The Prophecy Can't Be Foretold; a Tom Riddle Fan Fiction

21

The front door clicked shut behind me, the soft thud echoing in the silent manor. I barely had time to breathe before Tom's footsteps stormed down the hallway, his presence like a shadow creeping closer, cold and suffocating.

"Where were you?" His voice was sharp, demanding, before I could even turn to face him.

I flinched at the harshness in his tone but quickly composed myself. I knew better than to show weakness in front of him, even now. "I was visiting my mother," I replied, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I just wanted to see how she was doing."

His eyes narrowed, dark and unreadable. I could feel his anger radiating off him in waves, his fists clenching at his sides. He didn't believe me. I knew he didn't.

"You didn't mention visiting your mother before you left." His words were slow, deliberate, as if he was daring me to slip up.

I swallowed hard, my mind racing for a convincing response. "I didn't think it was necessary to tell you every little thing," I said, trying to sound casual. "She's my mother, Tom. I was worried about her."

For a moment, there was silence. His gaze bore into me, searching for the cracks in my lie. And then, without warning, his hand flew out, striking me across the face with a force that left my head spinning.

I gasped, stumbling back, my hand instinctively flying to my cheek. Pain blossomed under my skin, but it wasn't just the physical sting that hurt—it was the betrayal, the sharp reminder of how fragile I was in his world. How powerless.

"You think you can lie to me?" Tom hissed, his voice low and venomous. "If you run off again without telling me, I swear, Caliana, I'll do something we'll both regret."

I bit my lip, my chest tight with fear and confusion. His rage was suffocating, and I couldn't bear to make it worse. "I'm sorry," I whispered, barely able to get the words out. But he didn't care. He didn't even acknowledge my apology.

He turned on his heel, leaving me standing there, trembling and holding back tears. I watched his figure disappear down the hall, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn't move. Couldn't move. The house felt colder, more oppressive, like the walls themselves were closing in on me.

I hurried up to my room, the fear still coursing through my veins, and shut the door behind me. The manor, once grand and mysterious, now felt like a prison. I sank onto my bed, curling into myself as the pain in my cheek throbbed. My mind whirled with everything Nadia had said earlier that day. The warnings. The doubts. The truth.

But I couldn't dwell on it. Not now. Not with the reality of Tom's fury still fresh in my mind. I stayed in my room for hours, staring out the window at the darkening sky, lost in my thoughts.

A knock at the door startled me, pulling me out of my daze.

"Caliana?"

The voice was familiar, but it wasn't Tom. I slowly got up and opened the door to find Rabastan Lestrange standing there, his expression curious.

"You weren't at the meeting," he said, glancing over my shoulder as though expecting to see someone else.

I shook my head, forcing a weak smile. "No. I wasn't feeling well."

Rabastan raised an eyebrow but didn't press the issue. Instead, he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He looked different in the dim light—less intimidating, more human.

"Tom's got everyone in there, talking about Merlin knows what," he said casually, as if we were discussing something as mundane as the weather. "I thought I'd come check on you. It's not like you, to miss a meeting."

I didn't know how to respond. Rabastan wasn't someone I considered a friend, but his presence was a welcome distraction from the suffocating loneliness that had settled over me.

"I just... needed a break," I admitted, sitting back down on the bed. "Everything's been so intense lately."

Rabastan leaned against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. "Yeah. That's an understatement. Things are changing fast. You feel it too, don't you?"

I nodded, grateful to have someone who understood. "It's like the world's spinning out of control. And Tom... he's so focused. So driven."

Rabastan's eyes flickered with something—concern, maybe? Or curiosity. "You're close to him," he said carefully, watching my reaction. "Closer than anyone."

I didn't respond. What could I say? Rabastan didn't know the extent of it, the control Tom had over me. The way he could make me feel so small, yet so important at the same time.

"Be careful, Caliana," Rabastan said after a moment, his voice quieter now. "Tom's... well, you know what he's capable of. Just keep your wits about you."

Before I could respond, he gave me a nod and left the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again. But the brief conversation with him had stirred something in me. For the first time in a long while, I felt seen. Heard. Rabastan didn't question me, didn't demand anything from me. It was a small comfort, but it was something.

As the evening dragged on, I lay on my bed, the silence of the manor pressing down on me. The pain in my cheek had dulled, but the weight of Tom's anger still hung heavy in the air. I wasn't sure how long I stayed like that, lost in my own thoughts, before I heard the door to my room creak open.

Tom stood there, his expression unreadable. My heart skipped a beat, fear and longing warring within me. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, and I tensed, unsure of what to expect.

He crossed the room in a few strides, sitting on the edge of the bed beside me. His fingers gently brushed my cheek, where the sting of his slap still lingered. But there was no apology in his eyes. There never was.

Instead, he leaned in, pressing his lips to my forehead, his touch soft and tender. It was like a spell—like he knew exactly how to make me forget everything, how to make me fall into his arms again, despite the pain, despite the fear.

"I hate when you make me angry," he murmured, his breath warm against my skin. "But you know how much I care for you, don't you?"

I nodded, my heart racing as his hands moved lower, tracing the curve of my waist. I should've been angry. I should've pushed him away. But instead, I melted under his touch, my body betraying me.

He kissed me again, deeper this time, pulling me close, and I could feel the power he held over me. The way he could make me forget everything with a single touch. The way he could make me love him, even when I knew I shouldn't.

And just like that, the fear, the doubt, the anger—it all disappeared, swallowed by the warmth of his embrace. I was his. I had always been his.

And no matter how hard I tried to fight it, I always would be.

His hands caressed my body whilst no words left his mouth. He let his hands speak for him, and right now, he desired me.

He was slow and deliberate with undressing me, taking all the time in the world to admire each and every curve, dent, perfection and imperfection. He looked up at me as I straddled him.

He wouldn't take his shirt off, or even his pants fully, yet demanded and made sure I was completely bare.

I felt too naked, too fragile.

And he was rough with my fragile self, almost too rough. I knew the sex we had wasn't ideal for anyone really, even I resisted him most of the time. And that wasn't because it was bad, far from it. In these moments it was the only thing that made me forget every worry, every fear, every thought that occupied my brain for too long.

He was as silent as could be, but encouraged me to be loud. As if his pleasure didn't come from my body, but if the sounds of my satisfaction were loud enough. He sometimes didn't care for my pleasure, just wanting a distraction, and part of me was glad that I could be that for him.

"Sleep now." Was all he said after getting us both cleaned off. But I've never felt dirtier.