Hogwarts: a school of Witchcraft and Love (Tom Marvolo Riddle x F!reader)

Chapter 5-01

(A/N: I usually post this at the end of the chapter but for triggers that doesn't make sense <3 there is some body shaming in this, and I just want to say, every body type should be loved and I don't agree with anything said. This was just written to make the characters seem more like assholes because they are).

The clinking of party goers resounded between stylish black dividers. If the word poshness were a visual, it would be this ball hall that Horace Slughorn went all out on in terms of annual decor and budget.

Think crystal chandeliers glittering like diamonds above murals of fantastical creatures, and animations playing out keeping the invited entertained while they sunk into squishy armchairs of sapphire, ruby, emerald and amber colours.

Girls were led out to the dance floor and their partners showed off and spun them faster. Add in treats and beverages as varied in shapes, colours, and sizes as the guests themselves, and those elite people- each one a Slughorn-handpicked superstar, whether in studies, clubs, or whatever else- were pampered from 6 to 12, and had a great night ahead of them.

There would also be snacks so mouth-watering they enticed those already having eaten too much from the buffet into eating more.

"Are you trying to eat yourself into a food coma?" With appalled amusement Tom beheld the view of Avery going for the feat of eating his 50kg body weight in éclairs.

Why stop at one when you can have one in each hand and one in your mouth? He didn't know much about proper etiquette, but was sure this wouldn't exactly get them many House cup points.

Comparatively moderate in his eating habits, he ate meagerly, but like a king in comparison to the mushy scraps they called meals at Wool's.

"Tom, mate, let the chap breathe. It's his initiation to Slughorn's bashes." A boy half a head taller than him cut between the diners to reach him.

Avery's mouthpiece for bottomless appetite, defending his gluttonous ways as if they were worthy of praise. He stood as tall as he could before Abraxas.

Liquid splashed at his feet and he didn't have the courage to ask what kind. Tom scrutinized the freshly squeezed orange juice passed to him by the aristocrat he hadn't properly thanked yet.

The chance to do so had been denied during their travels from London to Scotland. On the train, shouting shivers into the kid's spines for the near creation of Nearly Headless Will had been his primary occupation. On the carriages pulled by flying horses, he was subjected to the Head Girl's recap of Prefect instructions he had committed to memory over break.

Responsible adults, not tea connoisseurs, that was what his drills guaranteed to make. Different from newly appointed Headmaster Albus Dumbledore's coddling and tea tastings for all. The old coot cared too much about these walking catastrophes that he didn't see being lenient would make them bigger problems down the line-problems that Tom would then have to weed out and solve.

His ethics were appalling. Every crime he forgave, every prank he ignored and the consequences dodged fell back on the Prefects. What the Headmaster should have done was ship the scoundrels where they came from. None of them should have stepped off the Express.

Correction-they should have stepped off to greet their parents, waiting at Platform 9¾ with wooden spoons and belts for an old school spanking.

But that ship had sailed.

About his drink... Why go for orange juice? Abraxas was sixteen and richer than anyone else. He could help himself to anything, and so his non-alcoholic choice was puzzling.