white dove ★ T.M.R/Reader ★

Part Five

His fingers carding through your hair suddenly go from soft and pleasurable to eerily possessive and demeaning as your mind spirals in horror.

You need to get away from him, that much is sure, you need to find a way out of this room and away from him and get as far from this place as you possible can. You don't even want to think about what'll happen afterwards, if McCollin finds out, if the Ministry finds out, if your case will even be considered to hold integrity now that you've fucking slept with your main suspect, if Morfin will die in prison for a crime he didn't commit and the murderer before you might kill again just because you didn't take the time to ask his name before undressing him –

"Are you cold?" asks Tom, his hand moving from your hair to close around your shoulder. Too warm on your skin. Too gentle. "You're shivering."

You can only hope your acting is fucking good as you pull away to meet his gaze. Tom's handsome features are only just cast in the wavering light of the fireplace through the open door. His eyes look black, colourless and motionless save for the flickering orange-red reflection. You're suddenly thinking of your own once ridiculous postulation outside Moribund's, that he's a pretty-faced creature that would strike when your back's turned – though you've learned much too late that Tom Riddle is infinitely more formidable when you're facing him.

"I think I'll have that shower now," you say with a smile that feels sufficiently (hopefully) unwavering.

His hand leaves your shoulder and you resent how cold it feels without him, that any part of you might miss his touch in any capacity –

His fingers suddenly brush feather-light down your cheek and it takes everything in you not to jerk away in revulsion on impulse. It's too soft a touch for a hand that's taken life. His expression is heavy and unmoving, the little firelight dancing in his eyes the only movement on his whole face for you to track. It makes you think of burning oil aflame on the surface of deep water.

"Through the door," he says quietly, hand falling away, "on the left."

You nod and push yourself up with deliberate slowness like you're still as lethargic and relaxed as before and not brittle with adrenaline, alert and jittery –

"Do you need something to wear?" he asks from the bed behind you as you stand, and you're instantly wishing that you weren't naked, that he couldn't look at you and that he never had.

"No," you say, picking up your skirt and trying to keep your expression clear at the memory of him pulling it off you. You can't stop your lips from tightening as you catch sight of your bra and your shirt on the floor outside his door, his clothes strewn amongst yours. If you go for your wand in the pocket of your robe beside his chair he'll know something is wrong, if you leave it here and he's already realised something has changed in you he could hide it, and you should have known that picking up a stranger off fucking Knockturn Alley would be a bad idea –

You step towards your clothes and pick them up with forced nonchalance before turning away from your robe (and your wand) in a split-second decision that you immediately second guess, but there's no chance to backpedal – one glance back at Tom through the door to his bedroom finds him propped up on his forearm, his eyes following you, expression unreadable. You're very desperately hoping that his relentless watchfulness is for pleasure and not suspicion. You are, after all, still naked.

"I won't be long," you force yourself to say softly, lingering for a moment by the doorway like you're caught by the sight of him yourself.

He nods silently and you can't bear to wait any longer, stepping out of his line of sight and nearly wrenching the bathroom door open. You close it painfully slowly, watching the latch slide back and click gently into place before letting out the breath you only then realise you've been holding.