Hogwarts: a school of Witchcraft and Love (Tom Marvolo Riddle x F!reader)

Chapter 4-14

He could think of a thousand things he would rather be doing than packing the luggage of someone falling apart at the seams.

He could be sucking up to Slughorn, he could be using the Room of Requirement's unique properties to learn from the hidden Unforgivables texts like he had been looking forward to. And he could be with you, fine tuning spells.

But, the Prefects-even those on trial, like him, since it wasn't technically fifth year from which they were chosen-were expected to be as helpful as they were expected to be authorative.

His rise in status was as predictable as the rise of the sun in the east. Not a soul who hadn't seen it coming, sooner instead of later with Dippet bumping him up after the case was brought to him by Dumbledore.

The badge was a fitting reward for uncovering a love-experiment-gone-wrong, the culprit behind vandalizing school possessions.

He did not mind the extra work because it brought more structure. Structure and schedule were drilled into his bones. Dippet put a lot of trust into him, his work quality was going to prove that it was good he did.

"You should be loving me! LOVING ME!" -the famous last words of a person whose priorities were not what they should be, crying more over rejection than the splinters of what once used to be a wand being stowed into strap bags.

"And here I was trying to not be more disgusted by you than I already am," Tom remarked mournfully, a moon after her scholarship was terminated, though his expression said anything but mourning.

Emotions were a burden, sense devolving into nonsense. Being friendly wasn't in his job description. He didn't aim to sound it. Or sympathetic. Or that he was voluntarily wasting his breaths on her.

"I don't love you and liking would be a severe overstatement." Without turning, or stopping with his work, he sniped at the ex-slytherin next to the bedside who pushed forth her bosom, like she had a chance of getting him.

Not a chance. He was in a committed relationship with someone whom he liked-more than others-, and he was so far out of her league it wasn't even funny.

Zipping the metal zipper of a luggage bag closed, the pull on his bandaged skin beneath gave him the extra push to pack faster to make his deadline. The phantom pain in the dead center of his palm reminded him of the days flexing them to regain some kind of feeling in it.

There was much left to do before going back to Muggle hell. "You thought I wouldn't notice pumpkin juice losing its smell?" He asked with violence crackling through him which had not subsided since aiding her.

Twit, although tagging the insult to his thoughts, he didn't say it, drawing close the curtains and focusing on practicality. His goblet didn't have that savory, sweet, or spicy aroma. It had been odorless, the dead give away that it had been tampered with.

What was the point, really? Who was here for her to lie to anymore? Except herself. She did love trying to pretend to be things she wasn't: brave, kind, strong, worthy.

Rosalind was the last of three that lived in this sleeping chamber to head out to the Great Hall, and moved an inch. To reinforce that she got that he was in charge, pointed at the designated spot.

Message clear: she was to wait there like an animal. Nowhere else.

Knowing you, your cheeks were currently bulging with carrot pie served at breakfast. Grumbling at your indiscriminating taste buds was more appealing than serving Rosalind as a luggage slave.