Crimson || Tom Riddle

𝖋𝖎𝖛𝖊

Somewhere between the slam of the coffin lid and the rise of the sun, they'd made it to the ground floor.

It wasn't graceful. He had pushed her into multiple walls, she had tugged his hair. Then somehow they were stumbling up the stairs, her nails digging into his back, his mouth on her neck. Arabella had carefully avoided the sunlight, leading him to a dark bedroom.

Now, she lay on her back, sheets pulled over her chest. Beside her, Tom sat up slowly. He was not dressed, not at all. Then, Arabella pushed herself up with one arm, letting the sheet fall off her chest completely. She was not dressed either. Neither of them recalled where there clothes were.

She stood, moving towards a dresser and slipping into a knee length dress. Her movements were casual, like it was nothing, like they hadn't just destroyed each other downstairs and again up here.

Tom glanced once. Just once. Then away.

"It doesn't have to mean anything. If you don't want it to," Arabella said as she began brushing her hair.

Tom glanced at her again. She was beautiful. And he wanted nothing more to touch her again.

"It doesn't."

She gave him a look. "Sure."

Tom eyes raked the room for his shirt. "We have bigger problems."

Arabella spun around, her back to the mirror. "I'm aware. Doesn't mean we can't have some fun once in a while. Also, I believe your shirt is in the catacombs."

He flopped back against the pillow. His arm draped over his eyes, his muscles aching in exhaustion that he assumed only came after what they had just done together.

Arabella only smirked, tying her hair back loosely with a silk ribbon she found on the dresser. "You're welcome to go get it. Though, I believe your trousers are there too."

Tom didn't move.

She stepped into her heels, sharp and black. "You know, for someone who acts like he's above everything..." Her voice trailed off, teasing. "You're surprisingly good at this."

He lifted his arm just enough to look at her. "I'm not flattered."

"You should be," she said with a wicked little grin. "I've had centuries to compare."

He didn't respond.

Arabella paused at the door. "Don't overthink it, Riddle. We used each other. That's all. And it won't be the last time."

Then she slipped out, bare-legged and elegant as ever, shutting the door softly behind her.

Tom didn't move. Not right away.

He listened to the silence she left behind. Then he sat up again.

It had been good. Too good. He could still feel her. Her nails, her mouth, the sight of her below him. And he hated that he didn't hate it.

He had never done this before. Never wanted to. Romance, love — even lust — they were distractions. Pointless. He had always known better. And yet here he was, shirtless and sore and oddly satisfied, trying not to replay the way she had looked beneath him.

Worse — he was already thinking about her again. Not just her body. Her words before everything. The curse. The confession.

Dumbledore.

The thought of her and him was revolting. Even if it had been decades ago, even if Dumbledore had been younger — it didn't matter. He had touched her. Loved her, maybe. Cursed her, definitely.

And now she needed Tom to fix it. Why? Because she was desperate? Or because he was the only option left? But he couldn't deny what she had promised him in return — vampirism.

The drinking blood part was not appealing, but the not dying part is what drew him in. Tom had been fully convinced that vampires were not real, and maybe they weren't. Maybe Arabella was the only vampire. As far as he was concerned, Arabella was unable to die. At all. If she turned him, then it could be the same. And nothing and no-one would stop him.

But he couldn't ignore what they had just done. It was the most intimate he had ever been. Arabella Chambers had given herself to him. And he had taken. And maybe, just maybe, part of him wanted to do it again.

He closed his eyes, jaw clenched.

No.

He couldn't afford to want anything.

He had a plan. And she would not be the thing that ruined it.