent a chill down your spine. "And here I thought I’d stumbled upon a banshee mid-wail."

Your glare could have burned through steel. "Did you hex me?"

Tom stepped closer, his presence suffocating, his dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Don’t be ridiculous. The Deterioration Hex? Child’s play. But I must admit, your dramatics are far more entertaining than any spell I could cast."

Your fury bubbled over. "What is wrong with you?" you hissed, your voice breaking. "You’re sick in the head, you know that? A twisted, pathetic, stupid—stupid orphan."

The insult barely left your lips before his hand shot out, his fingers curling around your throat. He didn’t squeeze, not yet, but the threat was there, his touch icy against your skin.

"Careful," he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. His face was close to yours now, his breath brushing against your cheek. "Filthy little witch. I wonder—did you enjoy it? The attention? The way Fawley and Malfoy fawned over you? You were begging for it, weren’t you?"

You clawed at his hand, your nails biting into his skin as you gasped for breath. "I—" your voice broke. "I hate you."

Tom’s grip loosened just slightly, though his piercing gaze remained locked on yours. Slowly, a cruel smirk curled his lips, his voice venomous and low.

"Hate me all you like," he murmured, his tone cutting and intimate. "But don’t lie to yourself. You hate me because I see you—every mask you wear, every filthy little thought you try to bury. You hate me because you can't hide from me."

And then, as if the rage in his eyes had dissipated into something darker, something more dangerous, he shoved you back against the sink.

He stepped back, adjusting his tie with that same maddening composure that made you want to scream. “Good night,” he said smoothly, his voice low and sharp, as if it were some final command. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t be late. We have a potion to brew.”

With that, he turned on his heel, his footsteps echoing through the grand, empty bathroom as he walked away.

"Raving lunatic!" you spat, the words dripping with disdain, your gaze seething with the anger he had so easily provoked.

Tom paused mid-stride, his shoulders stiffening, but he didn’t turn around. Instead, you caught the faintest twitch of his lips, though whether it was a smirk or a grimace, you couldn’t tell. Without another word, he continued on his way, leaving you fuming in his wake.

Deena speaks .ᐟ

Tom MIGHT just be bipolar.

Ohmygod I finally published this shitty chapter school has been crazy !! I only managed to finish this today because I'm absent. Anyway, hate this chapter omfg.

Chapter four will be posted soon hopefully^^

[aphoticarachne]

creditos:@mentllyillcutie

[aphoticarachne]

hi guys hope you're having a wonderful afternoon !! I'll be able to post chapter three in maybe around the weekends since I'm really busy with school. We have a play to prepare, exams are soon, our research paper, and I'm also applying to a really exclusive science school so I need to get my grades up💔 I'll post as soon as I can my loves !

[aphoticarachne]

i highky love ur acc and writing bru (idk i just thought id lyk)

can i be 🕸️anon?? if ur ok w/ it

I LOVE YOU thank you omg 😭 im really insecure with my writing since im still learning english🙏🏽

btw what does 🕸️anon mean im sorry idk slang💁🏽‍♀️

[aphoticarachne]

What is this feeling?

Tom Riddle x Reader

chapter ii

chapter i >> chapter iii

Wherein you and Tom cross paths in the halls unexpectedly.

a/n: I'm completely appalled by the sudden audience I got from the first chapter, thank you 😭

The week passed in a blur, and before you knew it, Friday arrived – a much-needed reprieve, granting you the rare pleasure of visiting Hogsmeade.

You wandered the cobbled streets with Zelda Zabini, the two of you caught in the carefree hum of freedom that only existed beyond the castle gates. There was something intoxicating about it, as if the weight of the ancient walls had loosened its grip the moment you stepped past them.

But Hogsmeade was small, and Hogwarts' reach was long.

It wasn’t surprising when you saw him.

Tom Riddle stood near the entrance to Honeydukes, his head tilted slightly toward Abraxas Malfoy. The two conversed quietly, though “conversed” might’ve been too generous a word — Malfoy’s role in their dynamic felt closer to that of an audience than an equal participant. You watched as he lingered a step behind Tom, hanging onto his every word like scripture.

It was almost amusing how they clung to him — Malfoy, Rosier, Lestrange, Nott, Dolohov — a circle of pure-blooded sons orbiting Riddle as if bound by an unspoken loyalty. Even Malfoy, with his old family name and aristocratic arrogance, never stood taller than Riddle.

“Doesn’t it exhaust them?” Zelda mused beside you, her gaze trailing after the boys. “All that devotion.”

You smirked, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “They like to pretend he cares.”

The two of you stayed until the sun bled into the horizon, drowning Hogsmeade in a molten glow. It was easy to lose track of time. Too easy.

The two of you wandered until the sun dipped beneath the mountains, casting long shadows over the village. Only when the clock at the Three Broomsticks struck half-past nine did you notice how much time had slipped away. By the time you apparated back to the castle gates, curfew had long since passed.

Zelda bid you farewell near the staircases, her Gryffindor dormitory calling her in the opposite direction. You veered toward the dungeons, the familiar path silent save for the soft rustling of house elves preparing for the next day.

It wasn’t until you rounded the last corner that you saw the light.

Bright. Unyielding. A thin beam slicing through the shadows ahead.

You stopped.

“Come out.”

The voice was calm, but there was an edge to it – silk over steel.

You recognized it instantly.

Of course. Tom.

You cursed silently, leaning against the cold wall as if you could will yourself invisible. How could you forget? He’s patrolling tonight. His newly polished prefect’s badge practically gleamed whenever he walked the halls, as if eager to remind everyone of the power it granted him.

Resigned, you stepped forward, the glow of his wand trailing over your face as you emerged from the dark.

Tom approached, the tip of his wand still lit, though now directed at you.

“Point that at me again and I’ll snap it in half,” you said coolly, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

There was the faintest flicker of amusement in his expression, though he masked it well. Tom’s gaze swept over you, the sharp angles of his face bathed in pale light. His wand lowered, though his eyes remained fixed on yours, unreadable in their scrutiny.

“You’re out past curfew,” he observed, his voice devoid of accusation — just fact, as if he were making note of the weather.

"I'm aware."

His eyes narrowed. “Are you also aware that students caught wandering the corridors without reason are reported to their Head of House?” His tone was clipped, like reciting from the handbook itself.

You shrugged, unbothered. “What’s your plan then, Riddle? Drag me to Slughorn so he can scold me?”

Tom’s gaze didn’t waver, but something shifted behind his eyes, as if he were gauging the weight of your words. His hair, you noticed, remained annoyingly perfect despite the late hour. It was unfair. How can someone look that put-together at this time of night?

“I could put you in detention,” he remarked, though the threat felt hollow.

“No, you couldn’t.”

A slow smile ghosted across your lips. “Only professors can give detention. Don’t waste your breath threatening me.”

His expression remained impassive, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

“I lost track of time.”

The truth hung between you like mist, curling in the spaces left untouched by words.

Tom studied you for a long moment, his gaze dipping lower, as if searching for cracks beneath the surface.

“It won’t happen again,” you added, though you weren’t sure if it was a promise or a lie.

“It better not,” Tom murmured, though the warning felt distant, like something he’d rehearsed without meaning.

Silence stretched out between you, heavy and unbroken.

“Well?” you asked, the slightest arch to your brow. “Are you turning me in or letting me go?”

Tom’s lips parted, but he hesitated. The brief pause almost startled you.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“I’m letting you go.”

His words, plain and simple, felt almost disarming.

“Why?”

“I’m giving you a chance,” Tom replied, and for a brief moment, hesitation laced his words. It almost didn’t seem like him.

“Why?”

His lips twitched, but the smirk never quite surfaced. “Do you always question acts of mercy?”

“I question anything from you,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “You’re not exactly known for your generosity, Riddle.”

Tom hummed thoughtfully, his eyes trailing over you in that way that always made you feel like he was dissecting something far deeper than your appearance.

“Don’t forget our arrangement,” he added, stepping back into the corridor’s shadows. “We begin next week.”

You rolled your eyes, but the truth lingered in the back of your mind — you hadn’t forgotten.

And despite your reluctance to admit it, you were almost looking forward to it.

Tom’s gaze followed you, that much you could feel. His attention was weighty, trailing like fingertips against bare skin.

“Good night,” you called over your shoulder as you walked toward the common room.

Just as you reached the entrance to the common room, his voice drifted after you — low, smooth, almost too quiet to catch.

“Dream of me, will you?”

You didn’t turn around.

But the smirk tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Deena speaks .ᐟ

I duly apologize if there are spelling mistakes !! English is my third language.

Furthermore, I'd like to thank everyone who enjoyed the first chapter of this story ^^ I appreciate all the hearts. This is more of a filler chapter since I wanted Tom to interact more with the reader.

Chapter three might be released tomorrow.

[aphoticarachne]

What is this feeling?

Tom Riddle x Reader

>> next chapter

Wherein you and Tom Riddle seem to loathe each other . . or do you?

a/n: I watched Wicked a few weeks ago and the song “What is this Feeling?” has been ringing in my mind so here we are.

Everyone who roamed the shadowed corridors of Hogwarts knew of the quiet war that lingered between you and Tom.

It was not something declared aloud, but rather something that settled in the air, cold and thin, like winter mist curling through the cracks of stone. You never quite understood why, but there it was — every word you spoke, every step you took, seemed to sharpen the edges of his gaze. It began subtly. A stray remark from the faculty during first year, their praise falling at your feet like scattered petals. You hadn’t thought much of it. But Tom had. Tom always noticed.

And then, of course, there was your magnetism. You drew attention without meaning to — a pureblood with a mind quick enough to match his, and a beauty that moved through rooms like a breath of wind. Naturally, people admired you. Naturally, he despised it.

There was no mild disdain in Tom Riddle. Only unadulterated loathing.

You learned not to flinch beneath the weight of it. His cold eyes followed you as if hexing you from afar was a temptation barely restrained. And perhaps, in some quiet part of you, you welcomed it. Rivalry, even unspoken, was still a kind of recognition. Over time, you had begun to play along, careful and deliberate, weaving your way into his path just to see the flicker of irritation cross his face.

In the end, you were as much to blame for it as he was.

So when Horace Slughorn, your Potions Professor, announced in seventh year that you’d be partnering with Tom, you nearly lost your composure.

It was absurd, really — the sudden heat in your chest, the tightening of your grip on the desk. Across the room, Tom’s gaze flicked toward you, impassive but sharp, as if Slughorn’s words had only confirmed something he already suspected.

The room felt smaller.

“Professor!” You called, carefully schooling your expression as Slughorn announced the partners for brewing Draught of the Living Death. He turned to you, his ever-present smile stretched wide, brimming with that thoughtless cheer he seemed to carry everywhere.

“Yes, dear girl?”

“Might I partner with someone else? Or perhaps work alone?” Your voice was light, polite, though the faint smile you forced felt stiff. Across the room, Tom’s gaze settled on you — disinterested, yet razor-sharp beneath the surface.

Mindless imbecile, you thought.

Slughorn’s brow furrowed, his jovial demeanor dimming by a flicker. “You’ve no issue with Mr. Riddle, I presume? No, I see no reason why two of my brightest students shouldn’t work together!” He clapped his hands, already drifting toward another group, humming contentedly.

A quiet, defeated sigh slipped past your lips. Was Slughorn truly so oblivious, so incurably naïve, to think this pairing was anything but disastrous?

You told yourself it was fine. You would endure it, as you always did. But there was a quiet undercurrent to it now, something that twisted beneath the surface like a serpent curling around bone.

As soon as class ended, you slipped through the door, your steps quick and deliberate. The weight of the room lifted the moment you crossed the threshold, and you exhaled quietly, eager to disappear into the steady flow of students crowding the corridor. The last thing you wanted was to linger, not with him still there, his gaze undoubtedly following you as it often did.

But just as you merged into the throng of robes and chatter—

Tom had called out your last name, like he always did whenever he felt the need to address you.

His voice rang clear, smooth and precise, cutting through the noise with unsettling ease. You didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. It wasn’t the first time he had tried to catch your attention, and by now you’d learned to brush past it, to pretend not to hear.

The students around you shifted, moving like water around stone, and you were ready to lose yourself among them—

Until his hand caught your wrist. Firm, but not careless.

A startled breath caught in your throat as Tom pulled you aside, his grip steady as he steered you into a narrow corridor. The sudden absence of noise made the air feel heavier, too still.

You tore your arm from his grasp, distaste flickering sharp in your eyes as you stepped back, creating distance between you.

“What do you want, Riddle?” Your tone was cold, sharpened by irritation you no longer cared to hide.

Tom straightened, folding his arms across his chest as he regarded you with that same calculating look he always wore, the one that felt more like an assessment than anything else.

“Do you make a habit of ignoring everyone, or just the ones you despise?” he asked, his head tilting slightly. His voice was infuriatingly calm.

“I didn’t hear you,” you replied curtly, though the lie felt thin even to your own ears.

He hummed softly, the sound light but edged. “Lying is beneath you.”

You held his gaze, the quiet tension settling between you like fog. “Was there a reason you stopped me, or do you simply enjoy cornering students in secluded places?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed faintly, though his expression remained unreadable. “Starting next week, we meet after class. Every day. We work on the potion until it’s flawless.”

There was no invitation in his tone—only fact, as if the decision had already been made long before this conversation.

“I’ve already arranged for the use of Slughorn’s classroom. Go there when classes end.”

His eyes lingered on yours for a moment longer, cold and unwavering.

“Do you understand?”

"And what if I'm busy next week? Have you no consideration?" you shot back, arms crossing as you met his gaze without flinching. The truth was, your schedule was perfectly clear — not a single obligation to be found. But that wasn’t the point. Who was he to dictate your time as if it belonged to him?

Tom’s expression didn’t shift, not even slightly. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something colder.

"And who, exactly, would be foolish enough to keep your company?" His voice was soft, almost thoughtful, but the insult laced beneath it struck hard enough.

Your eyes narrowed.

"4 PM," he continued, brushing past your challenge with practiced ease. "I expect you there. On time. Or I’ll brew the potion myself — and I’ll make sure Slughorn knows you contributed nothing."

The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy and unmoving. His gaze lingered, deliberate as if daring you to test him further. But before you could summon a retort, he turned sharply on his heel and strode down the corridor, his robes trailing behind him like shadows curling at his feet.

You stayed rooted in place, watching as he disappeared around the corner.

Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating.

Deena speaks .ᐟ

English isn't my first language so I apologize if I'd made any mistakes, if so, please correct me.

I plan on making this a short fic, mayhaps 5+ chapters? Please give me opinions on how I should end this story! + I'm also sorry if it sucks, this is my first time writing!