A man underneath the beast
The corridors of Hogwarts were quiet in the dim light of early evening, the echoes of students' chatter and footsteps fading into the distance. Violet walked briskly, clutching her books close to her chest, her mind restless with thoughts of Tom. He had been distant these past days, his warmth flickering like a dying flame. It left her unsettled, yearning for clarity in the tangled web of emotions he stirred within her.
As she turned the corner near the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, a hand shot out from the shadows, gripping her wrist with enough force to halt her stride. She gasped, her books tumbling to the floor with a thud. Before she could react, Tom Riddle's cold, commanding presence enveloped her. He pulled her into the empty classroom and shut the door with a quiet click, the sound sending a shiver down her spine.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the high windows.
"What—what are you doing?" Violet stammered, her voice barely a whisper. She tried to steady her breathing, but her pulse raced as he stepped closer.
Tom's expression was unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on her like a predator's gaze. He didn't answer, instead letting the silence hang heavy between them. He reached up, his fingers brushing a stray strand of her hair away from her face. The gesture was deceptively tender, but his touch lingered, cold and possessive.
"You've been spending too much time with others," he finally said, his voice low and smooth, though a dangerous edge undercut his words. "It's... distracting."
"Distracting?" Violet blinked, her confusion evident.
"For you. And for me." His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile, and before she could form a response, he stepped forward, closing the remaining distance between them. His hands came to rest on her arms, firm but not harsh, holding her in place as though she might flee.
Violet's breath hitched. She should have been angry, should have demanded answers or pushed him away. Instead, she stood frozen, her heart betraying her with its rapid beat.
"Tom, I—"
Her words were cut off as his lips crashed against hers. The kiss was far from gentle; it was demanding, almost punishing, as though he needed to remind her who she belonged to. Violet's books lay forgotten on the floor as her hands instinctively gripped his robes, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away.
His lips moved with a fervent intensity, his hands sliding up to cup her face, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. The cold wall pressed against her back, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to sink into the storm of his touch. But as quickly as it began, it was over.
Tom pulled away, leaving her breathless and disoriented. He didn't say a word, didn't offer an explanation. He simply straightened his robes and turned on his heel, leaving her standing there, her lips tingling and her heart aching with the void he left behind. The door closed softly behind him, the sound echoing in the empty classroom like a final punctuation mark.
The next morning, Violet sat in the front row of Tom's classroom, her hands trembling slightly as she arranged her parchment and quill. She couldn't focus, her mind replaying the events of the previous evening in an endless loop. Tom entered the room with his usual measured stride, his expression a mask of cold authority. He didn't spare her a glance as he began the lecture.
"Today, we will discuss the theoretical applications of nonverbal spells in dueling scenarios," he announced, his voice smooth and commanding.
As he spoke, his gaze roved over the students, lingering on Violet for the briefest moment. It was a flicker of acknowledgment, so subtle that no one else would have noticed, but it sent a shiver through her. She felt as though he were stripping her bare with that single look, exposing her secrets to the empty air.
Throughout the class, Tom's interactions with Violet were precise and deliberate. When he approached her desk to review her notes, his hand brushed hers for an instant—a fleeting, deliberate touch that sent a jolt through her. His voice softened fractionally when addressing her, the tiniest trace of warmth slipping through the cracks of his cold exterior. These gestures were so minute, so expertly woven into his otherwise impassive demeanor, that Violet found herself questioning whether she imagined them.
Near the end of the lesson, Tom's sharp gaze settled on her. "Miss Alas, stay behind after class," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The rest of the students filed out, their chatter fading as the door closed behind them. Violet remained seated, her heart pounding as Tom moved to the front of the room, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the desks.
He stood in silence for a moment, regarding her with an intensity that made her feel small and exposed. Finally, he spoke. "You're distracted," he said, his voice low and measured. "That won't do."
"I'm not distracted," Violet protested, though her voice betrayed her uncertainty.
Tom's lips curved into a faint smirk, one that didn't reach his eyes. He moved closer, his presence oppressive as he leaned against the desk in front of her. "Lying doesn't suit you, Violet."
Her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine. He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I need your focus. Your loyalty," he murmured, his voice like velvet laced with steel.
Violet nodded, unable to find her voice. His hand lingered for a moment before he withdrew, the loss of his touch leaving her colder than she expected.
"Good," he said simply, straightening and moving away. "You may go."
The dismissal was abrupt, leaving Violet feeling as though she had been pulled into a whirlwind only to be unceremoniously cast aside. As she gathered her things and left the classroom, she couldn't shake the sensation that Tom's gaze followed her, a ghostly presence lingering even in his absence.
The door to the classroom clicked shut behind her, but the weight of the moment she'd just endured pressed against Violet like a storm she couldn't shake. She hurried down the dim corridor, her footsteps echoing as if mocking her racing thoughts.
His lips had been on hers again. His hands had steadied her trembling body, pulling her closer as if she belonged to him. And then, just as quickly as he had consumed her, he had stepped back into his mask of cold indifference, dismissing her like she was nothing.
Violet's fingers brushed against her lips, still tingling from his kiss. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her skin as if it had seared her. The way his dark eyes had looked at her, like he was on the verge of devouring her and abandoning her all at once—it terrified her. But more unsettling than her fear was the truth she couldn't deny.
She wanted more.
Her legs carried her automatically to the library, a refuge she often sought when the world felt overwhelming. But even surrounded by the familiar scent of parchment and leather-bound books, she couldn't focus. Every word blurred into meaningless shapes on the page as her mind replayed his touch, his voice, the brief flicker of something unguarded in his expression before he turned away.
Was she imagining it? Or had he felt it too?
The rest of the day dragged on in fragments of awkward smiles and half-hearted conversations with her friends. Belle teased her about being distracted, and even Barty asked if she was feeling well. She brushed them off, her thoughts too consumed by the enigma that was Professor Riddle.
When she finally retreated to her dormitory that evening, Violet curled up by the window, the frost painting delicate patterns on the glass. She gazed out at the dark grounds, wondering if he was still awake in his office, pouring over some ancient tome or plotting whatever it was that occupied his mind.
"Why does it feel like I'm losing myself?" she whispered to the silence of her room.
But the silence offered no answers, only the steady beat of her heart and the aching pull that refused to let her go.
Hours after Violet had left his classroom, Tom stood by the tall window in his office, his hands clasped behind his back. The fire had long since burned out, and the chill of the room was a stark contrast to the heat that still lingered in his veins.
She had no idea what she was doing to him.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was just another pawn, a young, impressionable girl who could be molded to his will. Yet, every time she walked into his classroom, the world seemed to shift slightly on its axis.
Her presence was like a quiet storm—subtle, unassuming, but impossible to ignore. And when she looked at him, her eyes full of trust and something dangerously close to adoration, it stirred something deep within him that he didn't understand.
Tom turned sharply, pacing the room as his thoughts warred with one another. He had spent years eradicating the softness in himself, crushing anything that resembled humanity in pursuit of power. Empathy, affection, love—these were chains designed to shackle great men.
But Violet Alas was slipping through the cracks he hadn't realized existed.
The memory of her lips on his haunted him. The way she yielded to him so completely, so willingly—it ignited something primal and possessive in him. He wanted her in a way that defied logic, and that terrified him. Because wanting her meant she had power over him, and power over him meant she could destroy him.
Tom sank into his chair, his fingers digging into the armrests. He couldn't allow himself to feel this way. Not for her. Not for anyone. But the harder he tried to push her from his mind, the deeper she burrowed in.
His control was slipping, and it infuriated him.
Yet, amidst the fury and confusion, there was a small, traitorous part of him that longed for her. A part of him that wanted to feel her warmth again, to drown in the softness of her voice, to taste the innocence that had no place in his dark world.
He let out a slow, measured breath, his expression hardening. This was dangerous. He was dangerous. And Violet Alas didn't belong in his plans.
But even as he resolved to distance himself, he knew it was already too late.
The frost on his window shimmered faintly in the moonlight, and for the first time in years, Tom Riddle felt something he couldn't name.
And it terrified him.