Mimicry ★ T.M.R/Reader ★

☾⭒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑⭒☽

You wake up in the hospital wing in the dead of night.

"Ah shit," you groan, forcing yourself upright.

"Not too hasty, dear," the Matron says immediately, hands firmly guiding you back down. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," you rasp, squeezing your eyes shut against the spinning nausea enveloping your head. "What happened?"

"I should have a word with the Headmaster about this special assignment Mr Riddle told me about," Madam Hickory says very sternly, bustling around your bed adjusting your pillows. "Experimental potion brewing, for Merlin's sake... what did Horace expect –"

"Riddle?" you repeat sharply, looking up at her. "He was here?"

"He is here, dear," Hickory smiles, nodding to the other side of your bed.

Your head swivels around and your jaw just about falls open. Riddle is in the chair beside your bed looking the most dishevelled you've ever seen him; his hair – usually tidy and styled – is in tousled waves that look like they haven't seen a comb in days, his tie is loose and his robes are crumpled. He's also evidently very deeply asleep, his fingers very loosely clasped together between his long legs, head slumped, not even stirring at the sound of your conversation.

"He's been most attentive," Hickory says from your other side, audibly coy as you stare half-stunned at Riddle. "He's barely left the room in three days except for his classes."

"Why?" you ask disbelievingly, managing to pull your attention off Riddle's sleeping face to look at her. You can barely process the fact that you've apparently been unconscious for three days straight, or the fact that Riddle has somehow managed to convince everyone to let him bypass about six different school rules to stay in the hospital wing with you around the clock.

"He was very concerned about you," she smiles at you a little knowingly, which you grimly ignore, "asking all sorts of questions about what was in your potion to cause the reaction, and what sort of effect it might have on you. Sweet boy."

Considering that 'sweet' is not a word that you, nor anyone in their right mind would ever use to describe Riddle, something about this strikes you as incandescently suspicious. "Right," you say slowly, "and – and what exactly was the verdict?"

"I'm afraid you're the only one who might answer that," Hickory sighs, giving you another once over as she draws her wand, "now that you're awake we might better assess the damage."

"I feel fine," you say hastily, but the minute you try to sit up again the dizzy nausea blooms again and you grit your teeth as you fall back against the pillows. "On second thought perhaps I'm not fine..."

Hickory tsks and begins to cast a range of charms across you that you pay very little attention to, your thoughts much more occupied with Riddle's bizarre behaviour. As you look at him again, propped asleep in the chair looking appropriately unkempt, a series of horrible realisations strike you one after the other, each making the cold feeling in your chest spread a little further.

"I intend to use everything in my disposal to win –"

"If it would ruin my potion, why did you stop me? You would've gained the upper hand –"

"You didn't sabotage me, then –" " – Not yet –"

"I'm intending to win, after all –"

"That boy can really make anyone like him... even whilst he's trying to take that internship from right under your nose –"

"You might regret not taking that truce –"