Chapter 9
It started subtly.
At first, you thought you were imagining things—coincidences that could easily be explained away. Tom had always been a looming presence in your life, a force of nature that seemed to twist the very atmosphere around him. But now… now it was different.
He was always there.
Not just in class, where he’d long since established himself as your closest academic rival, but in the library, at meals, in the hallways between lessons. You’d reach for a book, and suddenly, he’d be at your side, plucking it from the shelf before you could. You’d turn a corner, and he’d be there, walking just a half-step behind you, as if he’d anticipated your every move.
It wasn’t just his presence—it was the closeness.
A hand ghosting over yours as he passed you a quill. His shoulder brushing against you when he leaned in to glance at your parchment. The way his breath tickled the side of your neck when he spoke, always too close, always in that low, measured voice that sent a shiver down your spine.
—
One afternoon in the library, the closeness became undeniable.
You were seated at your usual spot, bent over an Arithmancy textbook, when Tom slid into the chair beside you. Not across from you, where he normally sat. Beside you.
You tensed, gripping your quill tighter. “There are plenty of open seats.”
He ignored your comment, resting his elbow on the table and tilting his head slightly. “You always choose the most complicated texts.”
“I manage just fine,” you replied, trying to focus on your notes.
He hummed, clearly unconvinced. Then, before you could react, he reached out, his fingers brushing over yours as he gently plucked the quill from your grip.
Your breath hitched.
Tom didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his fingers lingered, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours. It was barely a touch, but it was enough to send your heart into a frantic rhythm.
“This formula,” he said, his voice softer now, “you’re overcomplicating it.”
He flipped your parchment toward himself, the side of his hand pressing lightly against yours. You could smell his cologne—something dark and intoxicating, something uniquely him.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus. “And you, of course, have a better way?”
His lips curled at the challenge. “Naturally.”
He adjusted the formula, his movements fluid and precise. But you barely registered the words. All you could think about was the heat of his proximity, the way his knee brushed against yours under the table, the way he was close enough that if you turned just slightly, your noses would almost touch.
You exhaled slowly. He’s testing me.
You refused to react.
Instead, you smirked, snatching your quill back from his fingers. “I see what you did. It’s clever.”
“I’m always clever,” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes and returned to your notes, but your fingers still tingled where he had touched you.
—
It didn’t stop there.
In Potions, he stood behind you, close enough that when he reached for an ingredient, his chest nearly pressed against your back. His voice was low when he corrected your stirring technique, his breath warm against your ear.
In the corridors, his hand would find the small of your back, guiding you through the crowds with a touch so faint it was almost unnoticeable—almost.
At breakfast, when you reached for the teapot, his hand was already there, fingers grazing yours as he poured the tea for you without a word.
By the end of the week, it was suffocating.
And yet, you didn’t tell him to stop.
Didn’t move away when he got too close.
Didn’t protest when his touch lingered a second too long.
Because the worst part wasn’t the way Tom was pulling you deeper into his orbit.
The worst part was that you liked it.
—
You couldn’t take it anymore.
The stolen glances, the lingering touches, the way Tom had somehow managed to insert himself into every aspect of your life—it was all becoming too much. And the worst part? You didn’t hate it.
Which was precisely why you needed to talk to Clara.
You found her in the Ravenclaw common room that evening, curled up in an armchair by the fireplace with a book resting on her lap. She looked up as you approached, arching an eyebrow.
“You have that look,” she said.
“What look?”
“The one you get when you’re overthinking something and don’t know whether to be angry or scared.” She shut her book and leaned forward. “Alright, what’s going on?”
You hesitated, glancing around. Most of the other students were too absorbed in their own studies to pay attention, but you still lowered your voice as you sat down.
“It’s about Riddle,” you admitted.
Clara groaned. “Oh, Merlin. What has he done now?”
“That’s the thing,” you said, running a hand through your hair. “I don’t know if he’s done anything. Not really.”
She frowned. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”
You exhaled slowly. “He’s just… there. All the time. It’s like he’s always around me, always watching. And it’s not just that. He—he touches me.”
Clara’s eyes widened. “Touches you?”
“Not like that,” you said quickly, your face heating. “But little things. A hand on my back, brushing against me when he passes, leaning in way too close when we study. It’s constant, Clara.”
Clara’s brows knitted together, and for the first time, she looked genuinely concerned. “And how do you feel about it?”
You opened your mouth, then shut it again. That was the real problem, wasn’t it?
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “It’s—he’s—he drives me insane. He’s still the same insufferable, arrogant prat he’s always been. But then… then he does things like this, and I—” You swallowed. “I don’t hate it.”
Clara studied you for a long moment before leaning back with a sigh. “Oh, Y/N.”
“What?”
“You like him.”
You recoiled. “No, I don’t.”
Clara gave you a flat look. “Right. So all this whispering and the flustered face and the way you’re acting is just… what? A sign of deep loathing?”
You glared at her. “I’m asking for advice, not mockery.”
Clara sighed again, rubbing her temples. “Alright, fine. You want advice? Stay away from him.”
You blinked. “That’s your advice?”
“Yes! Y/N, this is Tom Riddle we’re talking about! He’s not just some normal Slytherin boy with an inflated ego. He’s—there’s something wrong about him.”
You frowned. “You don’t even know him.”
“I know enough,” Clara said, her voice firm. “And you do too. You’ve always known. You’ve always been wary of him. But now, because he’s suddenly paying you all this attention, you’re questioning yourself?”
You bit your lip, looking down. She’s right, you thought. You had always been wary of him. Always known there was something different—dangerous—about Tom. But that was what made this even worse.
Because despite all of that…
You still wanted him.
Clara sighed again, softer this time. “Look, I get it. He’s smart, he’s—” she made a face “—annoyingly attractive in that dark, brooding way, and now he’s acting like you’re the only person in the world who matters to him. But Y/N, people don’t change like that. Not overnight.”
“I know,” you murmured. “That’s what scares me.”
Clara reached out and squeezed your hand. “Then maybe ask yourself why he’s doing this. What does he want from you?”
That was the question, wasn’t it?
And deep down, you already knew the answer.
Clara didn’t let go of your hand. Her usually sharp, quick-witted expression was replaced by something softer, something serious. She knew you, probably better than anyone, and she could tell this was more than just a passing dilemma.
“Alright,” she said, shifting so she was facing you fully. “Tell me everything.”
You hesitated, your thoughts tangling together like an impossible knot. But Clara wasn’t going to let you go without answers, and frankly, you needed someone to make sense of this with you.
So, you took a breath and started from the beginning…
“It’s been going on for weeks,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “At first, it was small things—he started acting weird after I took care of him when he got sick.”
Clara’s brows shot up. “You took care of him?”
“It wasn’t on purpose!” you said quickly. “He was being stubborn, refused to rest, and someone had to make sure he didn’t keel over. So I took him to the hospital wing, but he was impossible and refused to stay, and then I—I kind of nursed him back to health in his dorm.”
Clara gaped at you. “You nursed Tom Riddle back to health. In his dormitory.”
You groaned, pressing your hands to your face. “I know how it sounds.”
“Oh, it sounds like the beginning of every dramatic, doomed romance novel ever,” Clara deadpanned.
You scowled at her. “That’s not the point.”
She gestured for you to continue, though her expression clearly screamed I cannot believe you kept this from me.
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “After that, he started acting different. Not in an obvious way—not at first. But he started… watching me more. Getting closer. You know how he is—how he keeps his distance from everyone? Well, that changed. It was like he suddenly decided I was the exception.”
Clara frowned. “Did he say anything?”
“No,” you admitted. “Not outright. But then I woke up in his bed one morning.”
Clara nearly choked on air. “WHAT?”
You flailed a hand. “Not like that! I fell asleep in his armchair, and he—he moved me. And when we woke up, we were—” You hesitated, suddenly finding the fireplace very interesting.
Clara’s eyes widened. “You cuddled with Tom Riddle.”
“Unintentionally!” you hissed. “And he was so weird about it the next day. He went cold again, almost like he regretted letting his guard down.”
Clara considered that. “Okay… so he pulls away. But then what changed?”
“That’s the thing,” you murmured. “After that, he started stalking me.”
Clara paled. “What?”
You exhaled. “Not in a dramatic way. But I started noticing him everywhere. It was like no matter where I went, he was there. Not always speaking, not always doing anything—but watching. He followed me all the way through the castle one day. And then, out of nowhere, the gifts started.”
Clara’s lips parted in disbelief. “What kind of gifts?”
You shifted uncomfortably. “At first, small things. Fancy bookmarks slipped into my books, rare quills left on my desk, sweets I liked appearing in my bag. But then… then he left bookshop checks. To that shop, Clara.”
Clara let out a low whistle. “The one with the Muggle novels.”
You nodded. “Exactly. He knew. He knows what I like, what I look at, even when I don’t say anything. And when I used them—when I spent them—I thought maybe he’d stop. But he didn’t. He started getting closer.”
Clara leaned back, processing everything.
You swallowed hard. “And now? It’s physical. Not—nothing extreme. But he’s always there. Standing too close. Brushing against me. Touching my hand, my back, my arm. He’s testing my reaction, seeing how far he can push before I pull away.”
Clara folded her arms. “And you haven’t pulled away.”
You clenched your jaw. “No.”
She let out a breath. “Okay. So… what do you think caused the shift? Because Tom Riddle doesn’t do things without reason.”
You hesitated. You’d been trying to piece that together yourself, but the more you thought about it, the more the answer terrified you.
“He wants me,” you said, finally. “But not in a normal way. Not like someone who simply develops feelings for another person. It’s—” You struggled for the words. “It’s like he’s claiming me. Like he decided I belong to him, and now he’s making sure I know it.”
Clara’s expression darkened. “That’s not normal.”
“I know.”
She studied you carefully. “And the scariest part is, you don’t hate it.”
You swallowed, looking down at your hands. “No,” you whispered. “I don’t.”
Clara sighed, rubbing her temples. “You realize this is dangerous, right? You’re dealing with Tom Riddle. He’s—he’s brilliant, but he’s also manipulative and cold, and he doesn’t just like people, Y/N. He uses them.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “Trust me, I know that better than anyone.”
She shook her head. “So what are you going to do?”
You hesitated. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Because a part of you—maybe the most dangerous part—didn’t want to do anything.
You didn’t want him to stop.
“I don’t know,” you admitted.
Clara exhaled sharply, but she didn’t scold you. Instead, she reached over and squeezed your hand again.
“Just… be careful, okay?” she said softly. “Tom Riddle isn’t the kind of person who lets go of things easily. And if he’s really set his sights on you?” Her grip tightened slightly. “I don’t think he’ll ever let go.”
You didn’t respond.
Because deep down, you already knew she was right.
—
The next morning, you sat at the Ravenclaw table beside Clara, absently poking at your toast while she went on about some new Arithmancy Theodorery she’d read about. You tried to focus, really, but your mind was a tangled mess of thoughts about him.
Tom had been in your head all night. Every little thing Clara had pointed out only solidified the truth you were already struggling to admit. He wasn’t just playing some game with you. He wasn’t just toying with you for amusement.
He wanted you. Entirely.
And the worst part? You liked it.
You were just about to tell Clara you needed to leave early for the library when the familiar flutter of wings filled the Great Hall. The morning post had arrived.
Your usual tawny owl swooped down and landed gracefully in front of you, extending its leg. You furrowed your brows. You weren’t expecting anything. But when you untied the envelope and flipped it over, your stomach twisted.
There was no sender’s name, but you knew. Of course, you knew.
Clara leaned in, trying to peek. “More love letters from your secret admirer?” she teased, though her voice held an edge of wariness.
You ignored her, carefully tearing open the envelope. And when you slid the contents into your hand, you nearly choked on air.
More bookshop checks.
A lot more.
Your heart thumped violently against your ribs. Last time, the sum had been generous. This time? It was insane. He was giving you everything.
Clara snatched one from your hand before you could stop her, scanning the amount. Her eyes widened. “Are you—are you serious? This is twice as much as last time! Y/N, this isn’t just spoiling, this is—this is obsession.”
You swallowed, shoving the checks back into the envelope, fingers trembling slightly. You felt lightheaded.
Clara’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You can’t keep taking these.”
Your grip on the envelope tightened. “Why not?”
“Because—because it’s not normal!” she hissed. “He’s buying you, Y/N. He’s trying to make sure you’re indebted to him, that you keep thinking about him, keep feeling like you owe him.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. Maybe Clara was right. Maybe this was another move in some grand, strategic game of his.
But at the same time…
It was his choice to send them.
You hadn’t asked. You hadn’t expected them. But if he was going to insist on spoiling you, on making sure you had everything you wanted, then why should you feel guilty for using them?
You had spent the first ones without hesitation. This time would be no different.
You let out a slow breath, slipping the envelope into your bag. “It’s not my problem if he’s the one who wants to give me things,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
Clara stared at you. “Y/N.”
“I didn’t ask for them,” you pointed out, lifting your chin. “I’m not forcing him to do this. If he wants to send me checks, then why shouldn’t I spend them however I want?”
Clara groaned. “Oh, Merlin, you’re already under his spell.”
You didn’t answer. Because maybe—just maybe—she was right.
—
That noon, you and Clara strolled down the cobbled streets toward the bookshop, the envelope of bookshop checks nestled safely in your bag. The crisp autumn air smelled of parchment and roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor, but your mind was occupied by something else entirely.
Or rather, someone else.
You hadn’t seen Tom since breakfast. You’d half expected to feel his presence somewhere nearby—lurking, watching, waiting. But if he was observing you, he was being even more discreet than usual.
Clara nudged your side as the two of you reached the store. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked, eyeing the envelope in your hand.
You huffed, pushing open the door. A soft chime echoed through the quaint little shop. “You act like I’m committing some kind of crime.”
Clara rolled her eyes, following you inside. “It feels like a crime when the money’s coming from Tom Riddle.”
You ignored her, inhaling the familiar scent of aged pages and polished wood. This shop had always been your sanctuary—a hidden gem that catered to both magical and Muggle literature. You wasted no time perusing the shelves, pulling out books that had been on your list for ages. Spell Theory, historical accounts, even a few new Muggle novels that had caught your eye during previous visits.
Clara trailed behind you, still grumbling under her breath. “I don’t know why I even bother. You’re already lost to the dark side.”
You smirked, flipping through a hardcover before adding it to your growing pile. “If the ‘dark side’ involves free books, then maybe I am.”
When your arms were full, you glanced at Clara, then down at the envelope in your grip. There was still so much left. An obscene amount, honestly.
You hesitated. Then, before Clara could protest, you grabbed a few books you knew she had been eyeing for weeks and stacked them on top of yours.
Her eyes widened. “Wait—what are you—”
You cut her off with a look. “It’s too much for just me,” you said simply. “So you’re getting something too.”
Clara gaped at you, her expression torn between gratitude and exasperation. “Y/N, this is not how guilt works. You can’t bribe me with books to make me feel better about you accepting gifts from Tom bloody Riddle.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Are you giving them back, then?”
She clutched the books to her chest, glancing down at them like they were the rarest treasures she’d ever held. Then she groaned, glaring at you. “You’re insufferable.”
You grinned. “I know.”
When you reached the counter, the shopkeeper’s eyes widened at the sheer amount of books you were purchasing. You slid over a handful of checks, ignoring the way Clara shifted uncomfortably beside you. The transaction went smoothly, and soon enough, the two of you were stepping back onto the street, arms weighed down by books.
Clara sighed, shaking her head as she hugged her new collection to her chest. “You do realize this only makes his obsession worse, right? He wants you to accept things from him. The second you stopped resisting, you gave him something.”
You bit your lip, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. Maybe she was right. Maybe Tom was reveling in the fact that you were indulging in his generosity.
But as you ran your fingers over the leather-bound cover of a book you’d been wanting for months, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret it.
If this was a game, then Tom Riddle wasn’t the only one playing anymore.
—
The way back to the castle was proving to be a challenge. The books were heavy, your arms ached, and Clara was muttering curses under her breath as she struggled with her own stack. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, stretching shadows across the cobbled path as you trudged uphill.
“Merlin’s beard, I’m going to die carrying these,” Clara groaned, nearly tripping over a loose stone. “This is your fault, Y/N. I hope you know that.”
You huffed, adjusting the weight of your books. “I did offer to shrink them, but you refused.”
“I don’t trust Shrinking Charms on books! What if the ink smudges?”
You rolled your eyes. “Then don’t complain.”
Just as Clara let out an exaggerated sigh, a voice from behind made both of you turn.
“Need some help?”
You blinked in surprise as Theodore Nott approached, hands tucked into the pockets of his Slytherin robes. His usual composed expression was present, but there was a hint of amusement in his gaze as he took in Clara’s struggling form.
Clara scoffed. “Oh, please, Nott. I have it completely under control.”
“You look like you’re about to collapse.”
“I am not—”
Before she could protest further, Theodore plucked half the books from her arms with little effort. Clara spluttered, caught between indignation and relief.
“You— I didn’t ask for help!” she huffed.
Theodore smirked. “And yet, here we are.”
You suppressed a laugh as Clara shot you a glare, her cheeks tinged pink.
Theodore glanced at you then, his eyes briefly flicking to the heavy stack in your arms. “Do you need help too?”
You shook your head. “I can manage.”
His gaze lingered for a second longer, as if considering whether to insist, but then he simply nodded. “Suit yourself.”
With Theodore carrying half of Clara’s books, the walk back was significantly easier—at least for her. You stole a few glances in their direction as they walked ahead, Clara still half-heartedly protesting while Theodore remained infuriatingly unfazed.
You smirked to yourself. Maybe this day hadn’t turned out so bad after all.
That is, until you felt a familiar, heavy presence somewhere behind you.
You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
The feeling of Tom’s presence behind you never quite dissipated as you walked the remaining stretch of the path back to the castle. It was like an invisible thread pulling at you, urging you to turn around, but you didn’t. You couldn’t.
Instead, you focused on the books in your arms, shifting them to a more comfortable position, pretending you didn’t feel that familiar, almost suffocating pull.
But then, you heard it.
The sound of footsteps matching your pace, close but not too close. You tensed. It was him.
“Need help?”
You froze. You didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Tom’s voice had the same effect on you every time—familiar, cool, and laced with an underlying possessiveness.
You glanced over your shoulder and saw him, walking casually but purposefully behind you. His eyes were fixed on your books, a sharp gaze that felt as if it was cutting straight through you.
You said nothing, but your grip on the books tightened.
“You’re carrying too many,” he continued, his voice low, but with an edge of finality, like there was no room for argument. “Let me help.”
Your heart skipped, and for a moment, you hesitated. You were so used to doing everything yourself. You didn’t need Tom’s help.
But then you saw Clara and Theodore walking ahead of you, the way Theodore was effortlessly carrying her pile of books without any resistance, and the thought of continuing the trek on your own felt... silly.
Without saying a word, you reluctantly handed him a stack. He took it easily, his fingers brushing against yours as he adjusted the weight. The brief contact made you shiver involuntarily, though you tried to brush it off.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he murmured, his voice dangerously close to your ear. “I’m not completely heartless.”
You glanced sideways at him, trying to avoid his piercing gaze. “I never said you were.”
There was a moment of silence, the only sound the rhythmic crunch of footsteps on the gravel. His presence, now that he was closer, felt all-consuming. The air seemed to thicken around you, charged with an intensity you couldn’t ignore.
You didn’t know whether to be grateful or unsettled by how easily he had swooped in to “help.” Tom had always had a way of appearing at the right moment, always exactly where you needed him to be. It was both comforting and disorienting at the same time.
“Your books must be rather heavy,” Tom said after a beat, his eyes flicking to the remaining stack in your arms. “Don’t tell me you’re going to insist on carrying all of them.”
You rolled your eyes. “I can manage.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you always push yourself this hard?”
“Not your concern,” you muttered, still trying to maintain some semblance of control in the situation.
Tom’s lips curved into a small smirk, though he didn’t push the matter any further. Instead, he adjusted his grip on the books he was carrying, his fingers brushing lightly against yours again. This time, you couldn’t ignore the spark that ran up your arm, making your heart skip a beat.
The rest of the walk was spent in relative silence, with only the sound of your footsteps and the occasional rustle of robes. When you reached the Ravenclaw Tower, you stopped in front of the entrance, feeling a bit of hesitation creep in.
“Thanks,” you said, your voice a little quieter than usual.
Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying you in a way that made your stomach tighten. “It’s nothing,” he said simply, his tone cool.
For a moment, you thought he was about to say something else—something more, something that would make your heart race even faster—but he didn’t. Instead, he stepped back slightly, eyes still on you.
And for a brief, fleeting moment, you wondered if there was something else going on behind those cold, calculating eyes.
But then, as quickly as he had appeared, he turned and walked away, disappearing down the corridor with that same air of indifference he always carried with him.
You stood there for a moment longer than you intended, staring after him, trying to process the confusing swirl of emotions he always managed to invoke in you.
You glanced at Clara, who was already waiting at the entrance to your dorm. Her eyes were narrowed in suspicion, clearly having noticed the interaction.
“You know,” she said slowly, “he’s definitely up to something.”
You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. “I’m beginning to think you’re right.”
Clara’s expression softened, but she still looked concerned. “Just be careful, Y/N. He’s not someone you can trust easily.”
You didn’t respond, too lost in thought. You didn’t know what Tom’s intentions were anymore. All you knew was that the closer he got, the more you found yourself falling into the orbit of his calculated, magnetic presence. And the deeper you went, the harder it would be to break free.