#Tom Riddle character study

[circeepf]

New italian fanfiction online on efp!

“Tainted Boy”

The stories at Hogwarts have always hidden secrets, but never as dark and intricate as those tied to Tom Riddle.

In the year the Chamber of Secrets is opened, it’s not just chaos slithering through the corridors, but also the most deeply buried truths.

Tom is not just a brilliant student; he is an orphan searching for belonging, a manipulator seeking answers, a living enigma taking his first steps into darkness, ambition, mystery, and temptation.

This is not simply a tale of good versus evil—it explores evil in its earliest, faintest form, yet deeply rooted. Here, the ancient magic of Hogwarts doesn’t follow the usual rules, and the good, as well as the bad, are not what they appear to be.

And Tom? Perhaps he’s not the monster you think he is. Or perhaps he is, but not in the way you imagined.

Canon divergent.

If anyone would like this to be published on AO3, feel free to let me know, and I’ll take care of it!

Here the link at the italian version

[maxdibert]

You always say that JKR's female characters have sexist characteristics, and I agree. Now I'm thinking, do the male characters have the same problem? I feel like we talk so much more about the female characters, because we analyse them from a feminist perspective. But are the male characters that much different?

When I think about a male character who gets portrayed in a sexist manner, of course Snape comes to mind. Because he doesn't have traditionally masculine traits, and often gets treated as too emotional or "hysterical", even in the moments he has every right to be angry. Do we have any other examples?

Ohhh my friend, you just pick my favorite topic: gender roles in fiction. This is gonna be so long that's because i didn't answered before. But what can I say? I love gender analysis. Well, the sexism in Harry Potter doesn't just harm or flatten its female characters, it also shapes the men in rigid, gendered ways. The narrative tells us what kinds of men deserve praise and which ones deserve ridicule or punishment, and those judgments often mirror traditional, patriarchal ideals of masculinity.

Severus is a prime example. He’s written with traits that are culturally coded as unmasculine: emotional intensity, awkwardness, deep attachment, and vulnerability. But instead of being treated with compassion or complexity, he’s portrayed as bitter, obsessive, even “pathetic.” His grief, rage, and isolation are often mocked or pathologized, rather than explored. The narrative treats his emotions as excesses, as if he should be more stoic, more composed—more “manly.” This isn’t just a character flaw—it’s a rejection of any masculinity that doesn’t align with dominance, physical bravery, or emotional control.

Neville, for example, also demonstrates how the story treats alternative masculinities. Early on, he’s timid, forgetful, and sensitive. These traits are framed as embarrassing until he becomes braver, more assertive, and physically courageous. In short, until he conforms to the warrior-hero mold. Only then does the narrative grant him respect. The same applies to Harry himself: when he expresses emotions —particularly grief or anger— he’s dismissed as “moody” or irrational. The story often limits him to being a brave, self-sacrificing leader, but gives him very little emotional support or space for vulnerability. There's no real model for healthy emotional masculinity in the series, only the expectation that boys must “man up” to be heroes.

Hagrid is another example: deeply nurturing, emotionally expressive, and connected to nature and animals, traits often associated with care work and maternal energy. But instead of being respected for those qualities, he’s infantilized and often used as comic relief. His gentle masculinity is never truly valued: is ridiculed.

Contrast this with how the narrative treats women: the only ones who are consistently admired or respected are those who adopt traditionally masculine (but specifically patriarchal) traits: McGonagall, Ginny (in the later books), Tonks (to a degree), and of course Hermione. These women are praised for being rational, assertive, clever, emotionally restrained, and good at traditionally male-coded skills like dueling or strategy. But when they express vulnerability or compassion —or engage in emotional labor— they’re often sidelined or seen as less effective. The narrative doesn't reward care or softness in women any more than it does in men. Feminine-coded traits —empathy, nurturing, emotional openness— are simply not respected in Rowling’s world, she doesn’t uplift a deconstructed, emotionally mature masculinity in either men or women, she simply maps the traditional masculine ideal onto certain female characters and punishes the rest. The politics of care, softness, emotional labor are consistently devalued in the narrative, regardless of who displays them.

And this binary logic extends even to the depiction of villains. Take Lucius Malfoy and Tom Riddle, for instance. Both are presented as elegant, refined, beautiful even, traits often associated with femininity. Tom is repeatedly described as “handsome,” charismatic, and physically graceful. Lucius is cold, vain, poised, and his long blond hair and pristine appearance mark him as almost effeminate. These aesthetic choices are not incidental: the text uses their "feminine" physicality and polished manners to underscore their moral corruption. Their deviation from rugged, physical masculinity becomes part of their danger. It reinforces the idea that ambiguity—especially gender ambiguity— is inherently threatening.

This is a very old trope: the villain whose femininity is a sign of deceit, vanity, and perversion. In contrast to the "good" masculinity of characters like Lupin, Sirius (though flawed), or even Dumbledore in certain contexts, Tom and Lucius are coded as deceptive, performative, and manipulative, traits historically attributed to women in patriarchal literature.

Rowling’s portrayal of masculinity in the serues isn’t just about punishing deviation from patriarchal norms. It’s also about celebrating and excusing those who most embody traditional, dominant masculinity, even when they behave in deeply harmful or morally hypocritical ways. Two of the clearest examples are Sirius Black and James Potter.

Sirius is a textbook case of this. The narrative goes out of its way to frame him as attractive, charismatic, rebellious, and brave, the quintessential "cool bad boy." He’s constantly described in a romanticized, even fetishized light: leather jackets, long hair, brooding stares, a tortured past. Rowling makes sure we know he was handsome as a teenager and still has that allure, despite everything. But beneath that carefully maintained image lies a deeply flawed, morally inconsistent man. He is impulsive, often cruel, emotionally stunted, and astonishingly reckless with Harry, treating him less like a child in his care and more like a replacement for his lost best friend.

Sirius clearly struggles with trauma and imprisonment, but the narrative infantilizes him to excuse his worst traits. His emotional immaturity, his inability to grow beyond the age he was when he was imprisoned, is framed as tragic rather than irresponsible. His deep resentment of his family background, while understandable, leads to abusive behavior, yet it's never really questioned or addressed. He taunts Kreacher, encourages Harry to take unnecessary risks, and repeatedly projects his unresolved issues onto others. And yet, instead of holding him accountable, the narrative bends over backward to present him as misunderstood, loyal, and ultimately noble. His hypermasculine traits—defiance, aggression, emotional repression—are romanticized, even when they make him a terrible role model and Rowling excuses him constantly because well, he's a man isn't him? Men are men after all.

James is similarly protected by the narrative. He's introduced, retrospectively, as a school bully: arrogant, cruel, and dismissive of others (especially Snape). In SWM makes this abundantly clear: he bullies Snape for no reason other than boredom and ego. But Rowling frames his redemption not through any internal change or reckoning, but through Lily. We’re told James "grew out of it" because Lily wouldn't date him otherwise. The implication is that the love or approval of a good woman is what transforms a toxic man into a worthy one, a deeply sexist trope that places the burden of male moral development on women, rather than demanding accountability.

James doesn’t evolve because he recognizes his behavior was wrong, he changes because it wins him the girl. There’s no moment of reflection or apology, no exploration of the damage he caused. Instead, the narrative assures us that because he was brave, rich, talented, and confident —because he died fighting Voldemort— his earlier behavior is irrelevant. He’s mythologized as a hero, a perfect father, a natural leader. Once again, the narrative rewards hypermasculinity —dominance, swagger, courage in battle— while erasing the harm it can cause when it goes unchecked.

These character arcs are deeply gendered. Sirius and James are not punished for their aggression, recklessness, or cruelty,they're forgiven, romanticized, even sanctified, because they embody traits traditionally associated with masculine greatness.

So when we step back, we see that Rowling's narrative doesn't just operate in a patriarchal world: it actively endorses patriarchal values. The story rewards characters who conform to traditional masculinity, regardless of gender, and punishes or ridicules those who don't. Emotionality, care, and vulnerability —whether in men or women— are dismissed or treated as weaknesses. And even when characters are powerful, if they possess feminine-coded traits, that power is portrayed as dangerous, unstable, or even evil.

The result is a world where gender roles are rigid, and where only patriarchal traits —strength, control, intellect, emotional repression— are validated. That’s not just a flaw in the world-building; it’s a political stance embedded in the structure of the narrative itself.

[eris-eveningstar]

Quick hc I just thought up: Tom/Voldemort is scared of lightning. He wasn't always, but lightning and fireworks and too loud sounds sound like bombs to him, and he was always scared of bombs.

As Voldemort, he believed himself to have abandoned his humanity, his fears as well, but despite himself, he would always flinch in the barest amounts whenever he heard the boom of some spell or curse.

He would sooner die than admit it, tho.

[garfunkelworld]

magpie ||| tom riddle

one's for sorrow

she is his first.

he never forgets his first.

it feels sacred, deeply ceremonial, as he breaks his soul in two and binds it to his diary. the diary that holds his secrets. the indignity, the shame, the loneliness. they are guarded now, the best way he knows how: by himself.

he is surprised at the ease of it.

it hurts, of course. a literal soul-splitting ache drives through him as he attaches the fragment of his soul to myrtle's and binds it to the pages.

but then everything feels the same again and he simply… carries on.

beginnings are often quiet.

two's for joy

the second time he kills, it delights him.

he laughs with relief, with an exhilarating pleasure he has not known before. even to his own ears, distorted through the vibrations in his skull, it is a foreign sound and he can acknowledge its misplacement on his lips.

he laughs because he is somebody. at last.

he has heritage. new and pure, as though he has only just been born.

the ring, clean of blood and yet dripping with it, glides onto his fingers with ease.

later he will wonder how this could be when it was twice as wide on the meaty, violent hands of his uncle.

later even, he will not wonder about anything ever at all.

three's for a girl

the reverence he felt for myrtle is absent when he kills hepzibah. it feels no more sacred than swatting away a fly on a hot summer's day.

he is past such distractions now.

he never cherishes the cup as he does the others. it is a means to an end. nothing more. and so he does not feel it when it is locked away in a dark room for decades, gasping for air ten thousand feet beneath the surface of the world.

he can't hear the cries. the choking.

it occurs to him that he doesn't hear much at all these days. there used to be so much noise where now there is not.

this new world is quieter.

it makes him feel old at times.

but he is perpetually young and still quite beautiful and he eats the secrets of this world with greed, gathering power until it pools out of him, until it is sparking from his skin, until his very eyes glow with it.

he asks himself, sometimes, if it will ever feel different. if the shrinking thing in his chest will ever feel smaller.

or perhaps bigger.

if the absence of these parts of himself will ever feel like anything at all.

four's for a boy

before he makes the locket his own he is a boy. after it is done, he is a man.

he is twenty years old and humming with power.

he is unprecedented.

he is unmatched.

the stars shine for him and for him alone.

he could be done here, of course. already, he has rewritten all the laws of magic. claimed his own and then some.

but why stop when completion is within his grasp? another two and he will be seven.

and what a fine thing that would be.

so neat. so tidy.

so complete.

he is never warm anymore.

five's for silver

he can acknowledge her beauty, strange as it is. cold and distant like a winter night.

he rarely asks questions anymore. there is a divine clarity in their place. but when he looks at her, silver wisps of air, he asks himself why she looks so much more alive than she used to.

as he considers this he realizes that all of them do.

she tells him her secret and when she does he could crawl into her beauty and be held there and lose himself in it. just as she is lost in his.

it is becoming increasingly difficult to turn it on, this strange fascination he once held. that made people addicted to him. he can still remember its taste. the adoration, the lust of it.

now, more often than not, the thing that people taste of is fear.

not her though.

he puts soft words into his mouth. a mouth cold enough that it could hold ice and it would never melt. and she drinks them all up.

he tells her what he intends to do and for a moment she looks regretful.

“if you must kill yourself," she whispers into the reflection of herself, "do not abuse me as a knife."

he is almost compelled to stop. to listen, to obey and see what will come of it.

but this is not what he does.

he goes deep into the woods, just as he had intended.

it is the hardest thing he has ever had to do.

after this, nothing is hard anymore.

six for gold

one more, he tells himself.

one more.

but not this one. no. this kill he will not tie to himself. this murder has another, much more important, hallowed purpose.

not that he couldn't do so if he wanted.

he tears himself apart habitually now.

it would not be difficult to make this child, this harbinger of death, another vessel to guard himself with.

but he decides against it.

he will think, later, that maybe this is why it destroys him. maybe he was meant to use this death. maybe he misread the signs. maybe the stars have failed him at last.

but he has never been wrong.

it doesn't make sense.

he calls upon the green light, as he always does. but unlike the other times he doesn't see it fade.

this time, it grows. more light, ever more light, blinding, brilliant, golden light.

and then there is nothing.

for years there is nothing.

when he awakens he feels, for the first time, the absence of himself.

it… he feels so small, much smaller than he thought he would.

then he meets salvation.

she comes to him in the woods. a wild thing. all sequins and scales.

he lets his fingers glide over her smooth body.

he whispers to her.

mother, he calls her.

he drinks her milk.

already, they have become one. it is only a matter of time.

when he is fat and strong with it, he murders the muggle and his eyes flash yellow, bright yellow just like the mother's when he ties half of himself to her beating reptile heart and is reborn.

seven's for a secret never told

a monster in the shape of a boy walks towards him from across the battlefield.

it doesn't feel real. he doesn't feel real.

but he knows that this boy is the only real thing in the world.

the boy speaks but his words don't make sense. nothing has made sense in a very long time.

they circle each other.

he raises his wand and calls upon the green light one last time. he knows it won’t fail him again.

he is power.

he is death.

he is deathless—

inspired by "Magpie" by The Unthanks.

[oceansubconscious]

the boy with magic; tom riddle and harry potter.

two sides of the same story.

(a short character study in a black-out poem)

I think it's very interesting how Harry and Tom grew up in similar circumstances. They both had no parents, lived with muggles who ostracized them for magic they barely understood themselves. Their magic was both their curse and their blessing. Then, they're whisked away to a magic school and that's when the similarites end.

Because Harry has a good heart, he focuses on what he has instead of what he doesn't have, and he finds a family in his friends, and he uses his magic to protect them.

But Tom has a darker heart and he let it drive him to the family he believes abandoned him and uses his magic to kill them.

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

Sometimes when Harry looks at Tom, he's reminded of a lesson one of his muggle teachers gave on reptiles. Chameleons that can change their skin colour to blend into their surroundings or anoles that shed their tails to distract a predator and escape – adapting in order to survive, no matter what it takes.

Harry is himself, to a fault. He spent so long beaten down and trying to disappear so he wouldn’t draw his relatives’ ire that he now refuses to hide or apologise for who he is and what he wants. It probably helps that his wants are pretty basic – good food, good friends, a warm, comfortable place to live, someone to love him – and that he inherited the money and name to easily achieve them.

Tom, on the other hand, is so used to being smoke and mirrors and disguising what he wants and what he is in order to pretend to be what others want or need. 

He’d been unapologetically (and tyrannically) himself in his childhood, his magic giving him the power to exert his will over others. But Tom is brilliant and a quick learner, and his first interaction with Dumbledore, which he’d described late one night to Harry when the shadows hid both their faces, had proven a subtler touch might be needed.

Now, Tom reflects other peoples’ desires back at them in order to draw them in, and deflects the conversation away from himself so he never has to clearly define his own position. He doesn’t change himself, but everyone seems to believe Tom is on their side – that they’re on the same page. And because of his power and charm and good looks, everyone wants Tom on their side.

Harry has seen this happen many, many times, and he’s still in awe of how Tom affably manipulates those around him into doing what he wants. How Tom determines what someone wants, says just enough to convince them he does too without committing to anything, and twists that connection into a shape that best suits him.

In fact, the only reason Harry believes Tom actually likes him is because Tom never pretends to be what he thinks Harry wants him to be. Tom is petty and says cruel things and lets Harry see him when he’s less than perfectly put together. And Harry treasures each of Tom’s sharp edges, because he’s the only one who gets to see him as he is. He hoards each truth and preference that Tom chooses to share with him like a squirrel preparing for a long, hard winter.

The trouble comes when people talk to Harry about Tom. By virtue of association, Harry’s had to learn to deflect and prevaricate and lie, though he’s still not very good at it. He does a lot of nodding and smiling and making thoughtful “hmm” sounds as people ask him what Tom thinks of this or that. It’s easier than keeping Tom’s machinations straight in his head.

There are moments when Harry isn’t sure Tom even knows who he is at his core. He is so meticulous about his public persona that Harry doubts anyone else knows which foods Tom actually likes (given the chance, Tom would eat ice cream every day), or what he actually thinks about quidditch (he finds it unbearably dull), or what he thinks of muggles (he’ll never be fond of them due to his treatment as a child, but he doesn’t particularly care beyond that) or muggleborns (new blood is necessary for the magical world to continue, but the mages with the deepest pockets are the most bigoted and ‘traditional’) or purebloods (gullible).

And after the tenth meal of eating foods he doesn’t like, or the fifth quidditch match or ministry event or pureblood soirée in a week, or the nth political tapdance before the Wizengamot, pretending to represent everyone’s interests at once without alienating anyone – and quietly getting his own agenda voted through – Harry has to wonder how Tom stays sane. How it all seems worth it. It certainly doesn’t to Harry.

But that’s Tom. Ambitious to a fault, and willing to sacrifice almost anything in order to achieve his goals.

And whatever other people might think, Harry’s not naive. He knows there’s a chance Tom is lying to him, too. He knows it’s possible – even likely – that Tom figured out that the best way to get Harry on his side would be to give him the best illusion of the truth. Show him some darkness and Harry will believe he’s getting honesty. He’s made his peace with this and decided he’d rather give Tom the benefit of the doubt and be a fool than abandon the other man when he’d chosen to be vulnerable with Harry.

So, when Harry brings home Indian takeaway and offers Tom a bite of his rogan josh, only for Tom to casually say, “I don’t really like lamb,” Harry is fascinated and utterly thrilled.

Especially since he’d seen Tom eat lamb chops at a dinner party two weeks ago with nary a moment of hesitation or complaint.

Harry makes sure to leave plenty of the chicken tikka masala for Tom and mentally notes this new preference down. He’s collected a new fact about Tom.

He spends the rest of the meal with a silly little grin on his face.

[virgil-anon]

My New One-Shot

Harry Potter Died (Again) by virgil_anon on ao3

Summary:

Harry Potter died. Again. And again. Something has been missing since his defeat of Voldemort, an ache in his chest so big and yawning he was afraid it would swallow him whole.

With no one else to talk to about it, Harry turns to Death.

Relevant tags: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, battle of hogwarts, post battle of hogwarts, master of death Harry potter, Harry Potter is lonely, Harry misses the horcrux, horcruxes, angst, angst with a happy ending, Dumbledore bashing, death ships it

Snippet:

Harry didn't talk about what happened in the Forbidden Forest. Yes, everyone knew that he died—that Voldemort had killed him, more accurately. Hagrid hadn't stopped telling anyone who would listen about it. But no one knew what happened while he was gone—dead. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had died. Then he came back (and it was quite a shame only Hermione appreciated his Jesus joke). Harry hadn't even truly understood all that happened while at King's Cross. Not until after the battle. After Harry defeated Voldemort once and for all. After the man who turned himself into a monster died just like any other wizard. Like Fred, and Remus and Tonks. He couldn't outrun death, because no one could. Harry wasn't proud of the way he collapsed after dealing the final blow, as he felt how well and truly hollow he was inside. He couldn't properly breathe, like there was a gaping hole in his chest that threatened to swallow him whole. He didn't remember much till Ron and Hermione showed up. Then he had his best friends to lean on as he cried. They helped carry him away as the survivors rushed forward, and despite Voldemort’s death, the battle continued. Word spread like wildfire. “Voldemort is dead!” echoed off the broken castle walls, in much the same way the Death Eaters had declared his own death a mere thirty minutes ago. Or was it an hour? He had no idea. He only heard second-hand accounts of what came after. At the time, he could only think of his death. He needed to know what happened to him. His friends helped him inside, and he could stand on his own two feet again. “Hermione,” Harry rasped. “Your bag. I need your bag.” She frowned. “What? What for?” He waved his hand impatiently. “I don't have time to explain. There's something I need to do, and I need both of you to help the others catch the stragglers.” With Ron's insistence backing him up, Hermione gave Harry her Ever-Expanding Bag and they ran towards the Great Hall. Harry tightened his grip on the drawstring bag and marched up to the Headmaster's office. The pensieve was still where Harry and his friends had left it. He dipped inside and watched Snape’s dying memories again. And again. Then he remembered. With a simple accio, he pulled The Beetle and the Bard from Hermione's bag. He didn't feel right sitting in Dumbledore’s—or was it Snape’s now?—chair, so he sat in the smaller, less ornate one and reread the children's story. The story of the Deathly Hallows. Harry still had all three. His cloak was in his pocket, the stone in the snitch, and the wand was clutched in his dirt-streaked hand. But that wasn't the interesting part. He'd been so sure that it was Dumbledore. Why wouldn't he be? He knew the man was dead, he'd been his mentor in life, surely in death he could be as well? “He greeted Death like an old friend.” And Harry had. He had met Death at a crossroads—and what was more poetic than King's Crossing, the physical manifestation of the split between Harry's muggle and magical worlds? And he came back. Didn't that make him Death's Master? Only the realisation hadn't fixed the gaping hole in his chest.

[theoneofshame]

[mistress-riddle]

do we think tom/voldemort ever experienced cost-sunk fallacy?

[motherfuckingmaneater]

On my read through of DH I realise Harry’s wrong in thinking that Bellatrix doesn’t know the cup in her vault is a horcrux. She realises immediately that if they’ve been in her vault they could’ve taken it and then proceeds to take out 4 fully grown wizards within a matter of seconds and throws everyone in the cellar except hermione to interrogate her. She says to Narcissa and Lucius repeatedly that this is far more dangerous than they could’ve imagined and they need to follow her order or else they will all be dead by Voldemort’s hand.

So this spells only one thing to me; maybe Voldemort didn’t tell her — personally, as much of a Bellamort stan as I am, I still can’t see him telling her — but she certainly figured it out. If it’s just a treasure of his I don’t think she’d be as scared as she was. I don’t think she’d be worried for her own life — given she’s his favourite too — if she thought it was just another treasure of his. I think she clocks on that this random cup her master has given her Salazar knows how many years before is no mere trophy but something to be guarded with her life.

Not to mention… people forget that she is a Black. Not just a Black but she embodies the Blacks in their entirety. She is a very dark, very intelligent, very powerful witch who is an expert in the dark arts (“[ … ] I know magic that you, pathetic little boy could never begin to comprehend…”) and her ancestry and pride for being Bellatrix Black likely went hand in hand with her knowledge of dark magic from a young age. She absolutely knows what a horcrux is. I think she knew that this cup was exactly that, that she had part of her Master’s soul in her vault and that’s why she was terrified that they’d been in it.

[vivantesopvles]

He’s trapped in a purgatory of pain. He cannot see or hear. All he knows is the wrongness in his soul – two mismatched halves, two storms trying to devour one another.

From one of them a boy emerges. Sickly and shunned, the product of a wartime orphanage. His eyes blaze with the desire to live – to live forever – even as he’s struck down, crushed by the hand of Voldemort’s will.

The frayed edge of his soul screams. (It is not designed to be torn after all.) But he dismisses it, as best he can, for pain is no more than an illusion; a lesson he taught himself fairly early on in his childhood.

And in the chaos, still, there is peace.

He feels clean in a way he never was, baptised in death and old magic, pure power flowing through his veins.

No longer is he the hustling Mudblood, the teacher’s pet, or the charming prefect.

This is his Becoming.

And soon, people will finally recognise him for who he truly is.

He is Lord Voldemort.

09052024 | @microficmay | agony

[circeepf]

The Master of the Dark Arts

New chapter!

[caprisonnetrinker]

Regulus Black, the spare of the House Of Black. Regulus Black, the new heir to the House Of Black. Regulus Black, the Death Eater.

Regulus always proving something. Always showing how better he can be than everyone else. The snake who waits patiently to bite but also the snake who loves the taste of blood.

At the end of the day, Regulus wanted to prove that he could be an inner circle Death Eater. At the end of the day, Regulus was just another selfish Black who believed in his own supremacy. Arrogance lead him to his death.

He wanted power and was face with struggle. Somehow with betrayal.

Regulus never would have betrayed the Dark Lord if he wouldn't have felt betrayed first. He believed too much in his own and his family's supremacy. He believed too much that the Dark Lord would care.

But at the end of the day, he was just the spare.

Because who is Regulus Black next to Bellatrix Lestrange and/or Sirius Black?

[l0lwitha0]

Potential character study???? Might just draft an outline

Alright, here’s the deal: just imagine a fic where they actually nail Tom and Harry’s dynamic — none of a watered-down, let’s-make-Tom-a-soft-boy. I’m talking real Tom Riddle—calculating, manipulative as hell, intimidating, but like…lowkey unraveling because Harry Potter waltzed in and flipped his world upside down. Tom’s over here meticulously orchestrating his dark plans, but Harry just exists, and suddenly all that control Tom’s so proud of? It's falling apart. And not in a “Oh no, I’m in love” kind of way. More like, “This boy has wormed his way into my soul, and I’m mad about it because how dare he make me feel this powerless.”

And Harry? He knows. Oh, he knows. He’s not playing dumb, but he’s also not just handing Tom the upper hand. Harry’s walking this tightrope between calling Tom out on his BS and having learned over time exactly how to exploit every one of his vulnerabilities. And Tom’s not even mad about it. He’s infuriated, but also? Obsessed. Addicted. He hates how much he needs it.

Like, give me scheming Tom who’s trying so hard to hold onto his dominance, only for Harry to casually dismantle him with a single bolder attitude. Let’s throw in some real tension, not just surface-level power struggles, but deep, emotional clashes where Tom’s the one falling apart at the seams, and Harry’s there, steady and solid, like, “Yeah, I see you. Every part of you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Because Harry? We know he also carries his cravings. Unspoken and quieter ones. A deep-seated longing and an unacknowledged desire to feel truly known and connected in a way that goes beyond the weight of any title. Someone who challenges and matches him at the same time.

And let's be honest, this isn’t about softening Tom. It's about stripping him bare. Making him real, raw, vulnerable in ways he despises but can’t escape. And Harry? He’s the catalyst, the one person who can see every crack in the mask and claim him—love him anyway.

[mitsuki91]

I just realized I have a new fave in the HP fandom: Tom Riddle :v

... Sigh.

[prythiansprincess]

best friend's brother! tom finally gets you alone

NAVIGATION // home. tag. moodboard. more.

author's note: the demons...they're getting loud again. i'm actually so feral for possessive and obsessive tom. I fear I might make this my whole personality now.

obsession. 

tom riddle was, in every sense of the word, obsessive. the fixation and compulsion he poured into the things he loved had always been a marker of his character. tom was not the type of person to casually partake in something; for the eldest riddle brother, the best things in life were worth being consumed by. 

and he was. 

utterly and irrevocably consumed by you. 

y/n, mattheo’s sweet and innocent best friend. the one whose pretty eyes and lovely smile haunted his every waking moment. the one whose honeyed voice played in his head like a melody and enticed him like a siren’s song. the one whose gentle touch sent his heart racing until he felt as though the damned thing was going to burst out of his bloody chest. 

you had no idea what you did to him, but you would soon enough because tom had a plan. for weeks, he had been plotting and scheming. trying to find the right time to finally get you all to himself. 

fortunately for him, the opportunity arose one fateful evening when mattheo left his phone unattended in the living room. it was so easy, almost too easy, to guess his brother’s password and open up his most recent text thread with you. 

mattheo: come over tonight? 

tom watched as three dots appeared on the screen, indicating that you were currently typing a response. 

y/n: will tom be there?

now that was interesting. perhaps you were asking because you wanted him to be there. wanted him as much as he wanted you. 

mattheo: yes. why do you ask?

y/n: I just don't want to be a bother. I know tom likes to study on tuesdays and me coming over would probably disrupt that.

tom couldn’t help but smile. such a thoughtful, caring girl. he couldn’t wait to ruin you. 

mattheo: tom will be fine. so, are you in or not?  i'll grab your favorite snacks. 

y/n: you had me at snacks.

half an hour later, you were standing in the doorway of the riddle home, dressed in one of those pretty little dresses that tom had imagined ripping off of your body a million times. as the door swung open, those innocent eyes widened at the sight of him. you flushed when tom met your gaze, a light pink hue dusting your cheeks. 

"oh. hi, tom. um, is mattheo here? he asked me to come over." 

tom casually leaned against the frame, giving you a once over that only deepened your flush. "my brother just stepped out, but he should be back soon." 

"o—okay. he's probably out getting snacks." 

tom watched as you lingered in the doorway, anxiously fidgeting with the hem of your dress. he thought it was adorable that you were still nervous around him after all this time. biting back a smile, tom opened the door to his home a little wider. 

"are you coming in?" 

“hm?” you asked absentmindedly. “oh. yeah. yes, i’m coming. not like that. I mean, obviously. shit. ignore me please.” 

tom raised a brow, but said nothing as he barely gave you enough of a gap to squeeze through the door. he smirked to himself as you maneuvered your way inside, perky breasts brushing against his solid chest. tom could smell the sweet scent of your strawberry shampoo as you passed through. he wanted to drown himself in it. you timidly avoided his gaze, choosing instead to follow him into the kitchen in silence.

“would you like something to drink?” 

you nodded. “yes, please, i’ll take a —”

before you could finish your sentence, tom handed you a cold can of vanilla cherry soda. your favorite. you thanked him with a shy smile before following him upstairs. instinctively, you turned in the direction of mattheo’s room, but tom gripped your wrist and kept you in place. 

“you can wait in my room if you’d like. mattheo might be a while. he reeked of weed when he left."

you chuckled. “it does take matty forever to pick out snacks when he’s high.” you shifted your weight from one foot to the other before glancing up at tom through your lashes. “are you sure you don’t mind? I wouldn’t want to impose.” 

“i’m sure,” tom confirmed. “I could use the company.” 

with that, you followed tom into his room. unlike mattheo’s, tom’s room was neat and organized. everything was perfect and pristine, much like the man standing before you. tom busied himself by putting away the books and notes on his desk while you fiddled with your fingers, not quite knowing what to do with yourself. 

“sit on the bed,” tom commanded. “make yourself comfortable.” 

“okay.” you replied in a small, breathy voice. 

carefully, you settled at the edge of his bed and crossed your legs. you drummed your fingers against your thigh, pondering how strange this situation was. in all your years of knowing tom, you had never once set foot in his room. at most, you caught glimpses of it when you passed by on your way to mattheo’s room. 

everything was so foreign and interesting. that was the desk where tom does all his studying. that was the closet where he keeps all of his clothes. that was the night stand where he places his glasses on before he goes to sleep. 

that was the bed that he laid in every night. your mind started to wander through all the things that tom had done in this bed. maybe by himself. maybe with someone else. the intrusive thoughts fired off one by one, leaving you flustered. does he soak the sheets when he gets himself off? does he tie his partners to the bed post when he eats them out? does he push their faces into the pillows as he rails them from behind? 

you were so engrossed in your dirty and filthy fantasies that you nearly jumped out of your skin when tom rested a hand on your thigh. 

“hm,” tom hummed. “you’re so jumpy, love.” 

you held your breath as he leaned closer, his face mere inches away from yours. the tension between you ebbed before he carefully took the soda can in your hand and placed it neatly on his nightstand. tom smirked when he noticed the hitch in your breath at his close proximity.

“do I make you nervous, doll?” 

“yes,” you answered truthfully. there was no point in lying. it was written all over your face. “you’re just so…intimidating.” 

“am I?” tom drawled as he slid in beside you, scooting in closer until his thigh was pressed against yours. even through his neatly pressed trousers, you could still feel the heat of his skin on yours. “maybe we just need to get to know each other better.” 

you bit your lip. “i’d like that, tom.” 

“good,” tom drawled. “let’s start with why you think you’d be a bother to me. mattheo told me you were hesitant to come over earlier.” 

you flushed as you stared at your shoes, the curtain of your hair shielding you from tom’s intense gaze. “I know you like your peace and quiet, which mattheo and I probably constantly interrupt. i’m sorry if we’re ever being annoying.” 

“you don’t have to worry about that. you could never bother me,” tom stated in a silky, flirty voice. “the only thing I find annoying is that you’re always with my brother. I just can’t seem to get you alone, can I?” 

you shivered as tom’s gaze flickered down to your lips. “well, we’re alone now.” 

“indeed we are.” you held your breath as tom leaned in closer, the bed dipping under his weight. “you have no idea how long i’ve waited for this. just you and me, without my brother to interrupt. I think about it all the time.” 

tom watched your pupils dilate, reacting to his admission. “what do you think about?” 

“I think about all the things I’d do to you. I think about the way you’d feel, the way you’d sound. if you’d scream or moan or whimper for me.” you shuddered at the sinful confession, rubbing your thighs together as heat rushed to your core. tom’s green gaze felt like a brand against your skin as a predatory look flashed through his handsome face. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.” 

before you could react, tom’s mouth was on yours. the kiss was neither soft nor gentle, but instead hungry and possessive. the magnitude of his desire took you by surprise. you had always thought that tom viewed you as nothing more than mattheo’s pesky friend, the one that came over unannounced and wreaked havoc in his life, but apparently you couldn’t have been more wrong. 

tom kissed you like a man starved. he poured all of himself into the action, tangling his fingers through your hair, yanking your head backwards so he could kiss you deeper. you could barely keep up with the way he was devouring you, his tongue dominating yours while you moaned softly into his mouth. 

a gasp escaped your lips as tom picked you up and placed you on his lap. you were dizzy with desire as you straddled him, whimpering when tom bucked his hips against yours which caused his erection to rub against your soaked core. never in a million years would you have imagined tom to be this dirty and filthy as he grabbed and groped and gorged himself on you. 

your breathy moans filled the room as tom slid his right hand underneath your dress and squeezed your thigh before palming you through your panties. you melted into his touch, moaning his name softly while he growled in response. as he slid the lace aside, tom kissed your neck and teased your slit with his fingers. 

“you’re soaked, doll.” tom said with a dark chuckle. “do I make you wet, hm?” 

“yes,” you breathed, eyes rolling back as tom spread your slick ever so slowly. 

he seemed to take this as encouragement, taking his time teasing you, rubbing your clit and spreading your folds until you were reduced to nothing but a whimpering mess. 

“tom, please…”

“so needy,” tom murmured. “what is it that you want, love?” 

“I want…” you bit your lip as tom stroked your pussy. “I want your fingers. I want them inside of me. please, tom.” 

“aw, doll, you sound so pretty when you beg,” tom cooed. “don’t worry, I couldn't resist you even if I tried.” 

without warning, tom plunged his fingers into your pussy. you groaned at the stretch, face heating from how vulgar the scene unfolding before you truly was. tom watched with rapt attention as you squirmed and panted, drinking in every little moan and whimper like a fine wine. his fingers felt like magic as they curled and scissored and flicked inside your walls. the other hand that wasn’t playing with your pussy rested on your hip, gripping tightly as you grinded against tom. 

“that’s it, doll. ride my fingers just like that.” 

tom was mesmerized at the sight of you using him to get yourself off. mattheo’s sweet and innocent best friend was no longer sweet and innocent as tom fingered and ruined you like the perfect little slut that you were. his perfect little slut.

“are you going to be a good girl and cum for me?” 

tears streamed down your cheeks as you rode tom’s fingers like your life depended on it. your mascara and lipstick were both smeared, but you didn’t care as you chased after your orgasm. you gave tom a weak nod, half out of your mind with pleasure. 

tom gripped your chin and forced you to look at him. “answer me, doll.” 

“y — yes. i’m going to…oh god, tom!” you writhed as tom rubbed your clit with the heel of his palm, pushing you over the edge. 

the glimmer in your eyes right before you came unleashed something within tom. the flushed cheeks and fluttering lashes; the parted lips and strained scream, it was enough to drive him insane. he wanted to see you make that face over and over again. 

“you look so pretty when you cum, doll.” tom murmured as he bit down on your neck, staking his claim on your skin. “you’re fucking exquisite.” 

amusement danced in his gaze as you shied away from the attention, cheeks flushed from the praise. tom locked eyes with you before sticking his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean in the most obscene and erotic way you had ever witnessed. 

“don’t get all shy now, love. it’s your cum i’m licking off my fingers and i’ll be damned if you ever feel nervous around me again.” 

you chuckled in disbelief. the tom riddle in your head was supposed to be prim and proper, but the real tom was salacious and vulgar; a version of him that was better than what you could have ever imagined. still, despite the heated exchange, tom was surprisingly tender as he helped clean you up. you blushed furiously as he pulled your dress down and kissed your cheek. 

the timing couldn’t have been more perfect because soon after you were situated, the two of you heard footsteps in the hall. you barely had time to compose yourself before mattheo came barging into the room. 

“tom, have you seen my phone?” mattheo paused in surprise when he found you staring back at him. “oh, hi y/n. what are you doing here?” 

“you asked me to come over and hang out, remember?” 

“did I?” mattheo wondered aloud. “I was pretty baked earlier. guess I must have texted you then. well, i’m free now if you want to watch a movie.” 

tom smirked as you shot a bewildered glance at him. “oh, yeah sure.” 

“by the way, what are you doing in tom’s room? is he boring you to death about his coin collection again?” 

you blushed furiously. “no, uh, we were just…tom and I were…” 

“we were discussing the finer points of human anatomy,” tom lied smoothly. his smirk was still perfectly in place as he glanced over at you. “it was a rather…stimulating conversation. was it not, doll?” 

the tips of your ears were bright red as you nodded in place of a response, because you couldn’t trust yourself to speak at the moment.

mattheo rolled his eyes. “well, if you’re done being a weirdo, y/n and I will be in the basement.” 

you fiddled with the hem of your dress, not quite able to meet tom’s eyes. “um, well, I guess I’ll see you later?” 

tom winked behind his brother’s back. “you know where to find me, doll.”