There's no saving her now
Tom Riddle's wicked smile played across his sharp features as he strode down the castle corridors, his polished shoes echoing in the stone halls. Girls' eyes followed him, their giggles rising in his wake as though he had graced them with some unspoken acknowledgment. He didn't bother to hide the contempt in his mind. Foolish little brats. Their transparent admiration disgusted him.
He didn't have classes today, which suited him just fine. The weight of his authority at Hogwarts was a power he relished. The respect he commanded, the fear he cultivated—it all came naturally to him. His classroom was a kingdom of obedience, a place where his words were law and his probing mind could pluck the darkest secrets from his students. The fear in their eyes when he leaned close, when they realized he knew, was intoxicating.
Arriving at his office, he shrugged off his heavy coat and tossed it carelessly onto the battered couch in the corner. With a practiced motion, he rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing the ominous Dark Mark etched into his forearm. It wasn't just a symbol; it was a promise—a mark of ascension.
Tom stared into the mirror hanging on the wall, his reflection illuminated by the flickering candlelight. His expression hardened as he studied himself, his angular features cast in shadow. He took a slow, deep breath. The castle around him felt heavier tonight, as though the very air had been drained. He knew why.
Her.
She had a peculiar way of unsettling him, and Tom hated being unsettled. Women, to him, were tools—pliable, malleable. But Violet wasn't like the others. She was quiet but not timid, sweet but not submissive. There was an edge to her, a flicker of defiance that she tried so hard to hide behind her polite demeanor. It amused him. It intrigued him.
It terrified him.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. He smoothed the faint trace of irritation from his expression, replacing it with the calm, commanding demeanor he wore so easily.
"Enter," he said, his voice measured.
The door creaked open, and there she was. Violet stepped inside hesitantly, her hands clasped in front of her. She avoided his gaze, her wide eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route.
"Miss Alas," Tom said, his tone deceptively mild. "You've been avoiding my class."
She flinched at his words, her cheeks flushing. "I—I wasn't feeling well, Professor Riddle," she stammered.
"Lying doesn't suit you, Violet." He rose from his chair with deliberate slowness, his imposing height making the space between them feel smaller. "You are one of my brightest students. Skipping my lessons is... disappointing."
She swallowed hard, her eyes finally meeting his. There it was—the defiance flickering behind her nervousness. "I didn't mean to offend you, sir."
"Offend me?" He chuckled softly, though there was no warmth in the sound. "No, Violet, you didn't offend me. But I can't help but wonder... what could possibly compel you to stay away? Fear, perhaps?"
Her silence was answer enough.
Tom allowed the corners of his mouth to curl into a faint, serpentine smile. "There's no need to be afraid of me," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I only want what's best for my students. For you."
Violet shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her robe. "I... I just needed time to think."
"To think," Tom echoed, as though the concept amused him. "Tell me, what were you thinking about, Violet? Or would you prefer I find out for myself?"
Her eyes widened, and her breath hitched. "You wouldn't—"
"Wouldn't I?" he interrupted smoothly. "You know I can. You know I will."
The air in the room seemed to thicken, the oppressive silence pressing down on her like a weight. Violet's pulse quickened, her thoughts a jumble of panic and defiance.
"Enough," Tom said abruptly, his tone sharp. "Sit."
She obeyed without hesitation, sinking into the chair across from his desk. Tom resumed his seat, his piercing gaze never leaving her.
"You're going to make up for your absence," he said, sliding a stack of papers toward her. "You'll help me grade these tonight. Think of it as... a lesson in discipline."
She nodded mutely, reaching for the first essay. The room was silent save for the scratching of quills, but Violet could feel his eyes on her, watching her every move.
Tom's thoughts, however, were far from the mundane task of grading. He was studying her, dissecting her in his mind. She was fragile, yes, but there was strength buried beneath her surface. He would enjoy unraveling it.
The knock at the door shattered the tension.
"Professor Riddle," came a familiar voice. "May I have a word?"
Tom's expression flickered, annoyance flashing in his eyes before he schooled his features into polite neutrality. "Of course, Professor Dumbledore. Come in."
The door opened, and Dumbledore stepped inside, his sharp blue eyes taking in the scene with quiet scrutiny.
"Miss Alas," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "A moment, if you please."
Tom's gaze flicked to Violet, his expression unreadable. "Go," he said, his voice smooth. "We are done here."
Violet rose from her seat, clutching the stack of essays as if they were a shield. She followed Dumbledore into the corridor, her heart pounding in her chest.
Dumbledore turned to her, his expression softening. "Are you all right, my dear?"
"Yes, Professor," she said quickly, though her voice lacked conviction.
He studied her for a moment, his gaze penetrating. "Tom Riddle is a brilliant young man, but brilliance can be... blinding. I trust you'll remember to keep your wits about you."
Violet nodded, unsure of what to say.
"You are strong, Miss Alas," Dumbledore said, his tone more solemn now. "And strength is often tested in ways we do not expect. Should you ever feel... uncertain, you know where to find me."
"Thank you, sir," she said quietly.
As Dumbledore walked away, Violet felt a strange mix of relief and unease. She glanced back toward Tom's office, the door now closed, and shivered.
Inside, Tom sat at his desk, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He'd seen the look Dumbledore had given him, felt the unspoken warning in the old man's gaze.
It didn't matter.
Dumbledore might suspect him, but suspicion wasn't proof. And Violet... she was already halfway under his spell. The soft glow of a single lantern illuminated the room, casting long shadows across his sharp features.
She fascinated him.
It wasn't fascination in the crude, sentimental sense that lesser men might feel. Tom had no use for frivolous emotions like love or affection—those were distractions, weaknesses he had transcended long ago. No, what he felt for Violet was something far more complex, a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and the faintest twinge of irritation.
Violet Alas was unlike anyone else he had encountered at Hogwarts. She wasn't loud or sycophantic, didn't fall over herself to please him as so many others did. Her intelligence was formidable, almost rivaling his own, and there was a quiet defiance in her that intrigued him. Most importantly, she was useful—a pawn that could be cultivated, shaped, and molded into whatever role he required.
But there was something else, something that unsettled him in ways he couldn't quite define.
Tom despised unpredictability, and Violet had introduced a small, irritating measure of it into his carefully ordered world. He could see it in her eyes, the way they sometimes betrayed glimpses of thoughts and emotions she tried to keep hidden. He could feel it in the tension that crackled between them during their conversations, a tension that left him both exhilarated and frustrated.
He leaned forward, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he let his thoughts wander.
She was a challenge, and Tom relished challenges. Violet's mind was sharp but unguarded, her thoughts easy to read if he focused. And what thoughts they were—filled with contradictions, desires she didn't dare voice aloud, fears she barely understood herself.
He had watched her closely since she first entered his classroom, had studied the way her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked, the way she bit her lip when deep in thought. She was beautiful in a way that was almost incidental, her allure a byproduct of her quiet intensity rather than any deliberate effort.
Tom's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile.
It wasn't her beauty that interested him—though he was not blind to it. What intrigued him was the potential she represented. She was strong, though she didn't yet realize it, and her strength made her dangerous.
Tom liked dangerous things.
There was, of course, the matter of her defiance. Her recent avoidance of his class was unacceptable, a breach of the control he maintained over his students. But it was also... amusing. She thought she could resist him, could distance herself from his influence.
She was wrong.
Tom Riddle did not lose.
Her defiance would be short-lived. He would bring her back into line, but he would do so carefully, subtly. There would be no overt displays of power, no threats or punishments. Such tactics were beneath him and would only serve to fracture the fragile connection he had begun to cultivate.
No, he would use a softer approach, one that would make her think she had a choice, even as he guided her every step.
She would come to him willingly.
Tom's thoughts turned to their earlier meeting, the way she had fidgeted under his gaze, her nervousness mingling with something else—something darker. He had seen the way her pulse quickened, felt the undercurrent of her emotions as they spoke. She was drawn to him, though she would never admit it, not even to herself.
It was inevitable, really.
People were drawn to him, captivated by his charm, his intelligence, his power. Violet was no different, though she liked to think she was. That was what made her so fascinating—the illusion of resistance, the belief that she could maintain her independence.
Tom rose from his chair and moved to the window, staring out at the moonlit grounds below. His reflection in the glass was pale and sharp, a ghostly figure in the darkness.
He thought of Dumbledore, of the knowing look the old fool had given him earlier.
Dumbledore believed himself to be a guardian, a protector of the weak and vulnerable. He saw Violet as someone who needed saving, someone who could be guided away from darkness.
Tom chuckled softly, the sound low and cold.
Dumbledore didn't understand.
There was no saving Violet, no guiding her away from the path she was already on. She was his, though she didn't yet realize it, and he would shape her into something extraordinary.
She would be a weapon, a queen to his king, if only she could be made to see her place.
But he would have to tread carefully. His fascination with her was a weakness, and Tom Riddle did not tolerate weakness—not even in himself.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to focus. Violet was not an equal, not a partner. She was a tool, nothing more.
And yet...
Tom turned away from the window, his expression hardening.
She would bend to his will.
One way or another.