Disclaimer: Only my soul is my own, Tom's belongs to others (notably his Horcruxes, foolish boy). Also, I inevitably reference things, but only 'cause I love them.

Author's Note: A little AU, but we'll make do, non? This is my Tom Riddle.

A Portrait of Pepper

Green suited him.

It enhanced his eyes, making them all the more enticing; his cheeks became rosy and innocent. Silver lining darkened his already raven hair. He looked expensive in silver.

So, when he donned his green and silver robe, the verbose mirror in his dormitory sprouted declarations of praise.

He liked praise. It suggested respect. He lived for respect. If you were respected, you had power. And if you had power there was nothing you couldn't do. Happiness is never grand, but power... well, power was something to live for. Power makes you thirsty. There is nothing spectacular about contentment, nothing romantic or impressive. The glamour, the allure and the absolute charm of supremacy, well, the squalor of the happy pales in comparison. He was passionate about power.

A particularly dull day arrived at the castle when our hero pulled on his flattering robe and received his customary worship.

"Master Riddle, you look smashing, simply smashing. That green, those eyes, that inexplicable glint, why never in all my days has someone looked so Slytherin! The ladies will faint, simply faint if you merely glance in their direction. How you must have them on their knees!"

The gushing made its way to the back of his psyche as he strode towards the exit. He smiled inwardly at the thought of women on their knees. His path towards the common room was littered with jealous smirks, naïve 'hello's, pouting lips and lusty winks. A broad, hulking figure rushed to take his book bag.

"G'morning, Riddle,"

"Montague," he said, accompanying it with a slight nod before demanding, "News."

"Ravenclaw is down 50 points, prefects caught snogging at one a.m.," started the boy.

Riddle looked at him condescendingly, impatient. "How trivial. Anything of actual interest?"

Montague seemed a little confused, but continued on bravely. Everyone knew you didn't disobey Riddle. "Well, Minister is cracking down on Dark objects in the old wizarding families again, so says Dolohov. Apparently his father had to get all their cloaking charms renewed when the Ministry found his medieval weapons collection. Of course, he bribed himself out of any trouble and worked a bit o' the old Memory charm magic" - Montague let out a rough bark that could've passed for a laugh - " and he was off safe."

"That minister is a menace to society. He'll have to be dealt with at some point..." he looked pensive for an instant, before returning to the moment. "Thank you, Montague. I have double charms. Second row, third seat from the left, if you will. And I want something pretty in front of me. Maybe a blonde this time." He waved his hand, dismissing his classmate. The other boy scurried off looking somewhat relieved.

Riddle had now reached the dim common room. Accented in green and silver, it complimented his appearance. Here, he was Prince. Brushing off ineffectual pratter, he took a seat near the fire, retrieved a tattered book from his pocket and began to read. He was quickly pulled in, this book a reminder of his callous childhood and the dreams that let him conquer it.

Deeply immersed in worlds of triumph and chaos, he was interrupted by a snort.

"Fairytales, Riddle?" sneered a female voice, "And I was beginning to respect you."

He looked up at ruby red lips framed by mountains of jet-black hair. His eyes travelled downward, her robe was opening displaying almost inappropriate amounts of cleavage and a skirt that revealed creamy, pale thigh, soft enough, sexy enough to stroke. She smiled at his appreciative gaze and moved to straddle him. She pouted for him as she leaned in and let him taste her breath. It tasted like immortality, cream laced with coffee and cigarettes.

"Not today, Bella," Riddle said flippantly. "Go find Lestrange."

"Oh Tom, you're no fun," Bellatrix protested, "But which brother? Life's full of tough choices, isn't it? You know I'd rather have you, Tommy," She moved off him slowly, drawing attention to her worldly goods.

He whipped out his wand, pointing it at velvety throat. Her eyes danced, a mixture of amusement and admiration.

"Don't call me 'Tommy', Belle, or I'll show you what this wand can do."

"I know what that wand can do, Riddle. It does it well, too." She glanced downward lewdly, then raised her eyes to his, her lips poised in a mock-pout.

"Are you sure? Your gaze suggests that your lips lie."

Heat radiated as she bent over him, lips slightly parted. He let her capture his mouth, let her run her tongue over his bottom lip, let her hand seize his hair. She moved onto the couch, hips over his. He let his hand caress her back, but as she tried to deepen the kiss, he swiftly moved away.

"I told you I wasn't in the mood, Bella," he reprimanded, "Maybe tonight, if I'm not busy."

She smiled slyly, "You're too easy, Tom. One little kiss and I've won you."

"I assure you, Bella, it's not you who is the winner here."

"A compliment? Shock horror. I do feel loved."

Tom stood up, and closed the distance between them. "Love, Bella? This is better than love." He spat the word out distastefully.

Smirking, his hand moved up her dress, making her sigh and relax into his touch. She reached for his lips and this time was granted access. Each knew exactly what the other liked, where the other liked it. They weren't afraid to comply with desire. He backed her against a wall roughly, and moved on to her neck, inducing a soft moan as a hand reached her breast. She shivered under him and he loved it, this was the most basic form of control. Pushing him around and shoving him against the wall this time, she fiddled teasingly with his zipper, her other hand playing with his chest. She ran her tongue across his collarbone and he let her play her games, have her fun.

"Uh, Riddle?" came a deep voice. "We're heading up to the Hall."

Tom disentangled himself from Bellatrix. She looked disappointed. His mask was in place, unreadable and strangely compelling.

"Wait for me," he ordered. The boy nodded and took a seat. Riddle looked at him with distain. "By the exit, if you will."

He turned back to Bella, smirking at her, "If Goyle could get a female to touch him he might not be so interested in our affairs. Maybe he's in love with you. Now that would be amusing."

She looked at the retreating back, "Maybe he's in love with you . Erg, I couldn't touch you afterward."

"Don't touch anybody today, Belle," commanded Tom.

She looked indignant. "Possessive much? I'm not yours just as much as you're not mine."

He cuffed her lightly, as close to teasing as Tom Riddle would ever get. "It's dirty the way you play around. I hate feeling Lestrange on you. And they tell me you've moved on to Ravenclaws?"

She giggled, fluttering her eyelashes at him. "Oh Tom! You know you're the only one for me!" she said in a ditsy high-pitched voice. "Besides," she continued, more seriously, "you can't talk, m'boy. There isn't a pretty Slytherin you don't know fairly well."

"We're all hypocrites," said Tom. He exuded charm, smiling innocently at her. "But I like the dark beauties best."

"As do I." She moved towards him again but was greeted with the wind from his retreating cloak.

Sometimes Tom thought he could settle on Bellatrix Black. She had an allure that was fatally irresistible, dark and uncontrollable. She had the grace and beauty of a leopard yet none of the inherent shyness. What attracted him the most was her impulsive admiration of him. She only played around because he did. He knew - he intuitively knew these things - that she craved him, that she would follow him into a hurricane and never look back. She knew how to handle herself, her blood was pure, she embodied his Slytherin ideals and she was endlessly interesting. He liked a touch of madness in his women. Yes, if he chose her, if he made her solely his, she'd be hopelessly loyal.

He didn't love her. Tom Riddle didn't love, he used. Morals, ethics and principles were like laws: made to be broken.

"Riddle, your half-blood heritage is entirely too evident in your manners." Steps behind him quickened until suddenly they matched his. She was there again, ever faithful.

"I told you not to mention that."

"You tell me not to mention a lot of things, Riddle. It's so hard to keep up. "

"Just because I let you in occasionally, dear. You need to learn to discern between public falsity and private truth.

"You're full of -"

"No 'Riddle' puns there, Bella."

"You underestimate me."

"With reason."

"May I inquire as the basis?"

"I know you."

"Rest in peace, logic. We shall miss you." She looked at him, feigning distain. He admired the firm line of her neck, the confident way she held herself.

"Bella, darling, fire pales beside your beauty, my Amazon warrior."

"Tom, darling, your smooth-tongued eloquence aims to deceive."

"A compliment is never eloquent."

"Yet there is good sport in making one."

"There is good sport in making many things, Bella, but we must consider time and place."

"Tom," began Bellatrix, her posture haughty. He cut her off, as usual, with his tongue.

Bellatrix relaxed into him involuntarily.

"You play dirty, Mr Riddle."

"Don't I always?"

Tom Riddle didn't love Bellatrix Black. His eyes didn't light up when she stepped into the room. When he touched her, it wasn't affectionately. He didn't tenderly gaze at her, devotedly follow her; he didn't think of her fondly. A romance novel centred on them would involve no embarrassingly melodramatic descriptions or cheesy metaphors.

No, what Tom Riddle and Bellatrix Black had was a raw attraction, an understanding. There was an unspoken bond, a quiet necessity. It wasn't love, but it surpassed like.

Several years later when he killed old Hepzibah Smith, he thought of Bella and her unwavering loyalty. She was engaged, by then, to the more handsome of the Lestrange brothers but she still came round to see him. He still needed her, in a sickening way that made him feel slightly vulnerable.

Slightly vulnerable was, in his opinion, too vulnerable.

He took this piece of his soul, the piece that had always belonged to Bella, and he put it in Hufflepuff's ornate cup. He put her fidelity - for he considered it fidelity - into the elaborate cup and, for the first time, his eyes flashed red.

-Fin-

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