His eyes had to be lying to him, going up and down, down and up, left and right. The size, the look, the weight of the object, didn't seem to discredit his incredulity.
The amulet floating before him was a dangerous thing. Around a silver rectangle stylished with an 'S' on it spasmed his fingers like a cage, as a levitation charm spun the attached chain around.
As if doing it enough would erase the item along with his hopes before they turned too real.
His stare flatly denied it. Maybe it was a trick? A fake?
It wasn't.
It couldn't be when Hepsibah's letter, a formal reply to (Y/N) (L/N), lay in his grasp. The stamp was confirmation of its legitimacy, proof of it plainly written down on parchment for him to see.
Unquestionably and undeniably: this was Salazar Slytherin's locket—Merope Gaunt's medallion. Since the year it was created by Salazar, the locket had been a subject of obsession by the line of wizards it was passed down to, and deliberate fraud by others. A cursed medallion which had no wonder ruined many people before him, lovely in the same way siren songs were. A grim symbol that lured people thinking it granted them status.
The way it already, somewhat, did to him. There was not a lot more that made as much as a statement than an heirloom hanging around the neck of he who was related to one of the most influential wizards to ever have existed.
If the necklace really was cursed, then he would be its bearer. There was but one person on the planet responsible for it passing into his possession where it was going to stay.
Merope's only child wrote a letter back to Hepsipbah, writing it how he talked. Reread what he had written in elegant calligraphy for spelling mistakes he knew weren't there. The lady wouldn't live to change her mind and get it back again.
Gratitude had never been his strong suit. He never felt thankful for anything, however, this... Unbearable warmth flowing through him must be that.
Gratefulness. Appreciation.
Tom had thanked you for his birthday presents. The diary was valuable to him and he penned in it every day. A verbal expression wouldn't measure up to how special it was having that which his mother sold to give him life.
He told himself three things. One, the necklace, was not to be touched or known by anyone else. Point two, built on point one—he would hide it in a location not a soul would ever think to look for it.
Your faces were so near to each other it could hardly pass off as polite. You locked eyes, staring at each other, unblinking, until he lowered slowly.
Which brought him to point three. He would never hate you; he might love hating the feelings he had for you, or hate loving them.
*~*~*
There was no stopping the furnace-like hotness traveling north up your neck while recounting to Alyssa and Will what your first kiss was like, sidestepping the rookie details.
A lot more touching was involved than depicted in television programs on the black screen—whenever it happened to turn on and whenever you got to pick the channel. Tom was always the first up, no matter what, so he nearly always got to choose what to watch.
You had gotten comfortable with touches and him, but that level of touching was so distinct from how you were with each other you could write an essay about it.
For starters, your sides, your hips, and knobs of your spine were all explored as if to memorize your anatomy for a pop quiz. The lip-lock ended as soon as it happened and had been stiffer than a board, but you could not—could not—unthink how you had seen him turn a lot of looks on you, anger to fondness to sheer exasperation, but never that look of something he wanted he had then.
YOU ARE READING
Hogwarts: a school of Witchcraft and Love (Tom Marvolo Riddle x F!reader)
Fanfiction"Years ago, I met a boy who made all the wrong choices." As orphans, you and Tom Riddle have more in common than having no parental figures in your lives. One day, it turns out that you, too, can use magic, and it changes everything. For better or f...
