Chapter Text
dickworms:
> hey retards
> [An image of a young redheaded woman leaving an apartment complex, looking down at her phone. She seems unaware of the photo being taken.]
> found out where the rapebait lives :3
Tom thumbed down his screen, lazily looking between his phone and the horizon, squinting at both with contempt. Residential caravans decorated the sides of a poorly maintained gravel road like wilting flower boxes lined a crack house, the strung lights and colorful plastic chairs between the RVs doing nothing to conceal the evident poverty of the area. He hated every minute he spent on the empty street, leaning against the dented metal door to their RV, blending in perfectly with the trashy surroundings as if he belonged there.
His sentence was almost over. Soon, his chauffeur would pull up, maneuvering the long body of one of the Riddle’s pristine limousines with the utmost care around every pothole and scattered bit of detritus, managing to navigate the narrow, one lane road with ease. He’d say naught a word at Tom’s unusual dress— the old, pilling black hoodie yanked down over his head, the ratty sweatpants billowing down to the stretched elastic at his ankles, the grimy sneakers beginning to separate from the rubber of their soles. The chauffeur would step out, fine shoes crunching under the cheap gravel, and make his way to the back passenger door. He’d delicately open it, fingers curling around the handle like one does their lover, intensely focused on the integrity of a vehicle he could never dream of purchasing with his petty driver’s salary, leaving Tom to melt into the padded, leather backseat without a thought to the ridiculousness of the situation.
But until the clock struck seven p.m. and his court-mandated forty-eight hours of poverty were over, Tom fortified himself, stepping away and off to sit on the cleanest bit of curb.
His phone buzzed. Tom checked the chat again, not bothering to catch up with the messages he’d missed.
halfbloodSS14:
> That’s even more fucking pathetic than usual, wormy.
dickworms:
> shes not going to find out
> yr just jealous that yr to much of a pussy bitch to even try
cunstantflatulence:
> no lmfao you’re going to get caught
> she’s going to see your supersized ass from a million miles away
dickworms:
> shell be asleep u stupid retard she wont see shit
halfbloodSS14:
> Knowing how disgustingly obese you are, each of your steps will shake the ground like a minor earthquake.
dickworms:
> im not even that fat
cunstantflatulence:
> cope harder daddy
dickworms:
> well if i wake her up ill still have my gun so not liek she can scream
halfbloodSS14:
> She’d probably rather be dead than breathe the same air as an ugly lardass virgin like you.
> I know I would.
dickworms:
> [An image of a woman pulled out of the wreckage of a car crash. Her skull is caved in, brain matter leaking down the remains of her facial structure, emphasizing the exposed bone.]
> would you rather be dead like this halfbloodbitch? :D
bareback:
> a hole is a hole
halfbloodSS14:
> [The same image of a woman pulled out of the wreckage of a car crash, but the original woman’s facial features have been replaced with the features of the redhead woman from @dickworm’s earlier photo.]
bareback:
> how did you make that?
halfbloodSS14:
> AI deepfakes are good for more than just porn, gentlemen.
cunstantflatulence:
> [A professional headshot of a pleasant, middle-aged woman with a gentle smile.]
> can u put her face on some mommy milf porn for me pleaseeeeee
> ill unironically pay you
dickworms:
> paying for porn of lowvalue women past their breeding age is just more proof yr a biological defect
cunstantflatulence:
> your mom is a biological defect :P
The inanity of the conversation set the irritation itching under his skin alight into a thrumming, incessant anger. Restless, Tom dropped his phone into the open side pocket of the backpack sitting at his feet, the solid thunk of impact momentarily calming him.
It was an old backpack, the one he’d been using for his weekend stays with his mother for years. It’d been a birthday gift from her, the only gift for his seventh birthday, such a contrast to the meaningless luxuries his father had told his assistant of the month to heap onto Tom. He remembered none of them. He did remember that he’d broken them all, in one way or another. He wasn’t sure if his father ever noticed. Tom knew he wouldn't have cared, if he did.
It had been an especially cold winter that year, articles about the dangers of frostbite all the rage. The Gaunt RV had been a dreary prison, lacking central heating and the indulgent cups of hot chocolate the Riddle family nanny had taken to serving him. Tom had spent the weeks before trying out all sorts of excuses to avoid spending his birthday in that grim little hovel. He might have been able to persuade his father to allow him over to the Riddle Estate that weekend—and Merope would have given in, if that was what Tom truly wanted—if he hadn’t insisted on his mother coming over, celebrating with them. His father had gone through great lengths to avoid ever seeing his mother again, and even Tom’s most earnest attempts at guilt-tripping were fruitless at changing his mind. Little Tom hadn’t remotely understood the terms of the custody arrangement.
With hindsight, Tom knew his complaints had struck a chord with his mother. He’d unwrapped cheap Swiss chocolate packets in the spare feet of space she and his uncle called a living room for his birthday, along with a proper backpack to spend the night at the Gaunt’s, equipped with enough space to hold the toys he whined about leaving behind each time. Both gifts were carefully wrapped with old magazines from the old woman who lived a few RVs down, Merope likely not having any pounds to spare for proper decorated paper.
It was a cheap backpack, and it had begun to fray in the first few weeks of ownership, but his mother had insisted on mending it, repairing it so often that Tom doubted it was a decimal over fifty percent the original material. That was his mother. She could never put something, someone down. She held on to things, to people, with the sort of persistence that might have taken her to great heights if she hadn’t been born a Gaunt with two lazy eyes.
If she hadn’t had a sociopathic, entitled pig for a brother, more than content to rely on his little sister to pave his way; if she hadn’t had a rapist father, a useless dead mother.
If she hadn’t, then she would have never gone after Tom’s father, and then Tom would have never been born.
Indeed, there were some miseries that proved to be of benefit.
The crackle of tires on gravel caught Tom’s attention. He stood on instinct, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. There, in the distance, was his chauffeur.
There, in the distance, was his ticket back to civil society.
The unique rhythm of the limousine as it neared the Riddle Estate prompted Tom to raise his head, tearing his gaze away from his phone and looking out the window, both only half-conscious decisions. The iron-enforced gates came gradually into view, as charmingly foreboding in their sturdiness as always, the only visible line of defense before one could enjoy the carefully maintained front lawn within.
The limousine almost seemed to relax as it crossed through the gates, finally safe from the dangers of the outside world, freed from the risk of a teenager with a knife in the pocket of his baggy jeans waltzing up to carve a slur into the limousine’s pristine exterior, or of a homeless beggar darting from the side of one slum street or another, seeing a payout where others saw titanium-rimmed wheels.
At last, they could all breathe a sigh of relief, having survived yet another trip into the slums of Tom’s maternal family. Ambling slowly over the cobblestone drive, the limousine cruised past the row of uniformly-shaped rosebushes that hugged the inside of their fence, past the freshly mown expanse of empty grass, past the hedges trimmed into abstract geometric shapes, until finally cruising to a stop in front of the estate’s entrance.
The view had been the same each time Tom made the drive – he wasn’t quite sure why he’d bothered to watch.
Having already been alerted of his arrival—and likely tracking the limousine’s progress—the Riddle estate’s primary manservant opened the oak double doors before Tom had even stepped out.
“Good evening, Mr. Riddle. I’m afraid your father has been caught up with a particularly troubling ordeal at the office, so you will be dining alone. Your dinner has been prepared for you in the main dining hall.”
Tom was tired of the little charade they performed every Sunday, but not quite troubled enough to do something about it. His father would always be caught up with some unforeseen work complication as Tom arrived at the manor each Sunday night, and Tom would always eat his dinner alone. He didn’t resent the lack of company, enjoying the freedom to think on more important matters as he ate. It was the unclear motivation behind the charade that he disdained: whose feelings was the play-acting even meant to preserve?
He knew that his father struggled at the sight of him, though he’d improved markedly throughout the years. No matter how proper Tom acted, no matter how well-mannered or well-dressed he appeared to be, his father detested any hint of the Gaunt influence; the ease in which Tom fell into the early-earned habit of slurring his words whenever his elocution lessons escaped him, the way his pursed lips mirrored his mother's, so reminiscent of the permanent frown the Gaunt lineage boasted, were blemishes. They were inflamed pustules, and on Sundays, the Gaunt stench still clinging to his clothes, his father couldn't ignore them.
So he turned his back on Tom entirely.
His father’s weakness was beneath him, however, and Tom let his lip curl in disgust as he followed the manservant to the dining hall. He’d already completed his homework, his assignments laughably simple for a prodigy of his intellect, leaving only his piano practice left on the evening’s itinerary. After that, he could retreat to the isolation of his bedroom, letting his guard down without the prickling awareness of the servants’ eyes tracking his movements, always watching him so carefully.
The chef had prepared morel mushroom tortellini with pancetta and sage, the dish still perfectly warm and aromatic as Tom sat down at his place setting, a small soup and salad by its side.
Only a night before, Tom had eaten chipped beef on toast in the Gaunt RV with only Morfin for company, his mother having rushed out the door to another shift at the Hog’s Head after only a few bites of her own portion. Shit on a shingle, Morfin had called it, scowling at Tom as if it were his fault they were too piss-poor for a five-course meal. Tom had eaten it with his hands and finished it within minutes, sat cross-legged on the floor, chewing to the tune of some young girl whimpering and moaning on Morfin’s barely-functional television and his uncle’s heavy, labored breathing.
Today, Tom selected the proper utensils with care, his posture perfect and his manners impeccable, even with only an audience of hired help to appreciate it.
He wondered for a moment what his mother would be eating for dinner that night before allowing his thoughts to drift to bigger, better things.
cunstantflatuence:
> [forwarded from https://chadnet.org/pornosexuals/1473788]
> saw this and thought of you pookie bear
> maybe you’ll finally be able to cum again!
Tom scoffed audibly at the message before quickly glancing over to his bedroom door. It was locked, as it always was the second he stepped inside, but with the kind of porn he was into, he never failed to double-check. Imagining one of the Riddles’ maids stepping in and seeing him mid-wank, getting a full-frontal look at Tom’s leaking dick as he stroked himself to the most depraved visuals the vast Internet had to offer, had Tom immediately cringing in distress. He worked so hard to uphold the class and respectability expected of the Riddles’ social stratum, and he had no doubt that his childish self-debasement would be mocked and ridiculed among the jealous servants.
In another world, perhaps he’d delight in the potential for exhibitionism. Perhaps the presence of a lowly maid would exhilarate him—he could threaten her employment to keep her mouth shut, make her watch on her knees as he took his time with himself, finish all over her face and make her wipe it off with her own bleach-heavy cleaning supplies. But the real world, tragically, was no porno, and the maids and manservants of the manor were all middle-aged and ugly, so boring that Tom couldn’t imagine lowering himself to their level.
And either way, the door was already locked.
The link took him to a website he was already familiar with—one of cunst’s favorites, with near-endless quantities of Japanese or ambiguously-Asian videos. Ads bombarded him from the sidebar of the website, all dripping cunts and cross-eyed teenagers, but Tom had become far too numb to such mundane visuals. He’d been watching porn since he was a child, after all—Morfin hadn’t bothered to censor his viewing preferences even with little Tom toddling around in their cramped RV. No matter how desperately Merope would try to distract Tom with her lullabies and stories, she was no match for the attention stealing noises, the exaggerated moans and glaring visuals. As he aged and formed his own interests, Tom found that he needed far more ingenuitive videos to get him near an erection.
The video that cunst had sent was over forty-five minutes long. Tom leaned back and settled into his pillows with a sigh, watching a skinny, wide-eyed woman speaking urgently in Japanese to whoever was behind the camera, shaking her head cartoonishly as she pouted and whined. There were no subtitles—Tom couldn’t understand a thing, and he found his interest waning quickly.
Then a man walked up behind her, placing a cone around her head as if she were a dog at the vet. Her frustrated dialogue with the cameraman continued, though she didn’t fight the man behind her, allowing the semi-transparent funnel to wrap around her face entirely. The cone was strapped tight enough to visibly indent into the flesh of her neck, her voice becoming slightly breathy.
“Yamete!” she bitched, stomping her foot in a childish show of irritation. Stop it, Tom understood—it was some of the only Japanese he knew, a vocabulary word that seemed to be a requirement in every Japanese porno. The man only laughed as he secured the funnel further with a series of straps, keeping her well and truly locked in as she continued on with her incomprehensible diatribe, before finally forcing her down on her knees. She stumbled slightly, having to shoot a hand out to brace herself, body rocking with the motion. She didn't settle herself immediately, didn't settle back onto her knees. There was a moment where she moved forward with the motion, as if using her stumble to entertain the idea of escape.
Ultimately, she stayed.
As more men began to enter the screen, naked and pudgy, hairy and repulsive, Tom found his left hand creeping under the waistband of his pants, increasingly invested despite himself. The woman had stopped arguing, seemingly resigning herself to whatever humiliation she’d agreed to, the utter hopelessness on her face sparking a twist of desire in Tom’s gut.
The first splatter of cum covering the girl’s face wasn’t enough for him, nor was the fourth or fifth. It took those first heavy-set, panting trolls lumbering back into frame, micro-penises cradled in their sausage-fingered grip, having taken a dozen men’s worth of cranking to recover their stamina, back to pay their due, shoot their load, for Tom to really get going.
Jack-off after jack-off, the cone slowly filled with cum. It shot awkwardly, landing on her face in some instances, her expression instinctively warping into one of disgust, eyes squeezed shut, lips pursed, and in others it hit the cone, dripping down the plastic, delaying its union with the ooze collecting at her chin.
By the time the cone had been filled with cum, the woman’s head completely submerged in the sticky mass of it, forcing her to press her lips against the plastic, face smushed, desperately swallowing to even attempt breathing, Tom had fucked his hand to completion, in sync with the creatures choking her, concealing her with their cum, hissing and gasping into his pillow to cover up the noise.
LordVoldemort:
> That was utterly horrific cunst
cunstantflatuence:
> replying exactly 48 minutes later omegalul
> you’re so tsundere >w<
All things considered, Tom was impressed by the find. Perhaps he’d keep looking through videos on the website—just to be a good friend, of course, sharing his recommendations. If he happened to get off a second time himself, that would just be a lucky coincidence.
Monday brought with it a sense of relief not many of his peers felt at the end of their weekends. Clothed in his Hogwarts uniform, not even a single thread of the fabric polyester, hair carefully combed, he felt like himself, like Thomas Riddle. There was not a hint of Gaunt in his reflection, no streak of dirt upon his brow, no mark of other.
He'd worked to keep it that way, maintained the line with a fanatic devotion not even religion could inspire. Life was a balancing act, like a composition that struck the most jarring chords, that forced Tom to understand how best to smooth things over, to turn disgust into delight with a few taps of the fingers. It had gotten easier as he'd matured, but it was never easy.
Tom glanced down at his wristwatch—a gift from his father the day he reached his age of majority—before turning away from his reflection, heading towards his bathroom door. He’d open it, and set off the chain of events that had characterized every Monday since he first began his schooling:
Tom would exit out of his ensuite, would exit his spacious bedroom, and walk at a comfortable pace down to the main dining hall, where his father would be waiting, an uncracked egg standing proudly in its porcelain seat, waiting for a silver spoon to delicately tap it, waiting for Tom.
Then, once Tom took his seat—to the right of the head—they would eat together. There would be no distractions, no shaken newspaper or agile thumb, scrolling forever downward. It would be a quiet, dutiful affair.
Tom would finish eating first, and then it would be his turn to wait. His father would put down his silverware shortly after, dry toast unfinished. They would rise together, leaving their plates for the help to collect, and side by side walk the distance to the oak doors of the Riddle Manor, out to where their chauffeurs waited. Only then, would they exchange words, his father advising him to be studious, Tom wishing his father well.
Today would be no different.
He’d barely shut the passenger door behind him when Bellatrix appeared out of nowhere, latching onto his arm.
“Thomas,” she began, looking up at him from under her thick eyelashes, clearly working an angle. “It’s been so long since I’ve last seen you. You must invite me over sometime! I’ve never seen the Riddle Estate outside of your father’s parties.”
In the foreground, Tom spotted the others coalescing. It was an entertaining little group he’d assorted, all sorts of boot-lickers and swots and useful idiots. Bella, though masterful in her imitation of a swarming bunch of mosquitoes, was the most interesting to engage with. Her creativity knew no bounds.
“You know how shy my father can be,” chided Tom without any real scorn, brushing a stray curl out of Bellatrix’s face. Her eyes lit up at the physical contact, Pavlovian and simple-minded in her easy pleasure. “I’ll convince him one of these days, Bella. It’s practically cruel of him to close us off for as long as he does.”
“Yeah, Bella,” snickered Lucius, pulling up alongside the two of them, shrugging his leather satchel on, his hired car pulling out right behind Tom's. “How will you live without seeing the Riddle Estate more intimately, Bella?”
Bellatrix turned, grabbing onto his sleek, slicked-back ponytail without hesitation, the action at odds with the rosy blush spreading across her face. Viciously, she snapped his head back, “Only Thomas can call me Bella. Certainly not you, asshole.”
“Ouch, that hurt!” whimpered Lucius, clutching onto his scalp, scuttling away. “Thomas, Bellatrix is a psychopath. Can we please get her institutionalized?”
“Not enough style in a white straitjacket for our dear Bella,” said Tom, shaking his head in mock sympathy. “Now an orange jumpsuit, however…”
“Shut up, Thomas,” giggled Bellatrix, squeezing Tom’s arm a bit tighter to her breasts. It was trashy, the kind of behavior he’d expect to see from the gold-digging whores in his mother’s bar, but the private school uniform transformed it into something closer to playfulness than sluttiness. Her eyes darted away, fixating with a hunter’s clarity on a hunched figure scrambling through the school gates ahead of them. “If there’s anyone who needs to be institutionalized, I’d say it’s little Reggie there, wouldn’t you?”
Lucius’ eyes lit up, adequately distracted for at least a moment. “What on earth is he doing?”
Regulus, Tom assumed, must have seen the group beginning to gather, and quite perceptively understood that the longer he loitered, the more likely it was that they’d be compelled to try and put him in his place.
Unluckily for Regulus, it was this exact simpering behavior that attracted them to him. It was only natural, the draw of the weak-minded so alluring.
Bellatrix dropped Tom's arm, flouncing on over, her skirt exposing a considerable amount of thigh with each step.
“Reggie!” She shouted, voice snarling over the words, morphing her playful tone into something sinister, something that made Regulus flinch on instinct, “Wait for me!”
Tom watched as she pounced, as the others joined her, circling around Regulus, their taunts sly enough that there would be no material for another report, not like last time, and barely contained his eye-roll.
It was all so plebian.
The dining hall was expansive. Though there were no assigned seats, all students would be loath to sit outside of their little groups, the very same that had formed on the first day of secondary school.
“Don’t know how they get away with serving us this slop,” muttered Lucius from beside Tom, grimacing down at his lunch tray. “My father will be hearing about this, I’ll tell you that much.”
Tom idly murmured his sympathy—the chef from the Riddle Estate had prepared him a packed lunch, as he preferred. Many Hogwarts students brought their own lunches, but the Malfoys, as generous donors to the school, had felt the optics of putting Lucius on the Hogwarts meal plan were more important than their son’s enjoyment of his food.
As the two passed by the school community board on their walk to their usual table, his eyes caught on the most well-designed poster, distinct compared to the text-only yellow pages tacked to the well-worn cork below. Underneath a curiously bold font announcing the upcoming football tryouts were graphics of all the players on the school’s team.
One of the players had been caught mid-motion, leg arched up high enough to inspire a wince, foot perfectly tilted to kick what one could only assume was an incoming ball. His football uniform was bunched at the thigh, his shirt raised at the midriff. The boy’s face was set in an expression Tom could only call pure determination, eyes focused on something out of sight.
His eyes were the most vivid shade of green Tom had ever seen.
Harry Potter, Tom read, noting the little text underneath the graphic, Football Team Captain.
The name was vaguely familiar. During one of his meetings with Slughorn—unmandated in the same way studying was not technically a requirement for his classes—he’d been subject to enthusiastic requests for him to demonstrate his commitment to their community, to demonstrate that the reports against him were not dismissed for no reason. One such request had concerned a jock, a muscled chud who needed to be tutored lest he lost his sports scholarship. The name Harry Potter slotted perfectly into place; Tom could practically hear the syllables dripping off of Slughorn’s candied tongue.
It was not the only reason Tom knew that name; though he couldn't recall why, he would swear his mother had mentioned it before. He could hear her voice, sweet sympathy sounding more like fruitless attempts to hack up a hairball, context lost to time, but blurry memory persistent:
Poor boy, her voice echoed, raspy and mournful. Every boy needs his mother.
His eyes drifted unthinkingly over the other announcements tacked haphazardly onto the main board. Finding nothing of value, he continued to class. He was getting his essay on Romeo and Juliet back today, after all, and he’d be on track to get valedictorian if he stayed careful.
Lucius called his name, sentence trailing off in a way that suggested expectation of agreement, of approval.
Tom allowed his eyes to visibly flicker over them all, allowed himself to appear visibly calculating. Power, undiluted power, rushed through his veins at the expressions that stared back, the mix of anticipation and fear.
They awaited his judgement, and judgement he would give.
“I know the administration’s recent attempt at discipline may have hindered some of our movements,” Tom began, voice low and cruel. “But rest assured—I know just how we can skirt their restrictions.”
And throughout their shared lunch, his followers ate up his every word, as they always did.
In the beginning of every semester, Tom made it a point to sit just off to the side of wherever the professor centrally resided during class, whether that be adjacent to their desk or podium, perhaps the board. It allowed him to catch their attention first, to impress upon them he was focused, able and wanting to engage with them.
Tom had long understood the importance of first impressions, had long understood how simple it was to maintain them. Lest something abruptly shattered Professor Trelawney’s notion of him as bright, ambitious, and prone to all flights of fancy such people tend, or pretend, to have, Tom could amble on to the back, phone neatly hidden by the cover of his upright laptop screen, and do whatever he wanted.
Professor Trelawney was kind in the way all doormats were. As long as he answered correctly when she called, turned in papers far above her paygrade, and slipped in some flattery at the end of class, she paid him no mind.
“Now,” she clapped, once the majority of class had settled into their seats, backpacks unzipping and zipping, pens clicking, the noise of amateur academia nearly covering her wispy voice, “I have finished grading your analyses on the themes in Romeo and Juliet, on their tragic, doomed love…”
Tom tuned her out automatically, not willing to cognitively register another one of her rants on the futility of star-crossed lovers, on the yearning that those who are not slated to cross fates may possess, on the power of true love, or whatever she had decided to inflict on them now.
Instead, he tapped on his private browser, maintaining his composure when it automatically loaded a satirical porno he had been skimming through earlier. The premise was simple enough: a stereotypical Western woman sick of riding the cock carousel desperately turns to her estranged step-father, conveniently a pastor in full-garb, and begs for redemption, rebirth, emphasizing descriptions of her used up hole and worn out pussy until the step-father flies into a rage and spanks her with an abstinence pamphlet, the slogan DON'T BE A LOUSE, WAIT FOR YOUR SPOUSE in bolded comic sans whipping in and out of view. It was a prequel to what cunst claimed was peak anti-Chad Thundercock propaganda, and it was a complete waste of time.
Utterly vanilla, derivative at points, and not even particularly comedic, it suffered not only from poor acting but lacking vision. The woman’s blonde pigtails were gauche, unnecessary and of a different genre; the set attempted to hark back to bland, inoffensive American Universalism ideals of good architecture, but failed entirely, instead inspiring visions of a cubicled office space, suicidal wagies instead of believers come to consult with their beloved leader; the supposed step-father was far too enthralled by the notion of his upcoming paycheque to offer anything other than limp-wristed, chub-aimed hits, dollar-signs in his eyes as opposed to fury. Barely containing his eye-roll, Tom back-swiped, loading back their last thread.
cunstantflatulence:
> no it makes sense if you actually have two brain cells to rub together
> a “louse” is a parasitic insect it unironically makes a really powerful statement about how a females default state is leeching off of the men around her
dickworms:
> cunst they defi just wanted to rhyme louse and spouse yr just retarded
cunstantflatulence:
> and then the man represents not just her own father figure but also the concept of a christian god as the father figure for all of humanity to show how females are too quick to run from patriarchal power structures in favor of being treated “equally” but always need to return back to them to find purpose
dickworms:
> holy shit get a job
cunstantflatulence:
> why do i even fucking bother when you’re genuinely too dumb to even know what a metaphor is
dickworms:
> metaphor megawhore ehehe :3
> thats uuuu
“Tom,” Professor Trelawney called, prompting him to glance up, an amiable smile firmly in place as he locked his phone, “Would you return everyone’s essays?”
Standing without protest, he nodded, mouthing a my pleasure that only she could see, refusing to gain a reputation as a needless bootlicker. She flushed slightly, hand rising to fiddle with her glasses, her coke-bottle lenses only adding to her inherent repulsiveness.
He strode to the front, mind elsewhere, and barely paid attention to the slightly floral musk that wafted off of her, the oud assaulting his nose when she handed him their papers. Carefully, as she rambled on about how proud she was and how delighted she was by their insights, he ensured his gaze was stuck on the pimply faces of his classmates, instead of too-obviously focusing on their scores.
Red circled middling scores, mid-eighties the majority, a few low sixties earning an internal scoff. Slowly, dragging it out, Tom made his way back to the front where Granger sat, nearly bursting out of her seat with anticipation, practically about to leap and tear her paper out of his hands.
Ensuring his one-hundred was clearly in view, Tom bent, delicately placing her ninety-nine onto her desk, flashing a winning grin.
“Fantastic job,” he whispered, reading Professor Trelawney’s scribbled comment. “You’re almost there.”
Her eyes flickered from him to Professor Trelawney, as if waiting for him to be scolded, as if expecting the nearest authority figure to drop everything they were doing and rush to her aid. There was an offense in her eyes that wasn’t nearly down-trodden enough. Tom made a mental note to encourage Bella to chat with Granger more often.
She bit her lip, brows furrowed, before sticking her nose up in the air as he left, returning essays to the rest of her row, as if her insipid attempt at dignity meant anything to him.
Finally, having finished his menial little chore, having gotten what he wanted, assurance that there was no one that could rival him, not here, not now, he returned to his seat, making deliberate eye contact with Professor Trelawney.
She had been glancing at Regulus’ empty seat with some frequency since class had first started, a vague expression of concern firming her thin, gaudily painted lips.
Wasn’t that interesting.
The school day ended without fanfare. With nothing scheduled besides private lessons from his piano tutor, Tom allowed himself to loiter, his friends slowly congregating by his side on the academy lawn.
“Headmaster Dumbledore is such an egotistical asshole,” Lucius was ranting from where he sprawled on the grass, his eyes wide with the force of his conviction. “I was on my way to class when he stopped me, right there in the hall, to talk," he scoffed, placing emphasis only they could understand, "And kept me there, babbling for so long, I was ten minutes late to McGonagall's class! You know how she gets. Blathering cunts, the lot of them. She didn't even let me explain."
Narcissa, sitting prim and proper by Lucius’ side, nodded her sympathy, head tilting in a slow, hypnotic manner— though her face remained as stoically unreadable as always.
“I hate him,” continued Lucius, the whiny bastard. “Now that’s a man who could do with a hole in the head. My father says it’s pure nepotism that the fool even got the headmaster position in the first place, did you know that? They didn’t even interview him.”
“Makes you want to kill him, doesn’t it?” said Bellatrix idly, her eyes fixated eagerly on the exit to one of the many classrooms. Tom followed her gaze curiously to Trelawney’s Literature classroom.
Regulus had been spending quite a bit of time confiding in the batty old English teacher, had been building curious rapport.
“Oh, absolutely,” Lucius was saying, emboldened by Bellatrix’s encouragement. “Even Sluggy could do a better job. At least he listens to the school board.”
At that moment, the door to Trelawney’s classroom opened slowly, and Regulus scurried out, ducking into his backpack as if it could shield him from the world. Bellatrix leapt to her feet instantly, looking ready to salivate at the sight in front of her.
“Down, Bella,” said Tom, voice chiding. Bellatrix looked back at him, her face momentarily falling at what seemed to be a show of mercy before grinning again at the cruel, cutting smile on Tom’s face. “Count to ten. Give him a head start.”
“Ten seconds,” nodded Bellatrix, absolutely gleeful at the challenge. “And then he’s all mine.”
“I’m sorry!” gasped Regulus, his reedy voice echoing off the inside of the toilet bowl. Bellatrix’s nails dug deeper into his mess of hair, shoving his head even closer to the water and inspiring another round of whimpering from the boy.
“Tell us again what you’re sorry for, baby boy,” sing-songed Bellatrix. Her breathing had been getting heavier with each new torment inflicted upon Regulus, and Tom watched with detached amusement as Bella used her other hand to wipe a bit of drool from her lips.
“That you guys got in trouble because of me?” said Regulus tentatively.
“Come on,” urged Bellatrix, giving his head a little shake, only stopping after accidentally hitting the seat of the toilet with Regulus’ skull. “You can do better than that!”
Tom idly checked his phone as Bellatrix interrogated Regulus further.
halfbloodSS14:
> They’re bringing Jihad to our shores.
> Do you think it’s all a coincidence? The boats slipping past as our useless fucktard government concerns itself with another wave of sexual assault allegations against our struggling cabinet by the same sloppy-cunt U.N. spy whores?
dickworms:
> greatreplacement.jpg
cunstantflatulence:
> be user halfbloodSS14
> log on
> nazishit.jpg
> log off
dickworms:
> one dy he ll feel the touch of a yt woman nd realize its not worth fighting f or
cunstantflatulence:
> lulz XD
halfbloodSS14:
> You won’t be laughing when they rape and shit on your mothers.
dickworms:
> cunst wont. he ll be 2 busy jizzin evrywhre ehehe
cunstantflatulence:
> nominating any brown who butt-rapes S for a medal of honor :P
But Tom had missed all the action—he looked up from his phone at the sound of Regulus’ hands slapping the side of the toilet bowl, weakly flailing for purchase as he tried to pull himself out.
“You know what we do to human shit like you?” giggled Bellatrix, now using both hands to hold Regulus’ head underwater. Tom could hear the splashing noises of Regulus’ flailing, but Bellatrix was stronger than she looked—he had no shot of escaping her grasp until she was ready to release him. “Lucius, won’t you do the honors?”
Lucius, prim and proper in each smooth movement, flushed the toilet.
Regulus wailed and coughed and spluttered, crying out as if he’d been drowning, cringing away from the inherent filth of secondary school toilet water. He belonged there, so offensively weak and powerless despite the wealth and privilege he took for granted. Tom hadn’t had half of Regulus’ luck, but he had never let himself sink so low, always prepared to fight for what he deserved and more.
The administration could never hope to stymy him. Everything was as it should be.
Tuesday went as expected, including Myrtle Warren’s nth attempt to sneak into the student council meeting. Wednesday, Bellatrix dumped a container of milk into that Granger girl’s hair, claiming it an accident. Thursday, he met with Slughorn for a brief period during his free session, and Tom obfuscated the topic of tutoring. Friday came far too quickly.
Soon, the last school day of the week was over, and Tom was due to return. He was expired, sent to the bins, curdled like the milk in Greasy Granger’s frizzy hair.
His chauffeur pulled up promptly. Bellatrix giving his arm one last squeeze before Tom maneuvered out of her grip, freeing him to drive to his doom, freeing her to go bother whatever dimwit managed to provoke her ire. He hoped she’d go after Regulus again, pushing even harder in his absence. Someday, the wretched bastard would either leave the country or slit his wrists, and Tom looked forward to seeing which it would be.
His chauffeur opened the door, and Tom slid in without a single word.
His return to the squalor and filth of his maternal line came as a rude shock every Friday, no matter how many times he’d gone through the same humiliating song and dance, but by Saturday, he’d settled into his usual rhythm with ease. Merope was working, as usual—another shift at the Hog’s Head, perhaps, or maybe one of the odd jobs she’d do on request of the bar’s familiar patrons—leaving Tom with Morfin, who’d been drinking his Gordon’s Gin straight from the plastic bottle since the moment he’d woken up.
After a particularly sonorous belch, Morfin called Tom’s name, interrupting his typing flow. He’d been responding to a particularly idiotic commenter on some conspiracy-focused forum that dickworms modded for, and had just managed to veer towards teasing humiliatingly personal details out of his flustered opponent.
“The car,” Morfin mumbled with a drunken lisp. “Gas for the car, Tom.”
“I’ve got homework, Uncle,” snapped Tom, glaring over the top edge of his laptop’s screen. There was no privacy in their mobile home—he was left sitting on a cushionless chair in the corner with slats that poked unevenly at his back while Morfin reclined on the only sofa, threadbare and stained, the perfect vantage point for watching porn on their static-plagued television. “Get your own damn gas.”
“No, no, I can’t leave the house, not in the daylight,” said Morfin, voice uneven. Despite never spending a day without alcohol since the year Tom was old enough to form memories, Morfin had never mastered the art of appearing sober, always visibly unsteady. “They’ll get me, idiot boy. The cops. They’ll make up all sorts of lies about me being too drunk to drive, and they’ll throw me in jail, and we’ll lose the house. No, it has to be you, Tom.”
“If you can’t leave the house, what do you need the gas for?” asked Tom, tone condescending.
“For later,” Morfin answered stubbornly, predictably resistant to logic. “If you won’t do it, I’ll get your bitch mother to do it tonight. She’s easy.”
Tom scowled back at him, to Morfin’s glee. Quite pleased with himself, Morfin hacked a coughing laugh, showing off his crooked, decaying teeth. “Easy in every way, eh? Isn’t she?”
Tom refused to dignify his classless joke with a response. It fell silent between them again, nothing but the sound of Tom’s keyboard and the static-y sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the trailer from Morfin’s little television. He was going through a phase now—all busty, barely-legal white girls in schoolgirl outfits, their asses red with the spankings of some older man, crying and shrieking and begging for mercy. It was uninspired, completely tasteless—Tom had moved past finding such mass-produced visuals arousing by the time he’d turned fourteen.
That was the reason he eventually gave up and grabbed the car keys, slamming the door behind him with a bang and probably denting it even further. It had nothing to do with his mother. He just couldn’t stand to hear this blue-eyed, fat-assed whore screaming for her daddy any longer.
The car lurched despite Tom’s careful application of the brakes, barely stopping in time to avoid a shunt. The lever let out an agonized creak as he put the car into park, protesting even further when he removed the key from ignition. The entire door shivered when opened it, stepping out, and wiggled oddly before settling into place when he slammed it shut. The damn thing had never closed properly since before the day Tom had first gotten behind the wheel, damaged in some drunken nighttime jaunt by his uncle years ago. He spared a brief, uselessly sentimental thought for the Riddle chauffeur, always closing his door for him without a fuss.
Making his way to the petrol pump, he noted the number before turning back, heading inside the station.
Sure, he had enough pounds to cover the entirety of the piss poor tank inside the scrap metal on wheels his uncle called a vehicle, but he didn’t have the desire to spend more than necessary on him. His filial generosity would result in gas wasted on trips for skin mags and cheap, old school porno movies. As if there weren’t petabytes of porn available online, free to peruse for anyone with an Internet connection and a pulse—Tom imagined Morfin’s hand would never leave his dick if he found out, and he’d deigned to never inform him of what he’d missed for the sake of his own peace. No nephew should be so familiar with his uncle’s erect penis.
The petrol station’s door rang when he walked in, announcing his presence. All too aware of how compromising being spotted here would be, Tom pulled down his hood, uncaring of how slobbish it made him seem. He’d long learned how to divide himself between both worlds. Sometimes his appearance had to take a hit.
There was no one in line. There were barely any customers as is, just an old woman eyeing the beer selection and a child eyeing the candy.
“Pump seven,” Tom said, forgoing courtesy, as if it mattered here. “95 RON. Eleven pounds.”
The cashier flicked their eyes up at him, bored, before returning back to their dead-eyed staring at their phone screen. With a huff, they reached a hand out to the register, inputting without even a glance.
Tom reached for his back pocket, always keeping some amount of notes on him to avoid Thomas Riddle leaving a paper trail anywhere he wasn’t supposed to be, and placed a twenty on the counter, not having smaller change.
The cashier printed off his receipt, tearing it off and handing it to him all while raptly focused on their phone. It was only when Tom prompted them to return his balance that they coughed over the ninety-eight pence he kept after tax.
Suppressing a scoff at the poor customer service, Tom turned, heading towards the door, only to run into someone. They were shorter than him, but only slightly so, making their collision a highly unpleasant meeting of the minds— literally.
On any other day, he might not have recognized the bright green eyes blinking back at him through perfectly-round lenses, striking in the dusty bleakness of the station’s convenience store. After all, the boy looked nothing like any of the Hogwarts students he knew, dressed in baggy, patched-up jeans and what looked like a secondhand band tee, starring a skeleton with a mullet holding a bloodstained guitar—and no Hogwarts student would ever be caught dead in this part of town. It would take an arsenal's worth of pepper spray and other gimmicky defense tools to even convince them to edge the border of the Little Hangleton slums.
But he had just been thinking of Harry Potter—the football team captain, who had seemed so focused and confident, the quintessential representation of a Hogwarts student in his easy grace. Harry Potter, the average spoiled rich kid, a boy so blithely unconcerned with his future that he didn’t even bother to get his own tutoring, no fears of losing his sports scholarship when mommy and daddy could always pay instead. Harry Potter, who he could have never imagined being caught dead in the “bad parts” of town where Tom lived.
Could Tom have misremembered Harry’s appearance? Could it have been a dare, all of his repressed silver-spoon classmates so desperate to get their kicks?
No, it was impossible. As Tom paused in his tracks to stare down at the face in front of him, he realized Harry’s visage was far too distinct to mistake, that the rattiness of his apparel would not be something a Lucius or a Bellatrix could accurately feign.
“Sorry, mate,” murmured Harry, eyes darting to the side. “Wasn’t looking where I was walking.”
Tom responded slowly, still carefully observing the boy in front of him. “No worries, Harry.”
Harry’s eyes snapped up at the sound of his name, beautiful and blazing with an honest intensity completely foreign to Tom. “Thanks for being cool about it, Thomas. Really, such a coincidence running into you here.”
Mutually assured destruction.
They were both left vulnerable, at least—if Harry wanted to expose Tom for the inglorious conditions of his weekends, Tom could drag him down with him. But did Harry have half as much to lose? Tom had turned Hogwarts into his own empire, lording over his classmates and teachers alike with his superior charm and ambition, with near-omnipotent power over England’s brightest young minds. They adored him, or respected him, or feared him—if they were to find out that Tom spent his weekends living in a dilapidated RV with his inbred, schizophrenic uncle and his barmaid mother, how easily he could be mocked and degraded, how quickly his luster would dull.
Harry had already seen too much, and though his influence at Hogwarts seemed limited to the football team, Tom desperately hoped that he, too, would be far too frightened of exposure to breathe a word of the encounter to anyone else.
Abruptly, Tom didn’t want to spend another moment in the fluorescent hell of this gas station with the boy who could vanquish him so easily. He would give Harry a brisk nod, slouch his way out the door, and fill up Morfin’s beat-up car with the damned £11 of petrol before getting the hell away from Harry Potter and the cutting surety in his gaze.
But before he could make a smooth exit, Harry suddenly relaxed, his shoulders loosening and a careless, crooked grin spreading across his face. “Sorry, man—don’t mean to be weird about this. It’s just kind of embarrassing being caught here, yeah? You caught me off guard. None of my mates know that I’m this far out of their tax bracket—they all think the sports scholarship is pure bragging rights—but it really is nice to not be the only one slumming it in Hangleton.”
Tom hadn’t factored Harry becoming friendly into his escape plan. “Of course,” he found himself saying awkwardly. “No offense taken. I understand the feeling.”
“So what’d you come in for?” asked Harry, smiling openly, as if he believed the two had just become fast friends. As if Tom would lower himself to gladly accepting friendship from another due to the meager similarity of their shared poverty. “I’m just grabbing some crisps and a gossip mag for my aunt. Maybe some lotto tickets, if I’ve got some change left over.”
“Just looking,” said Tom, eyes darting around the store, failing to grasp onto a tangible excuse. “I’ve actually got to run. A shame I can’t stay longer, really.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, and Tom briefly cursed his own rare loss of composure. Who in the world ever chose to window shop at a petrol station?
“Well, I won’t keep you,” said Harry, an amused smile playing across his lips. Tom couldn’t decide if it was mockery or mercy. “See you at school Monday, I guess.”
Tom nodded his head cordially, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how his adjusted posture and diction when encountered with another Hogwarts student had him sticking out like a sore thumb in the grimy, run-down shop. “Have a nice day, Harry.”
And he nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to escape back to his car, only barely avoiding a collision with the greasy-looking man about to enter the store.
Before the door shut behind him, he could have sworn he heard Harry’s laughter, a light and breathy sound only just obscured by the ringing bell attached to the door.
bareback:
> https://freak4freak.com/992138/man_loves_his_horse
dickworms:
> prolapse has neverl ooked so pink :D
LordVoldemort:
> More horses, bareback?
bareback:
> giddy up lol
> you’ll like this one voldy
> the twink gets completely wrecked
LordVoldemort:
> We’ll see.
halfbloodSS14:
> Does anyone have more like this?
> https://secretchamber.org/3691020/decapitated_ginger_hairy_jizz_enema_guro
dickworms:
> ehehe don’t mind if i do *steals your link*
bareback:
> kill yourself wormy you’re so fucking cringe
LordVoldemort:
> Seconded.
halfbloodSS14:
> Thirded.
dickworms:
> D:
> [A sped-up gif of an unhealthily-skinny woman vomiting on an erect penis mid-blowjob.]
LordVoldemort:
> Grow up
bareback:
> jokes on you i’m into that shit
Lying in his narrow bed and squinting at his phone, Morfin’s rambling from across the RV still audible even with his headphones in, Tom clicked off yet another disappointing video, unimpressed by the skinny blond man who’d been trying to inject human waste into his urethra with a syringe, and scrolled down to the comments section.
d892b32a5:
This would be so much better if he wasn’t crying the whole time
Cornypervert:
my pussy is so wet 🥵
Dild0Toucher
Near perfection. Wish I could lick the shit off his dick.
His fingers hovered over the comments section as he debated leaving his own thoughts—something scathing, something clever, something the bleached-blond man would never forget—before deciding it wasn’t worth the effort.
The petrol station encounter with Harry Potter had rattled him—perhaps that accounted for his odd mood, the way none of his usual fetishes were stirring anything in him. Harry Potter, with his sharp eyes and cutting awareness. Harry Potter, with his baggy clothes and slouched shoulders. Harry Potter, seemingly fearless in the face of their shared vulnerability coming to light.
Tom hadn’t realized there was anyone like him in all of Hogwarts.
Not that Harry was like him, Tom thought to himself, absentmindedly typing in a few new search terms. Income level was one thing. Ambition was another. And from what Tom knew of Harry, he doubted the boy could match Tom’s drive, his complete and utter dedication to becoming untouchable.
Video titles popped up quickly—Hot Twink Neville Powerbottom Rides Hung DILF, Horny twinks fuck raw in the wood, Blindfolded Cedric Dickory Jizzes In His Milk and Drinks It, Pervert Doctor Swallows Skinny Virgin Cock. Vanilla slop, videos he’d be embarrassed to share with his virtual network, but perhaps a palette cleanser was needed. He scrolled further, looking for just the right kind of man in the thumbnail.
He came that night to a toned, slender man laying on his back, his sweaty black hair plastered to his forehead and his delicate hands curling into the sheets around him, each thrust of the camera-man’s veiny cock in the man’s ass making him gasp and cry out.
Idly, as he began to fall into a dreamless sleep, he wished the man’s eyes had been green.