Darkness and Devotion - A Tom Riddle Story

The Follower

When Tom awoke, he was surprisingly warm.

He was used to being cold. Mattheo would joke that his blood ran 10 degrees colder because he didn't have a heart. Whether he had one or not wasn't his concern. Tom liked it cold; he found it comforting in a way. It reminded him of those blissful days before his father died, when Voldemort's cold hands were placed on his son's head as he attempted to give him advice. "You will do great things, boy," his father would hiss. "Great things." 

Tom had never planned on settling just for great.

When Voldemort died, Tom began keeping things cold. At first, it was to remind himself of the family he had lost (not that he had ever been the sentimental sort but familiarity in a time of pure and utter chaos was preferred). Then, it was because he liked it. Mattheo hated it, of course, but he got used to it quickly. Mattheo was always the agreeable sort, making friends with everyone but the Rosier girl. Hell, he even got Evelyn to joke around with him and eat all of her meals with him and she was apparently notorious for keeping her distance from everyone.

Now, Tom's room had a charm that made it colder than the rest of the dungeons. Being under the Black Lake helped already but he wanted to make sure there was always a chill in the air. Yes, the cold was nice. Familiar. Comfortable.

So when he woke up surrounded by warmth and the smell of petrichor and vanilla, he couldn't help but be surprised at the fact that he wasn't immediately repulsed. Perhaps if it was anyone else lying on his chest with her arms around his waist, he would have been repulsed. But Evelyn wasn't just anyone.

He didn't move for a few moments, content to just lay there while she breathed deeply. He knew she didn't sleep well without him for the same reason he didn't sleep well without her. Their souls couldn't be apart for very long. In fact,  he felt restless even in sleep unless his mind reached out to hers and joined her in dreams that felt a little too wonderful to be real.

Evelyn let out a content hum before snuggling deeper into his chest. Her hair was splayed out across the bed and he couldn't help but run his hands through the silken strands. Mine, he thought. She's mine.

He couldn't believe he said he loved her. Even now, he wondered if the only reason he said it was because of some charm or bewitching spell. Love and Tom didn't exactly go together. No one loved him. He was unloveable; he'd known that from the moment he was born, destined to be looked at only in fear. Even Mattheo, his own brother, was terrified of him. His father respected him at best, his professors had succumbed to his charms, and he had no friends, only followers.

Tom wasn't made for loving. He wasn't made to be loved. 

His father taught him the importance of power, loyalty, and respect but never love. Even Mattheo didn't believe in the concept, not really. They were taught that it was weak, that it meant nothing.

And yet he told her he loved her like it was the simplest thing in the world.

It had to be a trick. A spell. Something. She was toying with him, using their connection against him in a bid to get power. That was the only explanation.

Love wasn't real... wasn't it?

He shook his head. No, it wasn't real. It couldn't have been. This was some trick, some form of accelerated lust.

But damn if being with her didn't feel incredible.

She consumed his every thought. Her grey eyes haunted his very soul. His body longed to be with hers. Her mouth molded to hers like it was meant to be there all along. He felt a physical ache whenever she wasn't near. Some part of him knew that she was his, that she was meant for him in a way that couldn't be explained. Every part of her appealed to him, from her looks to her intelligence. Even to her soft, sweet smile that made him want to light the world on fire as retribution for anyone who ever tried to dim it.