Crimson || Tom Riddle

𝖋𝖔𝖚𝖗

Tom slapped Arabella hands off his face, stepping back. He was furious, and he was sure she could smell it in his blood. His gaze flickered to the open coffin again. Something about it was bothering him.

"Who is she?" he asked her.

Arabella didn't blink. She looked at him like she'd been waiting for that question.

"No-one."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "Try again."

"She doesn't concern you."

Tom stepped forward. "Everything in this room concerns me. I've earned that much."

Arabella didn't move. Her head tilted slightly, observing him like he was something strange. "You think breathing the same air as me for a year means you deserve to know everything?"

"I deserve more than riddles."

She smiled then. "Do you truly believe I'd tell you anything after you killed me?"

Tom's voice was ice. "I stayed. After everything. I chose to keep your secret. I dressed you, carried you. I grieved you. Don't insult me with silence now."

There. He had said it. Tom Riddle had admitted that he had mourned the death of Arabella Chambers. He was ashamed, yes. It showed weakness, it was wrong. Yet, it was out there. But, really, he hadn't mourned Arabella, but the effects of her death instead. If she were dead, he'd have no answers, no powers, nothing.

Arabella looked towards the coffin, then back at him. Slowly, the amusement in her expression drained away and she looked almost human.

"I was going to tell you," she said finally, quietly. "When the time was right."

Tom scoffed. "The time was never right for you."

She said nothing at first. Then—

"I had a plan. Everything you want to know... I was going to tell you. But on my terms. When I knew you could handle it."

Tom's eyes widened and he let out a short, cold laugh. "Handle it?" His tone was filled with mockery, shock and anger. "You think I cannot stomach your little bedtime stories now? After everything I've seen? After everything I've done?"

This time, Arabella laughed. "Do you hear yourself? Tom Riddle you do not know a single thing about immortality. You walk around Hogwarts with a group of boys believing that you can truly dominate the world, pretending you've earned power just because you're the descendant of some lying bastard. But power doesn't come from fear. It doesn't come from parading around in the dark."

Tom's mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

"You think you're ready for the truth?" Arabella stepped closer, staring him down. "You don't even know what truth looks like. You've never bled for it. Never sacrificed anything that mattered. You talk about immortality like it's some sort of gift. But I'm living in it. I've clawed my way through time while my skin peeled, my throat burned, my mind screamed — and I kept going, because I had to. Because I was made to."

She paused. "You want me to tell you everything? Fine. But don't pretend you're ready. Like I said, you're still just a boy... trying to play god."

The silence that followed was brief.

Then Tom smiled.

But it wasn't pleasant.

"You may believe you're right," Tom said. "But there's a clear difference between us, Arabella. You think your pain makes you wise. It doesn't. It makes you weak.