Both obsessed/Tom Riddle (completed)

017 Death is upon us.

The days following Myrtle's death were clouded in tension, thick as the oppressive fog that rolled in from the Forbidden Forest at dusk. Myrtle had been found in the girls' bathroom, as always, crying, her sobs echoing in the hollow space—yet this time, there was no sound of her whimpering, no pitiful whine of anguish. Just her lifeless body. No one knew how she died, or at least, no one dared to ask. The rumors in the halls whispered of a death too unnatural for Hogwarts to contain, but no one spoke openly about it. It was as though the entire castle had decided that Myrtle's absence was a small price to pay for the stillness that followed.

But Tom knew the truth. He always did. Myrtle's death was not a coincidence. She had been a nuisance, a filthy Mudblood, a weakling who had dared to cling to Ernesh in their first year. Her voice, too shrill and intrusive, had grated on Ernesh's nerves. Myrtle had thought herself special, just like the rest of the world who dared to look at Ernesh and think they could touch him. But she was nothing. Nothing but another piece to be swept away in the course of Tom's design.

The only ones who knew the real story were Tom, Ernesh, and Tom's knights—the loyal, twisted followers who adored him above all else. They were bound by a shared hunger, a hunger Tom had cultivated for years, a hunger that burned through them all like wildfire.

The knights met late that night, deep in the shadows of their hidden lair. The room was lit only by the dim glow of candles, their flickering flames casting sickly shadows against the stone walls. Tom stood at the head of the table, his dark eyes glittering with a cold hunger. Beside him, Ernesh sat in a chair, motionless, as always. His black eyes glinted in the dim light, and the way the green and gold lines under his skin shimmered made him seem almost otherworldly.

The knights looked up to Tom with a kind of reverence, their eyes glazed over with a mixture of awe and fear. The air around them was thick with unspoken tension, and no one dared to make a sound as Tom began to speak.

"Myrtle's death," Tom began, his voice low, yet filled with a kind of dark satisfaction. "It is a reminder of what happens to those who are weak. She was nothing but a nuisance, a Mudblood who thought she was worthy of attention. But she was always beneath us. Her absence now leaves room for something greater."

The knights nodded, their eyes never leaving Tom. They understood. They had always understood. But Ernesh... Ernesh had been silent during Tom's speech, as he always was. His black eyes flickered, but his lips remained closed. It was as though he didn't need to speak to be heard. His mere presence was enough.

"I want you all to remember this," Tom continued, his voice now sharp with authority. "We are the future of this world. We will rise above the filth and the mudbloods. Myrtle is only the beginning."

Ernesh's gaze shifted ever so slightly, but it was enough to make Tom pause. The boy was still—too still. His beauty, his otherworldly appearance, seemed even more pronounced in the dim light. The black, soulless eyes, the smooth, porcelain-like skin, the snake-like grace that oozed from every movement. There was something about him that made Tom feel a mix of desire and fear, a fear that made him want to break Ernesh even more, to pull him apart until there was nothing left but devotion.

The knights dispersed after the meeting, leaving Tom and Ernesh alone in the quiet room. The only sound that filled the space was the faint rustle of robes and the soft click of Ernesh's fingers as he gently traced the lines on his skin. Tom couldn't help but watch him. Every time he looked at Ernesh, every time he saw the way those green and gold lines shifted beneath his skin, Tom felt that familiar ache deep in his chest—the need to own him, to control him, to make him entirely his.

Later that night, when the castle had quieted and the shadows seemed to grow longer, Tom found himself once again with Ernesh. The boy was waiting in the woods, standing still under the dark canopy of trees, as if he were waiting for a command. He didn't move, not even as Tom approached him.

The night air was cold, and there was an eerie stillness in the forest. The only sound was the occasional rustle of leaves, the soft creak of branches swaying. But the peace was disturbed when a figure appeared from the darkness—a Gryffindor boy, one Tom had seen around, but never cared much for. Oliver. A Mudblood who despised Ernesh, and everything he represented.

Oliver's hands were clenched into fists, and his face twisted with barely-contained rage. "You," he spat, his voice hoarse with anger. "You think you're better than everyone else. People look at you like you're some sort of god. I'm sick of it."

Ernesh didn't respond, his gaze cool, his body still. He had no need to answer. But Oliver didn't seem to understand that. He lunged forward, grabbing Ernesh by the neck, trying to choke the life out of him. Ernesh gasped, struggling for air, but he didn't fight back—not at first.

It was only when the pressure became too much, when Oliver's hands dug deeper into his throat, that Ernesh remembered. He remembered what Tom had taught him—the sharp, lethal nails that Tom had helped him perfect. With a swift, fluid motion, Ernesh reached up, his nails extending into vicious claws, and he sank them deep into Oliver's eyes.

The Gryffindor screamed, a guttural, horrifying sound, as his hands flew to his face, clutching at the ruined sockets. But Ernesh didn't stop. He dug deeper, tearing out the eyes completely, watching with a cold detachment as Oliver writhed and choked on the ground. The boy's blood, warm and thick, stained the dirt beneath them, but Ernesh didn't care. He was hungry. Hungry for more. The taste of blood, the taste of raw power—he couldn't stop.

When Oliver finally lay motionless on the ground, his body twitching in death's throes, Ernesh stood over him, his black eyes gleaming with an almost predatory satisfaction. He was so still, so unnervingly calm.

Tom had never told him to stop.

The hunger gnawed at Ernesh, and he crouched down next to Oliver's body, his tongue flicking out like a serpent's, tasting the blood that had spilled across the dirt. It was raw. It was unholy. It was everything he craved.

Back in the castle, Tom slept, his arms wrapped tightly around Ernesh's still form. The boy's warmth pressed against him, but there was something wrong. Tom's fingers tightened around Ernesh, holding him close, almost desperately. The boy's body, so slender and delicate, seemed to fit perfectly against him, but Tom's grip never loosened. It was as though he feared Ernesh might slip away if he let go for even a moment.

Tom's breath was slow, deep. He tried to sleep, but the image of Ernesh—the way his body moved, the way he had stood over Oliver's dying form—kept swirling in his mind. Tom knew that Ernesh had become something more than he had ever imagined. A thing to be possessed, but also something that possessed him in return. Ernesh had tasted power. And the queen had begun to rise.

As Tom held him, tightly, possessively, his fingers traced the smooth, porcelain-like skin of Ernesh's waist, feeling the faint traces of the gold and green lines beneath his fingers. Each touch sent a thrill through him. But in the silence of the night, Tom couldn't shake the feeling that the boy—his perfect, beautiful doll—was slipping away from him. That soon, it would be Ernesh who held the power.

And when the queen rose, there would be no king left.

....