Blood of the Sinners- Professor Riddle

The atmosphere in the room shifted, heavy with unspoken tension as Tom loomed over her, his dark figure commanding yet intimately close. His kisses were deep, slow, and deliberate, his lips tracing patterns on hers as though committing every inch of her to memory. His hands roamed over her delicate form, his touch both possessive and tender. Violet's trembling hands cupped his sharp jawline, her fingertips brushing the edges of his cheekbones as she pulled him closer, her body pressing flush against his.

Their breaths mingled, shallow and quick, each exhale betraying the desperate longing that consumed them both. His hands slipped under the hem of her shirt, fingers gliding across her skin like silk. His touch left a trail of fire in its wake as his lips moved to her stomach, the heat of his mouth marking her with lingering kisses.

A quiet moan escaped her lips, her voice betraying her conflicted surrender. Tom froze for a moment, his lips curled into a satisfied smirk against her skin as he heard her reaction. He traced a path lower, the tip of his nose grazing her hip bone as he tugged at her skirt with deliberate intent.

"I want you, doll," he whispered, his voice breathless, deep, and laced with hunger.

Violet's heart raced, her mind clouded by desire yet pierced with doubt. Her body ached for him, craved the sensation of his touch, but her thoughts screamed warnings she couldn't ignore.

He's Voldemort. The Dark Lord. A murderer.

His piercing blue eyes met hers, smoldering with an intensity that left her breathless. The weight of his gaze bore down on her, expectant and raw with barely restrained control.

"I—I..." Her voice trembled, caught between surrender and resistance.

She wanted him, needed him, but the words of Dumbledore echoed relentlessly in her head. Violet shook her head, the conflict tearing her apart from within.

"I—I can't do this," she whispered, her voice breaking as she pushed him away with trembling hands.

Tom's expression hardened, a flicker of surprise followed by frustration. He sat back as she scrambled off the bed, grabbing her bag with clumsy urgency.

"Wait, Violet!" he called after her, his tone firm but laced with something softer. He rose to his feet as she darted to the door.

Her hand fumbled with the handle, her heart pounding in her ears. "Did I do something wrong?" Tom asked, his brow furrowing, his usual mask of confidence slipping for the briefest of moments.

But Violet didn't answer. She couldn't bring herself to turn around and meet his eyes, not when her own emotions were a storm she could barely control. She fled, her hurried footsteps echoing down the dark hallway.

Tom stood frozen, staring at the door as it swung shut. His jaw tightened, and he clenched his fists at his sides. His thoughts spiraled, an unfamiliar mixture of worry and anger battling within him.

His mind lashed back, venomous and mocking. You, Lord Voldemort, worrying over the whims of a girl? Have you fallen so low? Weakness is unacceptable. She will come back. If she doesn't, so be it. You don't need her.

But the thought of her absence gnawed at him, the unfamiliar sensation unsettling and infuriating. Tom moved to his desk, hoping to distract himself with something else, but his sharp eyes quickly noticed the subtle disorder.

He frowned, running his fingers across the desk's surface, his piercing gaze scanning the room. Papers were out of place, drawers slightly ajar. Someone had been here.

And then he saw it. Or rather, the lack of it.

His diary.

The worn black notebook that held a piece of his very soul—gone.

His chest tightened, and his anger flared, cold and calculating. It had to be her.

Tom's mind raced. Why would she take it? What did she know? His thoughts turned darker. If she had seen even a fraction of what the diary contained, it could unravel everything.

He inhaled deeply, forcing his frustration into a simmering undercurrent beneath his composed facade. No, she will come back. She always does. And when she does, she will explain herself.

His lips curled into a dangerous smile, his blue eyes gleaming with a mixture of curiosity and menace. She was clever, his Violet, but she didn't understand the danger she was playing with.

For now, he would wait. But not for long.

Because no one stole from Tom Marvolo Riddle without facing the consequences.

***

Violet's hurried steps echoed through the empty corridors, the shadows twisting and stretching under the faint moonlight spilling through the tall windows. Her breathing was ragged, her heart pounding against her ribcage as if it might burst. She chewed on her bottom lip, the metallic tang of blood sharp against her tongue. It's a lie, it has to be, she told herself over and over.

Her thoughts refused to settle, a maelstrom of fear and doubt. Tom isn't a monster. He's not—he can't be. But the fragments of doubt clawed at her resolve. His secretive absences, the late-night wanderings through Hogwarts, his calm demeanor in the face of darkness. And then the memory struck her like a blow—a shadowy figure seated at her family's kitchen table, the hooded man on that warm August night. Could it have been him?

Her legs moved almost of their own accord, carrying her toward the library. If she couldn't quiet her thoughts, she could bury them in books. She needed something, anything, to ground herself.

The library was silent, eerily so, the cold January air seeping through the ancient walls. A sliver of moonlight filtered through the frost-laced windows, illuminating motes of dust floating in the air. Violet shivered as the chill wrapped around her, but she didn't stop.

Finding a shadowy corner near a window, she dropped her bag and folded herself into the chair. Her teeth chattered, and she rummaged through her bag, looking for something to warm herself. That was when her hand brushed against the smooth leather cover of the notebook.

The golden engraving glinted faintly in the moonlight: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Her fingers traced the letters, her brow furrowing as a surge of anger welled up inside her. That stupid notebook. The one thing that might prove Dumbledore's wild accusations right.

"Stupid notebook! Go to hell!" Violet yelled, her voice cracking against the oppressive silence. She hurled the notebook across the room, watching it collide with a hollow thud against the stone floor.

For a moment, she sat back, trembling, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. But as she glanced toward the fallen notebook, something strange caught her eye—the pages were turning.

She froze, her heart skipping a beat. The notebook lay open, its pages flipping as if caught in an unseen wind, though the air around her was still. Swallowing hard, Violet crept toward it, her footsteps soft against the worn floorboards.

"What the—" she whispered, leaning over the notebook.

The pages were blank, just as they had been earlier, but something about them felt alive, almost expectant. Violet hesitated, her fingers trembling as she lifted it off the ground and carried it back to the table.

Her curiosity burned hotter than her fear. She pulled out her quill and ink, the feather trembling in her grasp as she scribbled a single hesitant word: "Hello?"

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the ink disappeared into the paper, as if it had been absorbed. Violet gasped, recoiling slightly.

She slammed the notebook shut, her pulse racing. The cold air seemed to thicken, pressing in around her. Before she could think, a brilliant flash of light exploded from the notebook, blinding and searing. It was warm, unnaturally so, like standing under a summer sun, yet it roared past her like a gale.

The next thing Violet knew, she was on the floor, her limbs sprawled awkwardly, her head throbbing from the impact. Slowly, she pushed herself up, wincing as a sharp pain shot through her side. The familiar scent of parchment and wood filled her nose, but something was... different.

Her eyes darted around the library. The tables were polished and newer, their surfaces free of the years of scratches and ink stains she had grown used to. The bookshelves were sturdier, less crowded, their contents pristine. The air itself felt lighter, though still thick with dust and age.

The notebook was gone.

Her breath caught as realization struck her like a cold splash of water. This isn't the library I was in moments ago.

"Where am I?" she murmured aloud, the sound of her voice barely cutting through the oppressive silence.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for her bag, as if clutching it might tether her to something familiar. She turned slowly, her gaze scanning the room for any clue, any sign of what had just happened—or where she was now.

Violet stepped out of the library into the dimly lit hallway, her footsteps echoing faintly in the emptiness. The castle was eerily quiet, the familiar corridors stretching out before her like a labyrinth of shadows. Yet something about it felt off—uncanny, wrong. The air seemed lighter, fresher. The walls glistened faintly as if the stone had been polished only yesterday.

The Hogwarts she knew was ancient, steeped in history, its stones worn with the passage of time. But this... this castle felt younger, vibrant, and alive in a way that unsettled her deeply. She ran her fingers along the cold stone, her pulse quickening.

As she wandered, the eerie silence was broken by the faint sound of footsteps. Her heart leapt. Finally, someone. She turned sharply, her voice ready to call out, but the corridor behind her was empty.

"Hello?" she called, her voice trembling slightly as it disappeared into the void. Nothing answered but the sound of her own breathing. Violet took a hesitant step forward, then another, glancing over her shoulder with every few steps.

Where was Filch? she wondered. By now, she should have been scolded for being out of bounds, or at least caught in the wandering beam of Mrs. Norris' lantern-like eyes. But the castle remained void of life, its stillness pressing in on her like a weight.

And then she saw him.

At the far end of the corridor stood Dumbledore, but not as she knew him. His silvery hair was darker, streaked only faintly with gray, and his beard was trimmed neatly rather than flowing down his chest. He stood tall and poised, his piercing blue eyes filled with energy, almost youthful. He appeared to be in his forties, a sharp contrast to the wise, weathered professor she had come to trust.

"Prof—" she began, her voice breaking the silence. But before she could finish, a hand clamped over her mouth from behind.

"Shh. Come with me."

She spun around to face her captor, her eyes locking with those of a boy around her age. He had dark, curly hair that framed his sharp features and ocean-blue eyes that gleamed with something unreadable—danger, perhaps. He looked achingly familiar, like a half-remembered dream, but the resemblance struck her like a blow. He looked like—

"Tom?" she whispered, her voice muffled against his hand.

"Quiet," he commanded softly, his voice smooth but laced with an edge that sent shivers down her spine. His grip on her wrist was firm as he pulled her away, his strides long and confident.

"Who are you?" Violet demanded, trying to keep up with his pace, her words stumbling over themselves in confusion.

"That," he said, not breaking stride, "is precisely what I should be asking you."

He moved through the corridors with a familiarity that unnerved her, turning corners and slipping through passages as if he knew every stone of the castle by heart. The cold that had clung to her earlier seemed to dissipate, replaced by a strange warmth. Her mind raced, trying to piece together what was happening.

Finally, they reached a deserted hallway bathed in shadow. Tom spun around abruptly, pinning her against the wall with a suddenness that knocked the air from her lungs.

"Let me go!" Violet yelled, her voice cracking with both fear and defiance.

Tom smirked, a dark, knowing expression that sent a chill down her spine. "You can shout all you like," he said, his voice low and hypnotic. "No one will hear you here. Now," he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting against her skin, "I suggest you answer me."

There was something about the way he spoke—calculated and sharp, as if every word was chosen for maximum effect. His tone wasn't just commanding; it was cold, almost cruel, yet alluring in a way she couldn't explain.

Violet froze for a moment, weighing her options. His eyes, those piercing blue eyes, bored into her, demanding her submission. Finally, she relented. "My name is Violet. Violet Alas."

His brow lifted slightly. "Violet," he repeated, his tone dripping with amusement. "Like the flower?"

"Yes," she said, her voice tight with irritation.

He chuckled, rolling his eyes as if the answer was absurd. "And Alas... as in Julius Alas?"

Her breath hitched at the mention of her brother's name. "Yes," she said cautiously, "he's my brother. How do you know him?"

"Hmm," Tom mused, his expression unreadable. "A sister. He's my... friend." The hesitation in his voice made her stomach twist.

"And you are?" she pressed, her voice trembling despite herself.

He straightened, his smirk widening. "Tom Riddle."

Her heart dropped. "No," she said, shaking her head. "You're not Tom. Tom is... he's a man. And you're... you're a boy. You can't be older than me!"

Tom laughed, a rich, unsettling sound. "What year is it?" he asked.

"1971," she answered warily, her brows knitting together.

He chuckled again, and she couldn't help but notice how perfectly his hair fell into place as he tilted his head. "Well, darling," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "you're in 1944."

The words hit her like a thunderclap. Violet's legs felt weak as the hallway seemed to tilt around her. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "How? What... no, that's impossible!"

Tom stepped back, pacing leisurely. "Oh, but it's not. I'm a memory," he said casually, as if that explained everything.

Her confusion only deepened. "A memory? What are you talking about?"

He sighed, as if explaining himself was beneath him. "I'm a fragment of Tom Riddle, preserved in a diary for 26 years. Magic gone wrong, let's call it." He paused, his gaze narrowing. "I'm stuck here, useless. But I suppose you're familiar with feeling useless."

Violet bristled at his arrogance. He spoke with an air of superiority that made her want to slap him, yet his words carried a strange allure.

"You're lying," she said, glaring at him. "You're full of yourself, that's what you are."

Tom smirked, stepping closer once more. "Believe what you want, darling. But if you've found me here, then something has gone very wrong. And if you think this is strange..." His voice dropped, sending a shiver down her spine. "You've only scratched the surface."

Violet stared at him, her mind racing with questions, her body tense with fear. He was her Tom—yet not. And she couldn't decide which terrified her more.

***

Violet followed Tom through the winding corridors of Hogwarts, her gaze shifting to every corner of the castle. It was the same Hogwarts she knew, yet so much had changed. The walls seemed brighter here, the air less oppressive. Life buzzed in the castle—students laughing in the distance, portraits chattering amongst themselves—a stark contrast to the foreboding silence she'd grown accustomed to. Yet, despite the lively atmosphere, she couldn't shake the cold presence walking silently beside her.

Tom led her without a word, his movements calculated, his expression unreadable. He finally stopped at the stone steps leading to the entrance of the Great Hall, his dark eyes flicking toward her. "Sit," he commanded, his voice soft but carrying a weight that demanded obedience. Violet hesitated but complied, sinking onto the cold stone.

Tom sat beside her, his posture relaxed yet predatory, like a serpent coiled and ready to strike. "How do you know me from the future?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual. He turned his head slightly, his sharp features catching the light, making him look both boyishly charming and unnervingly dangerous. "What am I like?"

Violet shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. She could feel his scrutiny, the way his eyes lingered as though peeling back layers of her mind. He was too calm, too still, and it unnerved her. "You... you're my Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," she said, hesitating. The words felt clumsy on her tongue. How could she possibly tell him the truth? That he would grow into a monster feared by all? That he would become Voldemort?

"A professor?" His lips curled into something that might have been a smile, though it held no warmth. There was a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, a fleeting glimpse that disappeared as quickly as it came. "Interesting."

"Yeah," she replied, her voice softer now. She glanced at him, and even here—even in this time—she felt the magnetic pull he seemed to exude. It was dangerous, intoxicating.

Tom tilted his head, studying her with unnerving intensity. "I'm more to you, though, aren't I? Back there, in your time, you didn't speak of me as if I were just your professor." His words were slow, deliberate, designed to ensnare.

Violet's breath hitched. How did he know that? She opened her mouth to deny it but found herself nodding instead. "You... you're right. We are more."

Tom's expression didn't change, but she could sense the shift in him. He stood abruptly, towering over her as he looked down, his gaze piercing. "Nonsense. You're lying. I don't have lovers. I have no time for such foolishness." His voice was sharper now, cutting through the air like a blade.

Violet flinched but didn't look away. "It's the truth," she whispered, unsure if she was trying to convince him or herself.

Tom began to pace, his long strides measured and deliberate. His hands clasped behind his back, his head slightly bowed as if deep in thought. "Why?" he muttered, almost to himself. "Why would I allow someone like you to get so close? What makes you special?" He stopped suddenly, turning to face her. His gaze raked over her, scrutinizing every inch of her as though searching for an answer written on her skin. "I suppose you're attractive enough. I've seen better, but there's something... peculiar about you. Still, the age difference would be... inappropriate. Curious."

Her cheeks flushed with both embarrassment and anger, but she held her ground. "I don't know why you... care for me in the future. I don't even know if you do. You're so different there. Colder, crueler."

Tom's lips twitched, but it wasn't a smile. It was something darker, something that made her stomach twist. "Colder?" he repeated, his voice a low murmur. He stepped closer, leaning down so that his face was level with hers. "I haven't changed, my darling. This... this is who I am. I simply don't bother hiding it in your time."

Violet's heart pounded in her chest. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice trembling.

He straightened, his expression darkening. "You think you know me, Violet. But you don't. I am no mere human. I am more. Far more. And I will succeed. Nothing can stop me." His tone was calm, but there was an undercurrent of malice that sent shivers down her spine.

"Succeed at what?" she asked, though she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

He tilted his head, a mockery of curiosity flashing in his eyes. "Everything. You've already told me as much."

Her blood ran cold. "I didn't..."

"Oh, but you did," he interrupted smoothly. "You see, this is my world, Violet. My little domain. And here, I can do whatever I please. Including this."

Her mind reeled as his words sank in. "But... my shields. How can you—"

He smirked, his expression a cruel mockery of amusement. "Goodbye, my little flower. I've learned all I need."

Before she could respond, the world around her shattered into a blinding white light. She felt herself being pulled, her body weightless and helpless against the force. When the light faded, she was sprawled on the cold, hard floor of the library. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she stared up at the ceiling, her mind racing.

The notebook lay untouched on the table, exactly where she had left it. But she knew it hadn't been a dream. The chill in her bones, the echo of his voice in her mind—it was all too real.

And now, she knew the truth. The truth she had tried so hard to deny. Dumbledore had been right all along.

Tom Riddle was the Dark Lord.

Tom Riddle was the Dark Lord