ivy

⋆ ࣪.  ⁺⑅ ⋰˚ *.ﾟ .˳⁺⁎˚ ˚⁎⁺˳ . ༺ ˖࣪ ˖࣪ ∗

It was late, too late, really, when you found him. Tom was sitting by the window of the library, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his face. He looks something of an Adonis.

You smile when you see him. You always do. It’s been a little bit since you’d had any time to talk. Between Murphy, exams, and Camilla, you’ve been distracted. For a moment, as you look at him, staring into his pensive eyes, you dare to hope everything will turn out fine.

“Tom,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips the way it always does. The way that reduces him to something so pathetic he scowls at the thought. Though this time, your call doesn’t seem to draw him in.

When he finally looks at you, there’s something different in his features. You soon realise there’s no contemplation on his face. Not anger or frustration either. It’s empty.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” you say, forcing a cheerful smile, but it falls weak in the heaviness of the air. You step forward.

“Have you?” His voice was flat, detached.

You nod, trying to settle the unease bubbling in your chest. “Of course I have. It’s not like you’ve been making it easy to find you lately,” you tease lightly, but his lips stay set in a tight line. There was no flicker of amusement. “What’s wrong?”

Tom’s gaze moves to the floor, fingers twitching against the edge of the table. A muscle in his jaw ticks and his eyes meet yours again, dark and unreadable.

“I need to tell you something,” he says, voice low, almost as if he’s speaking to himself.

"What did you do?” you say, accusingly.

The way he’s looks at you now, like he’s trying to memorise every detail of your face, twists your gut. You open your mouth to speak, to ask him again what was wrong, but he holds up a hand, silencing you.

“I never wanted this,” he whispers thickly.

You blink, confused, and your smile falters. "Wanted what?"

Tom stands slowly, with his every movement measured, deliberate. His eyes remain locked onto yours, and in this fleeting moment, you can almost see the boy behind that distant stare. The boy who sat with you under shaded trees, splitting your desserts and helping you with your homework like he didn’t have a million other things to occupy his time. But that’s a faint vision now.

"You were never meant to get this close," he says, chillingly cold. "I was gonna end it. But I couldn’t."

Your heart hammers. His words make no sense. He’s speaking to you as if you’re the cause of some great tragedy, but you could barely understand what he was saying.

“I was selfish,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “And you... you never should have been part of this.”

Your brows furrow. “Tom, what are you talking about?”

There was a flicker of something in his eyes—something raw, something desperate—but it disappears almost as quickly as it comes. "I killed him," he says flatly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "He was never meant to have you. You’re mine."

Your breath catches in your throat, confusion making way for something you can only describe as dread. The words don’t register at first, and then, like a punch to the stomach—it hits you. Murphy.

You think about it for a beat, the way Murphy held every door open for you like the chivalrous young gentleman he is. Or you suppose was. The way he laughed and his blond curls.

He’s dead.

And the sickening truth washes over you all at once. Your hands shake. “Tom,” you whisper, voice trembling. “You—what have you done?”

And then he catches it. It’s not fear in your eyes. It’s not the terror and disgust he prepared himself for. It was… pity. You pity him, like he’s some sad, lost cause.

“Tom...” you say quietly, steadily now. “Why?”

He turns away from you, his face tight, and for the first time in.. whatever this was, you saw the faintest chink in his armor.

“You should have stayed away from me,” he says, barely audible. “I killed him,” he adds, like he’s trying to drill it in your head. Make you understand the weight of what he’s done.

You understand just fine.

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He destroyed someone else. And in his twisted, fucked-up impression of love and obsession, he destroyed you too. And in doing so, he’s taken a piece of your soul with him. Split his own even further. You’ve become a pawn in his game of immortality, and you’ll play your part well, he knows you will. You have to, so he can keep you alive.

And it’s now that you realise the horror of it all. You don’t even mind. You don’t care. You know logically you’re probably some fleeting thing, a casualty of his ambition, something to be used. You’ve given him something he’s never asked for—something that now makes you his captive.

For a second, you see something human in his expression. Something like guilt, or whatever version of it he could experience. Then he’s back to being Tom Riddle, statuesque and cold. Dark. He pushes you away in the name of his plans, and yet he can’t stop himself bringing you closer. He did this to you.

Everything screams wrong, but you don’t hear it anymore. It’s just you. And Tom Riddle, who murdered a boy for you. Or for himself— you can’t quite say.

“But I’m here.”

He takes a tentative step towards you, like he’s expecting you to flinch and run. Like you’re some figment of his imagination that will disappear if he’s not careful. But he reaches out and touches your face and you don’t look away once. His thumbs run over your cheeks, committing each freckle to memory. “I love you.”

There it was.

You freeze for a fraction of a second, but there’s no hesitation. “I love you too, Tom,” you say,

There is no sudden revelation of goodness. Some redemption that makes it all okay or a fairytale ending. Instead it’s a bond, that you can’t will yourself to break, twisted and irreversible, that binds you to him. You don’t pull away, because this, at least, is your choice.

You’ve sealed your fate.

The cost of living is death. Tom knows that, better than anyone else. He’s fixated on his demise since boyhood.

And he knows, better than anyone else, that it is inevitable and out of his control.

But this? The smell of your strawberry hair and the treacle tarts and the way you dot your I’s with hearts?

He can put his plans on hold. For now.

⋆ ࣪.  ⁺⑅ ⋰˚ *.ﾟ .˳⁺⁎˚ ˚⁎⁺˳ . ༺ ˖࣪ ˖࣪ ∗

Tom has decided. And once Tom decides something, nothing will get in his way.

You are to be his.

The murder would be the easiest part of all. Twice, now, he’s done it. First with that disgusting, grumbling Myrtle and second with his nasty father he can’t even be bothered to think about.

Third time is always the charm. He has it all figured out.

“Tommy!” you beam, following the daily routine. You slide over a treacle tart. “You liked these ones last time.”

He accepts the dessert wordlessly. He’s too deep in thought. You grin.

A few more moments of silence pass and you begin to be irritated by the lack of noise. You have to fill the air up somehow. “Have I told you about Murph yet?”

He’s almost sickened by the name itself. So much so that he can’t stomach the lovely tart your mother has made for him. You’re on a nickname basis now? “You have not.”

You haven’t told him anything about this boy, but he already knows everything. He won’t have to worry about this foul beast for much longer, so he’ll tolerate the giddiness in your eyes for now.

“We’ve just gone on a date. I think it went well, you know? He’s sweet. Opens the door for me, matches pace. That type of thing.”

Tom could do that too if that’s what you really wanted. “How wonderful,” he deadpans.

You’d be a fool not to notice the way his eye twitched when you said the word “date” or the poorly hidden sarcasm he laced in his speech.

“I think our next one is this Wednesday,” you continue.

He’s absolutely fucking repulsed. If he didn’t know any better, he’d march on over to that moron’s room and take care of it himself. But there’s a plan, procedure to be followed. And Tom is nothing if not methodical.

“I can’t believe it! The both of us have dates this week. What even are our lives now?” Camilla cheers, leaning back in her seat.

“I don’t think Tom is very happy about mine.”

She raises a brow. “That’s because Murphy isn’t pure. I’m telling you, Riddle’s lot is psychotic.”

“Okay, I’m not a fan of them either, but Tom knows I’m not pure. He’s been perfectly pleasant.”

“He hardly speaks!” she retorts.

You roll your eyes and urge her to continue reading her book. She complies. Camilla’s never been very argumentative.

As she settles in the pages, all entranced by the words, you lean back in your chair. It is a strange twist of fate that you’re now friends with Tom, but despite Camilla’s warnings, you can’t get yourself to leave. It’s a comfortable trap.

“Hello,” Tom says from behind you as you swing your feet on the railings.

You don’t skip a beat. “Hi!”

Tom knows by now that he can’t surprise you.

The echoing chambers of Hogwarts are bathed in soft moonlight, and no one else is around. Tom is usually by himself at this time. You only steal each other’s afternoons.

“You know,” you muse, breaking the comfortable quiet that settled between you. “You’re very important to me.”

Tom clears his throat. He’s never really been important to anyone. He swallows. “Likewise.”

He’s avoiding your gaze. You think it’s cute. His lips quirk into a faint smile, a rare glint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes, but it’s gone as soon as it comes.

Suddenly, you study his face, trying to unravel the mysteries hidden within. He’s more withdrawn recently. Even quieter, if that’s possible. You suppose it has something to do with Murph but you never can be too sure when it comes to him.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I like the view.” He sighs.

Tom is not a good person. Far from it. Your friend realises it but you don’t. You’re a glimmer of hope in the darkness that threatens to consume him, that’s already consumed him. You’re both refuge from his despair and a constant reminder. He finds solace in your company and he hates it but now he has no choice. He can’t bring himself to kill you. He knows he never will and so it has to be this way.

It will hurt you, undoubtedly. It will make him more terrible than he already is.

Time is creeping up on him. You’re growing closer with that wretched Ravenclaw and the longer he waits, the more you will be affected.

“Murphy Atthill.”

He turns around at the call of his name and can’t help but feel uneasy. Tom’s presence tends to do that. “Riddle? What can I do for you?” he asks politely. He isn’t very good at masking his anxiety.

Tom casts the Killing Curse and he feels the unmistakable split of his soul as he recites haunting Latin incantations. He knows there’s no going back.

A chilling sense of finality looms over him and yet it weighs light on his conscience. All for the better, this is. In fact, it’s a twisted sense of satisfaction that he feels knowing that the deed is done. He knows he’s crossed a line with you from which there is no return,

But Murphy’s eyes lifeless are much prettier that way.