vtfsajra

[vtfsajra]

how can we go back to being friends. VI

tom riddle x fem!reader warnings: yearning, slow burn, tension word count: 2.6K previous part

masterlist

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

so he schemed.

that was what tom riddle did best, after all.

the opportunity came neatly packaged. professor slughorn, flushed and tired and already behind schedule, complaining in the corridor about the nightmare that was the yule ball preparations. tom didn’t have to feign much interest; he tilted his head, offered a sympathetic murmur, and waited.

“ah, riddle, you’re a prefect,” slughorn sighed. “surely you’d be willing to supervise some of the work? help lighten the load?”

and tom, polite and poised, had already decided. “of course, professor. i’d be glad to.” then, smooth as if it had just occurred to him, he added, “perhaps i could suggest someone to assist. someone with an eye for detail.”

slughorn perked up immediately, eager for solutions. tom didn’t give him time to think. he let your name fall from his lips like it was the most obvious answer, like it hadn’t been carefully chosen, rehearsed in silence, whispered to himself at night just to hear the shape of it.

“she’s reliable,” tom said lightly. “and i imagine she’d enjoy helping.”

it was a lie. he didn’t imagine that at all. he knew you’d hate it, knew you’d arch a brow and bite back a smile because you’d recognize exactly what he’d done. and when slughorn cornered you later, voice jolly and booming, insisting what a delight it was that you’d agreed to lend your help, tom was already picturing your expression. the disbelief. the slow-burning irritation. the way your eyes would inevitably flick to him across the room, catching the faintest, smug curve of his mouth.

and so it began.

the days that followed were a torture he welcomed. parchment lists unrolled across tables, rolls of enchanted ribbons shimmering faintly, lanterns charmed to glow in winter hues. he stood beside you through all of it, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours when he leaned over to correct a line of text, close enough to memorize the cadence of your sighs.

you didn’t make it easy. you never did. you spoke to him with that same even tone, professional, detached, as though the months of silence and ache between you were nothing but dust swept aside. but he saw the way your fingers stilled sometimes, the pause before you handed him a quill, the way your smile curled when you thought he wasn’t looking.

and he lived for it.

when you argued over seating arrangements, he let you win just to hear the satisfaction in your voice. when you dismissed his suggestion for silver over gold, he let it stand, only to find later that the flicker of candlelight against your skin made gold seem holy.

he complimented nothing directly. not yet. but his eyes lingered. and you felt it.

oh, you must’ve felt it.

then came the night of the ball.

the hall was transformed, ceilings glittering with illusions of falling snow, chandeliers gleaming like a hundred tiny stars. music swelled and laughter spun around the air. you stood beside him at the edge of it all, overseeing, your arms crossed lightly, lips pressed together in thought. students twirled in their finery, cheeks flushed, and tom barely registered any of it. his gaze never left you.

“it seems successful,” you said at last, voice soft, pragmatic.

“because of you,” he replied before he could stop himself.

your head turned slightly, eyes narrowing. “don’t flatter me, riddle.”

“i’m not.” the words slipped out too easily, too raw. he saw the flicker in your expression before you smoothed it back to indifference.

hours passed, the noise dying down as pairs drifted away, as lanterns dimmed and laughter thinned. eventually, only a few stragglers remained, then none at all. you were gathering stray parchments, brushing a ribbon off the table, when tom spoke again.

“stay.”

you glanced at him, brow arched. “excuse me?”

“just for a moment.” his voice was lower now, quieter, stripped of its usual sharpness. “you’ve worked all night. you should enjoy it, even if only for a few minutes.”

and then, without waiting, he extended his hand.

your gaze dropped to it, deliberate, unimpressed. “what is this supposed to be?”

“a dance.”

you laughed, soft and cutting, shaking your head. “you must be joking.”

“i don’t joke.” his hand didn’t lower. he held it there, steady, waiting. his chest burned with the effort of restraint, every muscle begging to close the distance, to take instead of ask. but this wasn’t about taking. not now. this was about showing you he could give.

the silence stretched. you should’ve refused. he thought you would. but then, with a sigh that sounded almost like defeat, you placed your hand in his.

it undid him.

his fingers closed around yours, gentle, reverent, as though you were fragile glass and not the very thing that had already broken him. he pulled you closer, one hand at your waist, careful, tentative.

“you look…” he stopped, jaw clenching, words catching like they always did when it came to you.

“what?” your voice was teasing, light. but your eyes searched him, sharp.

he swallowed. “beautiful.”

you blinked once, slowly, lips parting. but then that smile crept back, sly, knowing. “careful, tom. you’re starting to sound desperate again.”

it should’ve stung. it did sting. but he found himself smiling, the real kind, the kind he never showed anyone. “i told you. i am.”

the music was gone, the hall empty, but he swayed you gently anyway, guiding you across the floor with more precision than he’d thought himself capable of. every second stretched, every brush of fabric, every faint press of your hand against his shoulder a punishment and a gift.

and then, you tilted your head. leaned in just enough. his breath caught, heart stopping, lips parting as the space shrank to nothing.

he thought you’d let him. he thought this was it.

but you pulled back at the last second, smirking, eyes glinting like you’d just won some private war.

his chest collapsed, heat and ache and fury tangled into one unbearable knot. but even as you stepped away, even as you slipped your hand from his, he knew he’d follow. he’d always follow.

because you were the one thing he couldn’t conquer. the one thing he didn’t want to conquer.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

chat, i feel like i’m losing the plot cause this feels more like a oneshot 😭🙏. the next part is probably gonna be the last one, and it’s gonna be a loooong one :)

[vtfsajra]

animagus

slytherin boys texts! ⋆˙⟡ they took a picture while you were doing something as an animagus ⋆˙⟡ warnings: strong language contains: theo, draco, blaise, tom, mattheo and enzo

masterlist

ts so ass 😭😭. it’s really random but i don’t have any better ideas how to make it fun and more ‘them’ at the moment 😔.

@missbellie THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE REQUEST 😽😽. i promise i’m gonna recreate it soon😔🙏

[vtfsajra]

PLEASE DO SLYTHERIN BOYS TEXT BUT WE'RE AN ANIMAGUS, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PRETTY PLEASE LOVE

OF COURSE, LOVIEEE. DO YOU WANT US TO BE LIKE JUST ONE ANIMAGUS OR A DIFFERENT ONE FOR EVERY GUYYY

[vtfsajra]

masterlist!

tom riddle:

how can we go back to being friends;

part I | part II | part III | part IV | part V |

part VI |

beach pic

theodore nott:

why not me?

la lingua del cuore

slytherin boys texts:

kitty

do you ever wish..

mustard

vent

labubu

animagus

[vtfsajra]

labubu

slytherin boys texts! ⋆.𐙚 ̊ you ask them if they would turn into a labubu if you got turned into one ⋆.𐙚 ̊ warnings: none 🤗 (except for labubu) contains: theo, draco, blaise, tom, mattheo and lorenzo

masterlist

you guys are eating these up for some reason, and who am i not to deliver more 🤗🤗

[vtfsajra]

vent

slytherin boys texts! ⋆˚࿔ venting to them 😼 ⋆˚࿔ warnings: strong language contains: theo, draco, blaise, tom, mattheo and enzo

masterlist

literally thought of this the moment i opened my eyes this morning 😭. unemployment final boss

[vtfsajra]

mustard

slytherin boys texts! ꪆৎ ˚⋅ that one sound from chowder ˚⋅ ꪆৎ warnings: none 🤗 contains: theo, draco, blaise, tom and enzo

masterlist

i love these sm but i be writing anything😭🙏

[vtfsajra]

how can we go back to being friends. V

tom riddle x reader warnings: slowburn, desperate tom riddle word count: 2.2K you can find the previous part here: https://www.tumblr.com/vtfsajra/791895754709073920/how-can-we-go-back-to-being-friends-iv

꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂

he didn’t sleep that night.

not because he couldn’t but because he refused to. the image of you under the moonlight had soldered itself into his mind, every detail etched too clearly. the way you’d leaned against the stone, the way your lips had curved just enough to mock him, the way you’d called him desperate without ever needing to raise your voice.

desperate.

he’d replayed it over and over until the word wasn’t even a word anymore. just a shape, just a sound, just a mirror pressed to his chest to show him what he already knew.

he’d thought he could hold his mask in place. he’d thought if he kept still enough, quiet enough, he could outlast this hollow ache. but tonight had proved it. he was already undone. you’d picked him apart with a handful of syllables. worse, you’d known exactly what you were doing.

and he hated that he’d let you.

days blurred after that. he carried himself through them with the same sharp posture, the same calculated words, but his insides were ruined. every lecture he sat through was wasted; ink bled into the margins of his parchment where he’d scrawled your initials by accident, then torn through the page in fury. he stopped even pretending to read the texts in front of him.

he was watching instead. always watching.

he timed his steps to yours, mapped your schedule so well he could have walked it blind. he knew when you lingered in the courtyard, when you favored the third-floor window seat in the library, when you climbed to the tower with your bag half falling off your shoulder. he told himself he wasn’t following. he told himself he was only nearby. but he knew better.

you knew better, too.

because the next time he found you; not by accident, never by accident - you were already smiling when his shadow stretched across the stone floor.

“you make it very hard to believe you’re not chasing me,” you said softly, without looking up from the page you were scribbling on.

tom’s throat worked, dry, his mind flashing with a dozen denials he couldn’t bring himself to speak. instead he leaned against the pillar beside you, forcing his body into the same careless posture he always wore, though his heart was clawing at his ribs.

“and if i were?” his voice came out lower than he intended, edged with something raw.

you hummed, tapping your quill against your lip. “then i’d wonder why. didn’t you make it very clear i wasn’t worth the trouble?”

his jaw flexed. the memory of his own words stabbed at him, venom he’d spat to keep you away… now boomeranging back with perfect precision.

“i didn’t mean it.” it slipped out before he could stop it.

finally, you looked at him. really looked. your gaze swept him in one slow, deliberate pass that made his skin burn, then dropped back to your parchment as though he weren’t even worth the pause.

“then you’re a liar,” you said lightly, almost amused. “funny how i liked you better when you were cruel. at least then you were consistent.”

it winded him. no hex, no curse, no blade had ever left him so cut open. he should’ve walked away, should’ve swallowed the ache and buried it where you couldn’t see. but instead, he found himself taking a step closer, then another, until the edge of your sleeve brushed against his.

“you liked me,” he said, the words more plea than statement.

you didn’t flinch. you didn’t even glance up. “i liked a version of you. i don’t think he exists anymore.”

rage and desperation twisted inside him, indistinguishable. he wanted to shake you, wanted to beg, wanted to force you to admit you still thought of him when the world went quiet. instead he swallowed it, forcing every muscle into stillness even as his chest screamed.

“he does,” he said, too harsh. “he exists.”

you tilted your head, that faint smile back, and it killed him. “then maybe you should go find him.”

he could’ve shattered then, right there, in front of you. but instead he let the silence swell, let it choke him, let it carve his resolve sharper than it had ever been.

fine. mock him. laugh. look through him like he was nothing.

he’d let you.

for now.

but he was going to have you again. one way or another.

꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂

can’t believe this is the fifth part already 😭😭. i feel like i’m over-detailing and repeating stuff, but i just write whatever’s on my mind in the moment 😔🙏 (alsoo, switched to lower case because i think it looks cuter and feels more me 😭. hope you guys don’t mind :))

next part

[vtfsajra]

do you ever wish..

slytherin boys texts! ⋆˙⟡ you ask them something you know they are/do/have just to rage bait them ⋆˙⟡ warnings: none (just a bit of swearing) contains: theo, draco, blaise, tom and lorenzo

masterlist

wanted to write ‘what did you just call me’ after theo said ‘sei fatto’ but that would’ve been changing the bit 😭😭 ALSO, if you liked this, you can check out the other texts, too :). only if you want to, lovies 😚

[vtfsajra]

kitty

slytherin boys texts! warnings: suggestive themes, swearing A/N: wanted to try something neewww. btw, got the idea from tiktok (first two texts/lines are actually from the song ‘innit’ by bunnab & ykniece.) it actually says pity instead of kitty

masterlist

lemme know what you guys think about thisss. also, would you actually want more posts like this? oh btw, the first kitten is actually mine 🤗🤗

[vtfsajra]

How can we go back to being friends. IV

Tom Riddle x reader Warnings: angst, tom riddle going mad for you, slow burn. Word count: 2.1K The previous part: https://www.tumblr.com/vtfsajra/791765841689608192/how-can-we-go-back-to-being-friends-iii

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

And yet, somehow, he still didn’t know how.

Days had stretched into nights, and still he wandered the halls with your absence draped over him like a cloak. Every corner he turned, he expected to find some fragment of you; a stray strand of your hair, the faint sound of your laughter, and every time the moment passed without you, his chest ached as though something inside had been hollowed out.

He hated it.

Hated how much space you’d carved in his mind and body. Hated that it was his fault. Hated that he’d let his own words shove you away so easily, so cruelly, and now… now he was left grasping at air, trying to hold onto something that wasn’t his anymore. Not that you’d ever truly been his to begin with.

He found himself walking faster than he intended, the castle corridors dim and twisting, until the spiral staircase to the astronomy tower rose before him. He told himself it was accidental. Coincidence. That he had no idea why he was climbing those stairs.

But he did.

Every step pulled him higher, closer to the place where you often went when you wanted solitude, closer to the place he knew you would be.

And then, there you were.

Leaning against the stone balustrade, book open in your hands but clearly forgotten. Moonlight washed over your face, illuminating the curve of your jaw, the subtle tilt of your head, and something in him snapped… quietly, desperately, inside.

He froze.

You didn’t even look at him at first, just shifted slightly and turned a page that didn’t need turning. It was deliberate. Calculated. You were testing him, and he already knew it.

“Riddle,” you said finally, voice low and measured, like you were naming a particularly dull artifact in the castle instead of the boy who had lost all sense of reason for you.

“I…” He stopped, inhaling, swallowing hard. He wanted to speak, but his chest constricted, words sticking like cobwebs in his throat. Instead, he let himself lean casually against the stone as though this were a normal encounter and not the moment where he was quietly unraveling inside.

“You’re out of your usual haunts,” you continued, eyes still on the page, voice teasingly mild. “Not that I mind.”

“I needed air,” he said at last. The words sounded hollow even to him.

“Hm.” You tilted your head, a hint of mockery curling at the corner of your mouth. “Air, sure. That explains the dramatic entrance.”

He wanted to crush the corner of the ledge beneath his fingers, wanted to lunge across the stone and pull you close, wanted to curse at himself for every moment he had let pass since that night. But instead, he smiled. Tight, sharp, controlled.

“Accidentally,” he murmured, the word tasting bitter.

You didn’t even let your gaze linger on him. “I see.” And then your lips curved just enough to mock him. Nothing cruel, just precise. Just enough to let him feel exactly how much he was flailing beneath your calm.

He hated you for it. Hated that you could do this with a tilt of your head and a slight smile. But oh.. he wanted it anyway.

“I-” he started again, almost desperate. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Lose your composure?” you interrupted lightly. “Or show me that you… care?”

The question wasn’t accusatory. It was teasing. Cruel. And it sent a jolt through him so sharp it made his knees weak. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. How could he confess that every heartbeat, every step he’d taken here, every glance he’d stolen in the hallways had been for you? That your absence had hollowed him out so thoroughly that even air felt heavier without the sound of your laughter?

“You’re… quiet,” you observed after a beat, voice soft but teasing.

“You like that,” he said through his teeth, jaw tight.

“Used to,” you replied, faintly mock-serious. “I wonder if you still do.”

And that was it. That tiny, flickering line of words; enough to make his blood heat, enough to make his body betray him in ways he couldn’t control.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was standing here, pretending indifference, when inside he was collapsing under the weight of every thought of you he’d tried to bury. Every memory of the way you leaned into him, every laugh, every whisper. Every little thing he had taken for granted before he had been so stupid, so cruel, so… himself.

“Do you always…” your words drew him up again, sharp, precise. “Do you always look this pathetic when you’re… caught?” Oh, you were torturing him… but who could blame you? He’d tortured you enough himself, so you were having the last laugh.

The mockery, soft and deliberate, hit him like a slap. He had no right to feel embarrassed. And yet he did, entirely, completely. And somehow, even with that, it made him want you more. Made him ache with it, made the thought of you looking at anyone else, laughing with anyone else, unbearable.

“I’m not…” He started, then stopped. What could he say? That he was unraveling inside? That the world had tilted off its axis since you’d stopped noticing him in the same way? That he wanted you so badly it hurt? Words failed him.

“Not what?” you prompted, leaning against the ledge with that casual, cruel grace, eyes glittering in the moonlight. “Not caught? Or not pathetic?”

The air between you grew tighter, charged with all the things he could not voice. He wanted to speak, wanted to grovel, wanted to confess, wanted to everything.. and yet he stayed, heart hammering, words lost, body trembling with the force of his own yearning.

“You…” he said finally, barely a whisper. “You have no idea.”

You didn’t answer. Of course you didn’t. You had never given him that luxury. Instead, you smirked faintly, leaned back, and glanced at the stars as though you’d never just torn him in half. “I have some idea,” you said, voice teasing, soft, distant. “But it doesn’t seem to bother you enough.”

And that was the cruelest part: it did. It had always bothered him. It bothered him in ways he couldn’t measure, couldn’t name, couldn’t contain. The fact that you had mastered him this easily, that a tilt of your head and a tease could unravel months of carefully constructed pride, made him both want you more and hate himself harder.

“I…” he breathed, heart beating so fast it hurt in his chest. “I…”

You didn’t wait for him to finish. You reached over lazily, plucked a leaf from the stone ledge near him, rolled it between your fingers, and said, “Careful, Tom. If you keep standing there like that, you’ll look… desperate.”

Desperate.

And suddenly, every word he’d ever told himself about keeping control, about being untouchable, about pushing you away, collapsed inside him. He was desperate. He wanted you. He wanted to undo months of mistakes, to take back everything he had said, to make you look at him like you had once looked at him; like he mattered, like he could matter again.

But he couldn’t. Not yet.

You picked up your book again, sliding it into your bag, still calm, still teasing, still untouched by the storm you had stirred inside him. “I’ll see you later,” you said, voice light.

He wanted to lunge, to grab your hand, to plead. But he stayed, jaw tight, fists clenched, and let you leave. And even in that quiet failure, even as the door clicked shut behind you, he felt a strange, sharp satisfaction: he had seen you, been near you, inhaled your presence like it was air he had been starving for.

And he would find a way.

He would.

He had no plan. He had no words. He had no right.

But he would move through every corridor, linger at every corner, chase every small trace of you until you noticed him. He would follow the echo of your laughter, memorize the tilt of your head, the curve of your smile, the way your presence seemed to claim the air itself.

And if it killed him to wait, to ache, to watch from the shadows… so be it. Because nothing else had ever felt this necessary. Nothing else had ever made him feel so incomplete.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

bro took ‘bring back men who yearn’ a little too seriously 😭🙏. the next part: https://www.tumblr.com/vtfsajra/792162005954035712/how-can-we-go-back-to-being-friends-v

[vtfsajra]

Why Not Me?

inspired by “The Sick” by Bella Kay

addict!Theodore Nott x reader Warnings: addiction, toxic relationship, heartbreak, relationship grief, jealousy Word count: 1.7K Summary: he needed the high more than he needed you, and now you’re just the ghost he left behind.

• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

You never really noticed it at first.

The smell.

It was subtle back then. Faint traces clinging to his robes when he leaned over to copy your notes in Potions, the ghost of something burnt lingering between his fingers when his hand brushed yours under the table. Theodore Nott didn’t just exist in the background; he haunted it. Quiet, unassuming, never the first to speak, but always the last to leave.

And maybe you liked that about him.

The stillness. The way he felt like a shadow in a place full of people screaming to be seen.

You didn’t notice the other shadow.. the one curling inside him until it was already too late.

It started with him saying he needs it to relax.

“It’s not that bad,” he’d murmur, lying on the bed in his dorm, curtains drawn, light flickering from the dying candles. His tie hung loose, his shirt untucked, and you sat cross-legged beside him, your knees touching. “It’s just.. the world feels too loud without it. My head-” He tapped his temple like there was something in there trying to claw its way out. “It quiets it.”

And you, stupidly, thought you understood.

Because you’ve seen him tense at the sound of his father’s name, watched him flinch at the arrival of owls on Sunday mornings, and noticed the way he carries himself like he’s trying to vanish; trying to dull the memories of summers spent in that cold, silent manor where he learned early how to disappear, trying to quiet the gnawing in his chest from expectations that pressed on him like a curse.

So you let it slide.

Because you love him.

It gets worse.

The relaxation excuse turns into just to take the edge off. The edge turns into I need it or I can’t sleep. And eventually, it’s I need it or I can’t breathe.

He’d show up to meet you behind the greenhouses, pupils blown wide, his smile slower, lazier, like the world had been dipped in honey. He’d kiss you, and you’d taste the bitterness of whatever he’d put in his lungs. And maybe the first few times, you told yourself you could learn to ignore it.

Because you loved him.

And because sometimes, when he wasn’t too far gone, Theo was… Theo. The one who’d tuck your scarf tighter around your neck in the snow. The one who’d mutter soft, sleepy confessions into your hair in the dark, about how you were the only thing in his life that didn’t make him feel like drowning.

But the boy you loved didn’t stay.

The boy who showed up to the Yule Ball with you had been replaced by someone whose eyes wouldn’t quite meet yours, whose hands shook when they weren’t holding something rolled, lit, burning. The boy who promised you the world now promised he’d get clean “tomorrow,” and tomorrow became a graveyard of empty vows.

And Merlin, you tried.

You tried so fucking hard.

You memorized every library book you could find on addiction charms, even the Muggle ones Hermione smuggled in about withdrawal. You sat with him through nights where his skin burned and his breath came ragged, whispering that he was stronger than whatever was eating him alive.

But he wasn’t.

Not for you.

The night you left him, it rained.

You’d found him in the Astronomy Tower, glassy-eyed and swaying slightly against the stone wall. He didn’t even notice you at first. Not until you wrenched that stupid joint from his fingers and threw it over the ledge.

“What the fuck-” he started, but his voice cracked, and it wasn’t anger, it was desperation. “I needed that.”

“You need me,” you shot back, your own voice trembling. “You said you needed me.”

“I do-”

“No, you don’t.” Your throat tightened, but you didn’t look away. “You need this more than you’ve ever needed me. And I can’t keep watching it kill you.”

He blinked at you, and there was a flicker. A real, sharp flicker of panic in his eyes but it passed too quickly. He slumped back against the wall, rubbing his face.

“You think I want this?” he muttered. “You think I don’t hate it? My father-” He stopped, jaw locking. “It’s in my blood, Y/N. You can’t save me from it.”

The words hit like fire against your ribs.

Because you’d been trying to.

Every day.

And still, you stayed long enough to hear him say, “I’ll change. I swear, I’ll change for you.”

But he didn’t.

Not for you, at least.

Two years later, you saw him again.

You weren’t looking for him. Not in Diagon Alley on a Tuesday afternoon, not with your arms full of packages. But there he was, leaning against a storefront, laughing at something the girl next to him said.

Her hand was in his.

His eyes were clear.

His smile was steady.

You stopped breathing.

He’d changed. For her.

He wasn’t gaunt anymore, wasn’t hiding in a fog of smoke. His shirt was clean, his posture sure. And she was looking at him the way you used to; like he was worth saving.

Maybe for her, he was.

That night, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About how you’d sat through the worst parts, how you’d broken yourself to piece him back together, how you’d screamed and begged and cried until you had nothing left. And she’d walked in when the war was over.

And you hated him for it.

You hated the way he’d ruined you and then handed the healed version of himself to someone else. You hated the thought that maybe he really had needed to hit rock bottom to climb back out, and you hated even more that you weren’t the reason he did.

You hated that, even now, part of you was glad he’d survived.

Because you were still sick.

And you didn’t know how to stop loving the sickness.

And when you closed your eyes that night, you could almost feel him beside you again. The weight of his hand on your thigh. The smell of burnt air in his clothes. The quiet murmur of his voice in the dark, saying he’d change for you.

And, in the end he did change. Just.. not for you.

• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •

i might’ve bawled writing this. listening to this song isn’t enough, i need it BURNED into my brain.

[vtfsajra]

La Lingua del Cuore

bf!Theodore Nott x Reader. Warnings: fluff, emotional, wholesome Word count: 2.1K. Summary: you’re secretly learning italian for theo so he doesn’t have to translate his feelings. he catches you, and it’s all soft, emotional, and full-of-heart moments :) A/N: the third pic is exactly what it feels like to do such thing for a man 😔 (it’s valid if it’s Theo tho 😛😛)

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The common room was hushed with the steady rhythm of evening. Lamps burned low in sconces, casting warm light across the green velvet curtains, and the fire crackled lazily in the hearth. Most of the castle had gone quiet, the buzz of daytime replaced with the deep sigh of night.

Theo had been sitting in his usual corner of the sofa, a book open in one hand, his other lazily toying with the frayed tassel of a pillow. His sharp profile caught the glow of the firelight, but his eyes weren’t moving across the page anymore. He wasn’t really reading.

He’d noticed you.

Across the room, tucked near one of the tall windows, you were bent over parchment, quill scratching steadily. A little crease formed between your brows when you concentrated, and every so often you whispered something under your breath, lips shaping foreign syllables.

Italian.

The sound of it slid through the quiet, almost too soft for anyone else to hear. But Theo caught it instantly. His chest tightened, his stomach sinking with a strange cocktail of emotion he couldn’t quite name. Warmth, awe, and a sharp, sudden ache.

You were learning Italian.

His Italian.

At first he thought he’d misheard. Maybe you were muttering some incantation, practicing for class. But then you repeated it, voice barely above a whisper, soft and earnest. The words were halting, hesitant, but clear. And Theo froze.

It shouldn’t have rattled him. You were just… studying, right? Just curious. But he knew you too well. You wouldn’t pour this much quiet focus into something unless it mattered. And the way you whispered the vowels, the way you bit your lip when you stumbled… Merlin, you were trying for him.

Theo’s heart clenched.

He’d never admitted it out loud, not even to you, but there was always a part of him that felt like his words didn’t fit right in English. His father had drilled Latin into him, his tutors Italian, and Hogwarts forced him into English every day. He’d grown used to carrying three tongues in his mouth, translating before speaking, trimming his emotions so they’d survive the shift. And sometimes; especially when it mattered, he feared his English sounded flat, clipped, never enough.

You never made him feel that way. You never teased the lilt of his vowels, never mocked when he tripped over a phrase. In fact, you’d once told him you loved his voice most when he muttered in Italian under his breath, because it was the only time he let himself sound unguarded.

And now… now you were learning. For him.

Theo’s chest pulled tight like someone had tied a string there. He shut his book quietly and leaned back into the sofa, watching you with something soft and unbearably tender in his gaze. You didn’t notice him. You were too lost in your careful practice, too determined.

You whispered again. “Io… amo… te.” The accent was off, but the words landed like a stone dropping into the deepest part of him.

Theo’s throat worked, suddenly dry. He could have sat there forever, just listening to you stumble your way into his language, but something in him needed to move. Needed to be near you.

So he rose, steps slow, careful not to startle. He crossed the room and stopped just behind your chair.

“Y/N,” he said quietly.

You jumped, head whipping around. “Theo! You scared me.”

His mouth curved slightly, but his eyes were far too soft for it to be a smirk. He nodded toward the parchment spread before you. “What’s this?”

You flushed, immediately trying to shuffle the papers closed. “It’s- nothing, really. Just… just notes.”

Theo pulled out the chair beside you and sat down. His knee brushed yours under the desk, deliberate, grounding. “Italian,” he murmured, gaze flicking over the scribbled phrases. “You’re learning Italian.”

Your throat tightened. You hadn’t meant for him to find out yet. Not until you could string together something coherent, not until you could surprise him with a full thought, a real sentence that didn’t sound like a child’s first attempt. But now here he was, looking at you with those unreadable eyes, and your excuses scattered like leaves in the wind.

“I…” You swallowed, fiddling with the edge of your parchment. “I just thought.. maybe it would be nice. For you. I mean, it must be-” You stopped yourself, words fumbling. “I know you always have to translate. Everything you feel, everything you want to say, into English. And that’s… that’s not the same. It’s not fair. So I wanted to learn. To meet you there. Where your heart speaks first.”

Theo stared at you, stunned silent.

For a long moment, the fire popped in the hearth, the only sound filling the space between you. Your chest was tight, cheeks hot with embarrassment. You wished you could sink straight into the floor.

But then Theo reached out, slow and reverent, and curled his fingers around yours.

“You’re learning.. for me?” His voice was low, rougher than usual.

You nodded, eyes darting to his. “I just wanted you to know that you don’t always have to leave your words behind to meet me.”

Theo exhaled like the air had been knocked out of him. His heart felt too big for his chest, an ache blooming so wide it hurt. Nobody had ever.. nobody had cared like this. Not in the way that mattered.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, and before you could protest, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours.

Your quill rolled forgotten across the desk. His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with a gentleness that made your stomach flip. His voice was barely a breath, trembling at the edges.

“Ti amo.”

You smiled, the phrase still awkward on your tongue but warm in your chest. “Ti amo,” you whispered back.

Theodore’s eyes squeezed shut. For once, his words didn’t feel clipped, didn’t feel lost in translation. For once, someone had met him where he was, in the rawness of his own language, in the heart of it.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

this has been sitting in my drafts for so long, man. (fun fact, i actually started learning italian ‘for’ lorenzo and it kinda sparked this 🤗)

[vtfsajra]

How can we go back to being friends. III

Tom Riddle x Reader. Warnings: angst, jealousy, slow burn, pure yap. Word count: 1400 (approximately). The previous part: https://www.tumblr.com/vtfsajra/791709257176383488/how-can-we-go-back-to-being-friends-ii

❈────────•✦•────────❈

He didn’t start trying to talk to you. Not yet.

Tom wasn’t stupid enough to think words could fix what had happened, especially not his. Words had been the problem to begin with. They’d been sharp that night, deliberate, each one placed like a knife in the space between you until you finally stepped back.

Now, it was as though you’d dissolved into a version of yourself he couldn’t reach. Not gone, exactly, but shifted. Altered. You still laughed in the corridors, still carried your books tucked under one arm, still sat in the same spot in the library. But whatever thread had bound you to him had been cut so cleanly he couldn’t even find the frayed ends.

It made him restless.

He caught himself staring at the back of your head during class, his mind wandering away from the lecture, tracing the slope of your neck down to where your quill rested between your fingers. He’d memorised the shape of you without meaning to. The little shifts in your posture, the way your mouth tilted when you read something that interested you.

And you didn’t give him a single glance.

Not even one of those flickers that people gave when they could feel eyes on them. Either you didn’t notice, or you did and decided it didn’t matter enough to look.

It wasn’t until the third week that he realised how much you’d taken with you when you left him behind. The world around him felt sharper without you in his periphery, like walking through a room filled with glass. Every sound too loud, every colour a little too harsh. He’d sit in the common room with a book open in his lap and find his gaze slipping toward the door every time footsteps echoed in the hall, only to watch someone else come in.

You were still there, somewhere, just… never with him.

And the more he noticed it, the more he started to resent the people who did get pieces of you. That same boy from the courtyard. Tom now knew his name, his schedule, the way he tapped his quill when he was thinking. He hated that he knew it, hated that it was because he couldn’t stop watching you talk to him.

It wasn’t the conversation itself. It was the way you leaned in slightly when you listened, the way your eyes softened in that rare, unguarded way that had once been his without him even asking for it.

He found himself making detours just to pass by wherever you were. He’d slow down near the staircase to the astronomy tower if he thought you might be up there, or cross the courtyard at an hour he knew you often used for reading.

He told himself it wasn’t intentional.

It was.

And still, you didn’t look at him.

The thing was… Tom wasn’t used to being denied. People didn’t close doors on him, not once they’d been opened. He didn’t chase. He didn’t need to. But with you, it wasn’t about needing. It was about wanting, in a way that made his chest feel uncomfortably tight.

It was one night in the library when it finally hit him how deep it had gotten. You were at a table near the back, head bent over a book, your hair falling forward to hide most of your face. Someone else sat across from you, some Ravenclaw whose name he couldn’t be bothered to remember. The two of you were quietly murmuring, and every so often you’d smile at something he said.

Tom should’ve walked past.

Instead, he stood frozen behind one of the shelves, pretending to scan the spines of books while the sound of your soft laughter curled around him like smoke. It was ridiculous. The way his pulse shifted, the way his jaw tightened over something as small as you smiling at someone who wasn’t him.

And then you leaned forward, hand resting on the edge of the table, close enough that your fingers could have brushed his if he reached across.

He shut the book in his hands without reading a single page.

The worst part wasn’t that you were giving someone else what you used to give him. It was that you weren’t taking anything back from him at all. You didn’t even seem aware of what he was losing.

When he finally left the library, the words he’d thrown at you that night replayed themselves, low and poisonous in his head. Nothing more than useful. Nothing more than convenient.

It had been a lie. A calculated one, meant to keep you at the right distance. And now the distance wasn’t something he controlled anymore. You’d taken it and made it permanent.

That realisation stayed with him, following him through the next few days, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. He found himself thinking about you in places where it didn’t make sense; during lectures, meals, conversations he wasn’t really part of because his mind was still turning over the hollow space you’d left behind.

By the time the month turned over, he’d stopped pretending he didn’t care. He didn’t say anything to you, but it was there in the way his gaze tracked you across a room. In the way he’d go quiet when you laughed at someone else’s joke. In the way his fingers tightened around the spine of whatever book he was holding when he caught sight of you leaning too close to someone else.

You didn’t notice. Or maybe you did, and you just didn’t care.

Either way, Tom had no idea how to get you back without admitting how badly he wanted to. And wanting wasn’t something he’d ever been good at.

But for you.. oh, for you, he was willing to try. And to succeed.

❈────────•✦•────────❈

let bro cook 🗣️🗣️. i know y’all didn’t order a yappuchino… but i didn’t wanna cut anything out. SO PLEASE BEAR WITH ME 🙏

The next part: https://www.tumblr.com/vtfsajra/791895754709073920/how-can-we-go-back-to-being-friends-iv

[vtfsajra]

How can we go back to being friends. II

Tom Riddle x Reader Warnings: angst, hurt feelings, mild jealousy, emotional whiplash. Word count: a little over 2K. A/N: this is the second part of the ‘how can we go back to being friends’ story. you can read the previous part here: https://www.tumblr.com/vtfsajra/791674343357890561/how-can-we-go-back-to-being-friends

✧˖°── .✦────☼༺☆༻☾────✦.── °˖✧

Letting go wasn’t the storm you expected it to be. It wasn’t shouting or tears or some grand moment where you told him exactly what he’d done. It was quieter than that. Smaller.

It was walking past him in the corridor without your gaze seeking his. It was answering when spoken to but never first. It was letting the air between you flatten into something thin and unremarkable.

You didn’t ignore him, not exactly. Ignoring meant effort, and you weren’t putting effort into him anymore. You just… stopped. Stopped making space for him, stopped looking for him in crowded rooms, stopped letting your eyes catch on his face when you laughed so he could see it was because of him.

And you thought he wouldn’t care. He had been very clear that night in the hallway; the one after that night - about what you were to him. Nothing more than useful. Nothing more than convenient. You believed him.

Or, at least, you made yourself believe him.

Tom told himself he believed it too.

For the first few days, it didn’t matter. He still saw you in the same places: in the common room, the library, walking with friends between classes, and nothing about your presence was unusual. But then he noticed the absence. Not of you, but of the things you used to give without thinking. The way you’d look at him when he spoke, the way you’d linger just long enough for him to start talking before you left.

Now, when his eyes caught on yours, you didn’t hold the gaze. You just blinked, turned away, carried on.

He didn’t care. Of course he didn’t.

It was just… strange.

And then there was the courtyard. You were sitting on the stone ledge with your legs crossed, laughing at something some boy was saying. It wasn’t even someone important, someone worth your attention. But you looked up at him with that same unguarded expression you used to wear around Tom, the one that made people feel like they’d been let in on something rare.

He told himself he didn’t care about that either.

But the next day in the library, when you leaned too close to another boy’s desk, pointing at something in his notes, Tom felt a strange tightening in his chest. Irritation, he decided. You were wasting your time.

Except it wasn’t irritation, not exactly. It was something heavier, something that didn’t fade when you moved on.

By the second week, he caught himself tracking you without meaning to. Noticing who you spoke to, how long you stayed in certain rooms, whether or not you smiled. He would be mid conversation with someone else and still know exactly where you were.

And you never once looked back at him.

It unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. He thought maybe you were sulking, still nursing whatever misplaced feelings you’d had after that night. But this didn’t feel like sulking. This felt like you had closed a door. And you hadn’t just shut it.. you’d locked it and walked away.

He saw you on the sofa in the common room one evening, your head tipped toward that same fuckass boy as you whispered something that made you grin. That was the moment it landed; not the truth of what he’d said to you, but the fact that you had believed it. That you’d taken his words, accepted them, and acted accordingly.

You didn’t think you mattered to him anymore.

Which should have been fine. Should have been exactly what he wanted.

But it wasn’t.

And now the absence of you. Well, not you entirely, but you with him… was becoming unbearable in ways he couldn’t explain. He missed the way you used to take the seat beside him in the library without asking, your knee brushing his under the table. He missed your quiet comments during lectures that no one else could hear. He missed the way your presence filled the edges of his day without demanding anything.

He’d convinced himself you’d always be there. That even after he’d stripped your night together of meaning, you’d still linger the way everyone else did.

But you hadn’t.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Tom found himself wanting something back that he’d carelessly thrown away.

✧˖°── .✦────☼༺☆༻☾────✦.── °˖✧

hope you guys like thisss (and i really hope it’s not too out of place) part 3: https://www.tumblr.com/vtfsajra/791765841689608192/how-can-we-go-back-to-being-friends-iii

[vtfsajra]

How can we go back to being friends.

Tom Riddle x Reader. Warnings: angst, hurt, unrequited feelings (or at least unconfirmed), toxic. Word count: 1K. Summary: You and Tom weren’t supposed to be anything more than… whatever you were. But one night changed that, or at least you thought it did.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

It had been inevitable, in the way certain storms are inevitable: you see the clouds building for days, you smell the rain before it falls, and still, when it comes, it knocks the air from your lungs.

Tom Riddle was not a person who made friends. He collected people like expensive chess pieces, positioning them exactly where he wanted them, moving them in ways that served him. Every so often, one might be sacrificed for the greater game. It was never personal; it was strategy.

And yet, somehow, you’d been different. He had let you sit with him in the library without speaking, your knees brushing under the table. He had let you argue with him in quiet corners without punishing you for it. He had let you see him at his most unguarded, if such thing truly existed for him. You weren’t naïve enough to think you’d breached the walls he so carefully built, but you knew you were closer to them than most.

Last night changed everything. Or at least, it had felt like it did.

The common room was nearly empty, the hour late enough that even the fire seemed to burn more softly. You were meant to be studying, but the words on the page had blurred hours ago, replaced by the rhythm of his voice, the curve of his mouth as he spoke, the weight of his gaze when it lingered on you too long.

You didn’t know who leaned in first. One moment, you were passing him a quill, fingers brushing, and the next, his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t hurried or frantic. It was deliberate, measured, but not cold. His hand came to your jaw, tilting your face as though he’d been planning this for a long time. He kissed you like someone who never gave anything away, and yet, in that moment, you swore he gave you everything.

And you let yourself believe it meant something.

The next morning, he walked into the Great Hall as if nothing had happened. The light caught in his dark hair, his tie was perfectly in place, his eyes scanning the room with that detached precision he carried everywhere. And when his gaze fell on you, there was no warmth. No secret recognition. Only a polite nod, the kind you might give to a classmate you’d borrowed notes from once.

You tried to tell yourself he was hiding it, keeping things quiet for now. Tom Riddle never liked to give an audience more than he wanted them to see. So you waited.

You caught up with him between classes, falling into step beside him. The corridor was empty, the air sharp with the scent of parchment and dust

“About last night,” you began, keeping your voice low.

His eyes flicked to you, unreadable. “What about it?”

You faltered. “I just thought we should talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, gaze fixed straight ahead.

Your stomach sank. “So you’re just going to pretend—”

“Pretend what?” His tone was soft, almost curious, but you knew better. “That we had… a lapse in judgment? That you’ve somehow mistaken it for something it wasn’t?”

Your pulse was loud in your ears. “You’re unbelievable.”

Finally, he looked at you, and there it was. The faintest curve of his mouth, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. “I told you once. I don’t have friends. I have people who are useful to me. Don’t confuse one for the other.”

The words landed like a blade slipping between your ribs. And he didn’t wait to see the damage. He turned, walking away without so much as a backward glance.

You stood there long after he was gone, your fists clenched, the echo of his kiss still burning on your lips. It was almost laughable, how easily he could strip something of all its meaning with a few well-placed words. How he could leave you with every memory of last night and none of its certainty.

For the rest of the day, you saw him in passing; in the library, across the courtyard, near the entrance to the dungeons. He was always surrounded by people, speaking low and commanding, his expression untouched by anything resembling guilt. To him, nothing had changed.

To you, everything had.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

part two anyone? 😼😼. https://www.tumblr.com/vtfsajra/791709257176383488/how-can-we-go-back-to-being-friends-ii

[vtfsajra]

Beach pic

bf!Tom Riddle x fem!reader. Warnings: none (forgive me if I’m wrong😔) Word count: approximately 400 Summary: silly little Tom Riddle oneshot where he isn’t a fan of you posting your pretty self on your Instagram story 😛

You had been at the beach the whole day. Golden skin, tousled salty hair, a barely-there bikini, and his gaze glued to you the whole time.

Tom didn’t complain once as you made him take at least sixty-seven pictures, adjusting angles, lighting, your pose, your smile, the bikini straps. He just muttered things under his breath like “You’re lucky I love you” and “I swear if one more person walks by and looks at you like that, I’ll bury them in the sand.”

Later that night, you’re curled up in the hotel room bed, hair still damp from the ocean, scrolling through the photos and smiling to yourself. You pick one. The one; the shot he took where your waist looked tiny, the sun hit just right, and your smile made you look angelic.

So, naturally, you post it to your story. Not even a full on post, just a story.

With a tiny little caption:

“Body tea, coochie good. MWAH”

Not even five minutes later, your phone buzzes.

Tommy😛😼

💬 “Delete it.”

You roll your eyes, snickering to yourself, but before you can even type a reply, your phone rings.

You answer, instantly grinning at his annoyed tone, oh he was FUMING.

“You good, Tommy?”

“You posted that picture?” he starts, voice low and sharp. “The one I took for me? You posted it to your story?”

You pretend not to get it. “It’s a good picture, is it not?”

He scoffs, clearly pacing somewhere in the suite. “Who exactly are you posting that for, sweetheart? Because I already have it. In full resolution. In my phone. And in my memory.”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Well, you are the one who said I looked good.”

“But I didn’t say you could gift that view to your entire followers list, did I?” he growls, and you can hear the pout behind his words.

“I didn’t realize I needed permission to post a bikini picture,” you tease. “What are you, my Instagram manager now? In that case you are so fired.”

“No. I’m your boyfriend,” he snaps. “Which means my job is to take the pictures and everyone else’s job is to not see them. Ever.”

“Possessive much?” you whisper.

There’s silence for a beat. Then:

“You’re damn right I’m possessive,” he murmurs. “Now delete the post, get off your phone, and come sit on my lap.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You wanted to show off so bad. Come show off for me, baby.”