[Final Part]
IT WAS NEARLY INCONCEIVABLE, thought Voldemort. At the very least, it was unusual for his advances to be delayed like they were. The dark wizard couldn't understand why the young witch hadn't reacted instantly to affirm her loyalty to him by agreeing to be his wife. It simply didn't compute. Thinking back to his schooling days at Hogwarts, he couldn't think of a single witch who wouldn't have melted to his feet with merely an interested glance. What had happened since then? He found this question probing his mind as often as he breathed. Of course, the witch had inevitably accepted his proposal; spoken her wedding vows, made no clear resistance when they apparated away to the Riddle House.
The first hint that she wasn't too thrilled with the idea was when she fainted at the sight of him.
It wasn't truly him that she had seen. It wasn't his accustomed face; the scaled, hideous being that resembled more serpent than a man with his slitted nostrils and cold steady gaze. It was the face of the boy he was destined never to become - the boy with the irresistible dark locks, cherubic lips and eyes smoldering like a devil's. The boy that, had he not made his first Horcrux, would have grown into an even more devastating man; shaggier hair, paler skin and a smile that would cause a ghoul to break out into goosebumps for its persuasion. It was a face hidden behind the guise of Lord Voldemort. It was the face concealed behind the mask he had created simply to make people fear him and cower at the very mention of his name. He had peeled off his mask and shown his new wife what he truly looked like. He had been expecting a far different reaction than her immediate fainting.
The bedsheets were black cotton and the bed was large, yet that didn't stop the girl from restlessly lying with the blanket nearly thrown off of the bed. It didn't seem like a comfortable position to lie in; the way her spine stretched out her arms and legs as if trying fruitlessly to claim every bit of space available. The girl didn't snore loudly, but soft grunts came from her every few minutes and her eyes flitted beneath the lids. She was obviously dreaming.
The Dark Lord didn't do or say anything but stand still, looking intensely at her, for the best part of an hour. It was strange how the eyes were like sponges being dabbed in water, the longer submerged, the more details they seemed to soak up. It distracted him to see how vulnerable she looked asleep, compared to the dauntless way she had prowled into the meetings like a jaguar prepared to pounce. There was nothing guarded now about the way her eyes closed or the smooth, unwrinkled brow. The soft wobble of her parted lips as she breathed, soft as a whisper, or the way her fingers were clenched around a pillow as if it was a teddybear.
A roguish smile spread over his lips as he padded to the bed and perched beside her. Here his new wife was, vulnerable and readable as a book on a shelf, and here he could invade her mind and dissect her secrets. This was an incentive - emotional blackmail worked wonders, he found - when he started to focus his magic on her mind and tug on her mental barriers, feeling them unravel like yarn from a ball. He was just about to break through the boundaries of her mind when it clenched unexpectedly.
"No." She muttered groggily.
He froze, thinking that she had woken up, but then he realized suddenly that she was simply being drawn out from the dream. It was odd to see her lips twitch into a grimace.
"No, it's not him." She whimpered in her sleep, "Oh, Ced. No."
Then she started crying. It amazed the dark sorcerer to see how quickly the tears leaked from her closed eyelids and caught on her dark eyelashes before grazing down her cheeks. Her chest heaved, but only lightly, as she sobbed with barely a noise betraying her sorrow. Her magic unclenched on the mental barrier, but the Dark Lord didn't think he even wanted it anymore. He didn't feel guilty - he would never lower himself to such a lowly emotion - but it felt probing and wrong to see her exposed like this. He dropped the pillow beside the girl and waited for her to reach out for it frantically in her sleep, but her fingers were kneaded too deeply in the linen. Spitting a curse, Voldemort grabbed it forcefully and pried her fingernails from the bedsheets, shoving the pillow in her open palm. The girl paused in her sob and, with a deep sigh, closed her fingers. She sighed contentedly and gripped tighter - which only left one problem.
How to detract one's hand from the crinkled palm of a sleeping girl, whom you want to keep sleeping? His fingers were locked in tightly in her grip, seemingly possible that she'd never let them go when he sat down on the bed. Deciding it was a gentle job, he tried to ease the pillow further into her fingers, but she didn't budge. With one jarring motion, the mattress creaked. His heart thudded quicker in his chest as her two eyes peeked open, catching him in the act. They were hazy and green with fatigue.
"Tom?" She yawned.
He straightened his spine, "Yes, (Y/n)?"
She blinked at him through tired eyes, "Am I dreaming?"
Tom sighed with relief, "Yes, (Y/n). Yes, you are."
She nodded with some duty and then, with great importance, whispered, "All right, then."
For the second time that night, she did something that he didn't expect. Instead of letting go of his hand, she merely turned around and tightened her fingers around his wrist. Her sudden momentum caused him to wobble down beside her and flop down, almost winded, onto the bed.
"(Y/n)." He breathed, "What are you doing?"
She yawned again, "You're not comfy?"
"No!" He almost snarled, "No, I'm not comfy."
It was almost irritation that entered her expression, although she was sleepy, that she let go of his arm. He was so overcome with relief - he might not be caught after all - that he didn't realize what she was doing until she had nestled her head onto his chest and her leg was linked with his. He simply froze, limbs stupid.
She sighed comfortably, "You're so warm, Tom. So warm..."
Then she went back to sleep.
The entire ordeal was nonsensical and he fought very hard not to like it. He remained frigid and mutinous for a few minutes until the chill in the air made her snuggle closer to him for his warmth; her head nestled on his chest and her leg wrapped over his waist comfortably. A weak and sleepy smile lifted her lips, possibly in a dream, and he grumbled to himself. Never in his life had he been cuddled before; not when he was an orphan in Wooll's Orphanage, not when he was alone at Hogwarts and certainly not when he was a full-grown dark wizard. This experience was humiliating for such a powerful sorceror! Why, Tom ranted, he doubted Grindelwald ever -
"Tom?" (Y/n) mumbled sleepily.
Tom responded, "Yes, (Y/n)?"
The witch repositioned herself as she drowsily peeked up at him, poking her nose up from its cozy nook in Tom's chest. There were shaded bags beneath her eyes and she carried exhaustion in the lines of her face, but he thought there was something beautiful in the way she carried her sleep-weighed head.
"Tom, I'm having bad dreams." She muttered almost philosophically, "Can you watch over me tonight?"
Her voice sounded so young and vulnerable in that moment that, even had he the willpower, he would have struggled to deny her request.
"Okay, (Y/n)." Tom relented, "I'll watch you."
With a guiding touch of gentleness, he cradled her head against his chest and lay motionless as she adapted to his frame; her leg curling around his waist again, her arm coiled across his chest possessively. Her breathing was gentle and her breath soft and patterned as raindrops on a windowpane, when she yawned up at him again.
"Tom," (Y/n) whispered.
"Yes, (Y/n)?"
"I'll think I'll love you," (Y/n) said firmly. When his only response was a stunned silence, she explained, "You're unnerving, cold and unsympathetic to everyone, but if you protect me, then I'll love you with my whole heart. My mother taught me that when I was a little girl. She taught me how to love," The witch yawned, "I'll teach you, too. We'll both learn to love each other. I'll learn to love you, Tom Riddle."
The sorceror watched as her breathing slowed and her restlessness faded until she was motionless and calm, warmed merely by his presence and the thin cotton sheet twisted by her ankles. It was intrigue that prompted him to sample the scent of her hair, pure and unrestrained curiosity that made him tuck his chin on her head, but it was humanity that coaxed him to reach down and clasp her small wrist in the palm of his hand and press his cold lips against the skin.
"I'm a good student, (Y/n) Malfoy." Tom corrected himself, "(Y/n) Riddle."
Which, in his own demented way, was more meaningful than the three precious words 'I love you'. In his own way, this was a declaration, a promise, that he would protect her all his life. This was an unbreakable vow. He would love her always.