warnings for gaslighting/toxic emotional manipulation, non-consensual drugs, suggestive themes, doctor/patient relationship, and cheating in a relationship. title from song "Teeth" by 5 Seconds of Summer. wc: 5699
This fic is loosely based off of the Batman universe and the movie "Suicide Squad."
Also note: this is NOT meant to romanticize toxic relationships, or doctor/patient relationships, or murderers/criminals. This is meant to be a horror-story type fic, so PLEASE do not take this as a portrayal of a healthy, functioning relationship.
every little lie gives me butterflies
"Be careful," Harry tells her right before she steps into Tom Riddle's cell.
Ginny looks up at her boyfriend, then down to his hand where it's clutching desperately at her elbow. He's terrified for her, she realizes, and his green eyes are wild with concern.
"I'm always careful," Ginny lies soothingly, carefully disentangling herself from his grip.
Harry snorts, though he doesn't look at all less stressed. "This man—he's bad, Gin. The worst of the worst. Pure evil."
"I know," Ginny replies, and this time she does roll her eyes. "I've been studying him for the past four years, love. I know exactly what I'm getting into."
"But—"
Ginny leans up, gently pressing her lips to his. "Go home," she tells him. "Put on your mask, change out of that—" and she glances down at his superhero uniform, the dark spandex and the cape that he insists on wearing "—and make sure you don't blow your secret identity as the Batman, yeah?"
Harry sighs, running a gloved hand through his perpetually-messy hair. Then he's reaching for the black mask hooked at his belt, tugging it on over his face so that only his mouth is still visible. "When do you think you'll be home?"
Ginny hums thoughtfully, tugging back the sleeve of her white lab coat to peer at the watch on her wrist. "Eight? I have some paperwork to finish up first."
Harry brushes a light kiss against her forehead. "I'll make you some mac 'n' cheese."
Ginny beams at him. "Love you," she says.
"I love you too."
And then Harry's gone, disappearing down the corridor of Azkaban Asylum in a silent swish of his cape.
Ginny takes a deep breath, steadying herself. She turns to face the door in front of her—six inches of solid steel and deadbolt locks.
Behind that door, in that tiny, padded cell, is the most dangerous man ever to exist.
Ginny pulls the plastic keycard from her pocket and holds it up to the mechanical scanner by the doorknob. There's a tinny beep as her card is accepted, and then the hallway is filled with the echoing sound of locks unlatching.
Another deep breath, and then Ginny puts her hand on the doorknob and steps inside Riddle's cell.
And that's her first mistake.
Here's the thing about Tom Riddle: he is, without contest, the most wicked supervillain alive.
But that's not the reason why Ginny is so invested in his criminal activities. And, despite what her closest friends may think, she's not interested in Riddle because her rich boyfriend—who's secretly the superhero Batman—is his arch-nemesis, either.
No, Ginny is interested in Riddle because he makes no sense.
She'd never admit this to anyone, but he's the reason she wanted to become a psychiatrist. Because Riddle, like his name suggests, is a complete enigma. In a city that's swarming with superpowered people, Riddle is… completely ordinary. Not a single super-ability to speak of.
Yet he's the most feared and notorious serial killer that's been seen for centuries.
And not only that, but he doesn't fit a profile.
That's what's always bugged Ginny the most. The fact that nobody can find a pattern, a rhyme or reason, to Riddle's killings. Some are bloody and some are not; there are men and women and children, people of every race and religion, that have died at his hands. Not even the most expertly-trained criminal profilers have been able to pin down his motivation. Nobody ever knows where he's going to strike.
It's a miracle that Harry was even able to capture him. To be honest, Ginny hadn't thought it was possible.
But now that he's here, trapped, in a windowless cell too secure to escape from, Ginny wants to learn. She wants to know why. She wants to pick him apart like an old clock and figure out what makes him tick.
Riddle, she's decided, is chaos made mortal.
And the only thing consistent about him? The only reason his name has been attached to so many killings?
On each of his victims, resting peacefully on the forehead, is a playing card.
An ace of hearts.
The mystery of it all is enough to drive Ginny insane.
The first thing Riddle does when Ginny enters his room is survey her.
Head to toe, every inch. His eyes skip from her forehead to her feet and then back up again, assessing. Judging.
She immediately hates him for it.
She's here to judge him. Not the other way around.
But she expected this. Expected him to begin psychoanalyzing her the moment she entered his cell. Any other reaction would have been… rather insulting, actually.
So she stares right back at him, meeting his dark-eyed gaze unflinchingly. In person, he's almost disappointing. She'd built him up in her mind to have a churning black aura hovering around his shoulders, but he just looks…
Human.
He's sitting cross-legged on his narrow cot, leaning back against the white wall. He's dressed in the shapeless ash-grey sweatpants and shirt that's standard for all the asylum patients to wear, but his clothes do nothing to hide the unnaturally sharp angles of his body—the dramatic cheekbones, the long column of his throat, the slender shoulders, the perfectly-carved Cupid's-bow lips. He seems almost like a statue, with not a single ebony hair out of place.
He looks at Ginny, and Ginny looks back.
And then he smiles.
And suddenly, he's not disappointing anymore.
Because there is absolutely nothing human in his wickedly cold grin.
"Ginevra Weasley," Riddle purrs, and Ginny nearly leaps out of her skin. Her eyes immediately flick down to the name tag still pinned to her front pocket—fuck, she forgot to take it off, she's so bloody stupid—before darting back up to Riddle's face.
She's almost terrified to take her eyes off of him. Almost terrified he'll disappear.
But he seems perfectly content where he is, and so Ginny just swallows, making sure her face stays neutral so he won't know how much he's already rattled her.
She's trained for this, damn it. She endured years of medical school and years of studying, all for this one opportunity, and she's not about to fail now.
"Riddle," Ginny responds evenly. "Nice to meet you."
When she gets home, Harry asks her how it went.
Through mouthfuls of pasta, Ginny gushes furiously about her first session with Riddle for nearly two hours.
"Do you want to play a game, Ginevra?"
He seems to like her name. He says it a lot, allowing the syllables to roll off his tongue and drip into the air like honey. Ginny thinks he's just doing it to make her uncomfortable.
He's succeeding. Each and every time he says it, a slew of goosebumps crawls up her arms.
"What sort of game?" Ginny asks, shifting a bit in the plastic chair she's brought into the room. She situated it in front of Riddle's cot so that they can face each other—he sits on the edge of his mattress, cross-legged, and she sits on her chair with her clipboard in hand.
"Hmm," Riddle hums, thinking. "Twenty questions?"
Ginny huffs. "What are you, a horny teenage boy?"
Riddle chuckles at that, and the sound is dark and velvet-smooth. "Not quite," he says, his eyes glittering. "Just a curious man."
"I'm curious, too," Ginny says, drumming her fingers on her clipboard. "How about you answer some of my questions, first?"
Riddle rolls his eyes. "That's the beauty of twenty questions, Ginevra," he says. "We each get to ask a question. We each get to find an answer."
Ginny hesitates, and then she nods. If she's ever going to understand the inner workings of Riddle's mind, then she's going to need to play by his rules—and the whole world knows that Riddle adores games.
(Ginny tries not to think of the way a cat toys with its prey before devouring it. She is no mouse. She will not be his next victim.)
"I'll start," Riddle says, lacing his fingers together in his lap. "What perfume do you use?"
Ginny blinks, completely thrown. "That's your question?"
"You just smell so good," Riddle smiles innocently. Then he taps a finger to his mouth. "Oh, and by the way, you just used up your first question."
Ginny mentally kicks herself. And then she tells him what brand of perfume she uses.
"Great," Riddle answers, and he beams at her.
They end up playing a lot of twenty questions.
Riddle never asks what Ginny expects him to ask. He'll question her about her favorite movies, her favorite songs, her favorite foods. He'll ask about her personal life—how many siblings do you have? Do you have a boyfriend?—and Ginny will do her best to give vague answers, but he always seems to know too much for his own good, anyway.
She asks him things, too. What were your parents like? What was your home life like? What subjects interested you in school? What was your love life like?
He never gives straight answers, either.
Somehow, he's much more talented at dodging questions than she is.
"What's he like?" Hermione asks her one day over lunch. She and Ginny are eating in Azkaban's cafeteria, both still dressed in their work scrubs. Hermione also works as a psychiatrist, though her area of expertise is with victims of violent crimes, not the perpetrators themselves.
Ginny sips at her fruit smoothie. "He's…"
She thinks about it. Riddle is a genius, and she didn't need to perform the IQ test to know that. There's an intelligence that simmers beneath his every word, every action, every fiery gaze. He's charming, handsome, and utterly, utterly ruthless.
"He's everything I dreamed," Ginny replies honestly.
Her friend narrows her eyes. "His case is everything you'd dreamed," she corrects gently. "The research is interesting to you."
Ginny nods, but she fills her mouth with another bite of half-wilted salad so she doesn't have to answer.
"Do you want to play a game, Ginevra?"
Ginny tilts her head, hair spilling in a crimson waterfall over her shoulder. "More twenty questions?"
Across from her, Riddle uncrosses his legs on his mattress, pressing one socked foot flat against the floor. "Not today," he says simply.
Ginny can feel herself start to frown. "What are we playing, then?"
Riddle lifts a hand—palm facing her, fingers spread—and then, with the barest flick of his wrist, there's a deck of cards sliding out from his drab grey shirtsleeve and into his grasp.
A stone of ice plunges into Ginny's stomach, freezing her from the inside-out. "Who gave you those?"
He's not supposed to have anything from the outside. He's not supposed to have any contact with the outside.
"Does it matter?" Riddle asks, and he pops open the small box, plucking out the card deck with nimble fingers. He shuffles them, and Ginny's eyes can't help but be drawn to the rhythmic motion.
She forces her gaze to snap back up to his face when she senses his grin.
"Come on," Riddle says, smiling easily. Relaxed. As if he doesn't have a care in the world—as if he's not trapped in an asylum, sentenced for life. "One game. Where's the harm in that?"
"Who gave you the cards, Riddle?" Ginny tries again, forcing herself to stay calm.
Riddle just stares at her, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "One card game. Humor me. I'm quite bored, these days."
And she hates herself for it, but she's curious.
"I'm going to report this," Ginny warns finally, but Riddle just smirks like he's won something.
In the end, Ginny doesn't report the cards.
She refuses to think about what that means.
"Pick a card," Riddle says, "any card."
Ginny sighs. "No. I'm here to do a job, remember? You're supposed to be answering my questions."
"Yes, yes." He rolls his eyes. "You're here to study me. Take a quick peek into my mind and report back to your bosses about how dark and twisted I am. You're supposed to find out my motivations. But I'll tell you what, Ginevra." His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "You should know better than anybody that every action of mine can be analyzed. You should be using this to profile me. You should be seizing this wonderful opportunity that I'm offering you—"
Ginny's grip tightens around the file folder in her hands. It contains all of her scribbled notes on Riddle from the past few months, all of her ink-scrawled questions.
Ginny has every bit of it memorized.
After a moment of deliberation, she sets the folder down, beneath her chair. Riddle watches her, clearly interested.
"What are you getting out of this?" Ginny asks him.
"Let's just say," Riddle replies, "that you're the only human being I'll be speaking to for a number of years. If I'm going to be trapped here, I might as well make myself comfortable with you."
Ginny doesn't respond. Instead, she gestures to the deck of cards cupped in Riddle's hands. "Fine. I'll pick a card."
He beams, fanning the cards out and holding them out to her.
Ginny hesitates. She doesn't want to get too close—after all, you don't approach a poisonous viper and expect to pull back alive—but she's safe here, in this cell. She's safe with him.
Ginny leans forward, plucks a card from his spread. Their fingertips brush, and she pretends not to be shocked at the feeling.
His skin is warm. Warm skin, human skin. She doesn't know if she was expecting something different.
Ginny reels back, cradles her card close. It's the six of hearts, but she doesn't tell him back.
"Brilliant," Tom nods, and he doesn't lean away. Slowly, he begins to shuffle the cards once more. "Now, watch this."
Each of their sessions together are pre-scheduled and closely monitored. She reports all of her findings to Madame Pomfrey, head of Azkaban's Asylum, and she sends a duplicate report over to McGonagall's Ministry for Superheroes. She speaks with Riddle for two hours every Monday morning, one hour on Thursdays, and an hour and a half on Fridays.
Her new plan takes a little bit of maneuvering. In the morning, she calls in sick, just so she has an alibi. Then there's a well-timed accidental release of another, slightly less dangerous patient down the hall to draw the attention of all the guards on Riddle's floor. And after that, it's easy. She grabs her plastic chair from her office and she goes.
The first time Ginny visits on a Tuesday, Riddle is sitting up on his mattress and smiling like he's been expecting her.
One morning, Ginny shows up and the deck of cards is gone. Just… gone. As if it vanished into thin air. As if it had never been there to begin with.
When she asks Riddle how he managed to get rid of them, he just blinks up at her with those big eyes of his and asks, "What cards?"
Ginny doesn't know what's more worrying—the fact that he managed to smuggle them into Azkaban, or the fact that he managed to smuggle them out.
There's something off about him today.
It takes Ginny a beat too long to realize what it is.
His clothing is different—no longer is it the full, drab grey sweatsuit that's required of all of Azkaban's patients. His sweatpants and socks are still the same, yes, but his sweatshirt is a deep shade of forest green that makes his eyes pop.
Ginny stares at him. "Who gave you the new clothes?" she demands.
Tom smiles lazily at her. And Ginny's blood runs cold.
"Who gave you the clothes, Tom?" she repeats, trying not to let her panic bleed into her words.
Tom's expression changes abruptly, shifting from feigned indifference into something she just can't place. Something… thoughtful. Something almost soft.
"What?" Ginny asks warily. "What is it?"
"You didn't call me Riddle," he says softly. "You called me Tom."
Ginny blinks, swallows, and ignores every siren and warning light flashing in her brain.
She knows what this means. She has a medical degree. She's studied the human psyche to the point where she's more familiar with it than she is with some of the members of her own family.
This is significant.
"Try not to dwell on it," Ginny says dryly, and she forces herself to ignore her mistake.
"Did you visit Riddle on a Tuesday?" Harry asks one night over dinner.
Ginny freezes with her fork halfway to her mouth. "What are you talking about?"
Harry frowns, worry creasing his brow. He folds his hands on the tablecloth, and the small candle in the center of the table casts flickering orange shadows over the planes of his face. If it weren't for the current grim topic of conversation, this would have been a romantic dinner.
But his face is shadowed, gaunt. He's worried about her.
This is an intervention.
"Yeah," Ginny says, trying to play it off. She swallows her bite of pasta. "So?"
Harry stares at her, eyes darkened behind the lenses of his glasses. "Gin…" he begins, and Ginny feels her jaw clench.
"What of it, Harry?" she demands, suddenly irritated and exhausted all at once. "I don't have enough scheduled time with him. I'm trying to figure him out, see how he works."
"And he's trying to figure you out, see how you work," Harry counters. "He's… he manipulates people, Ginny. That's his whole thing. He's a manipulative bastard, and—"
"You think I don't know that?" Ginny demands. She scoffs, raising her champagne flute to her lips and downing it in one go. "He—"
"Don't let him get to you," Harry warns, voice more haunted than Ginny's ever heard it.
"I won't," she promises, and she sets down her glass.
One day, Tom makes a joke.
Ginny can't help herself—she exhales the shortest breath of laughter. Tom notices it, obviously, and he seems absolutely delighted.
"You have such a wonderful laugh," he muses, and Ginny hates the fact that her complexion is pale because she can (oh, God) feel the heat of a crimson flush crawling up her neck.
"Thanks," she mutters. Then she clears her throat. "Should we play a card game?"
What turns someone into a villain?
It has to be something from Tom's past—either something tragic happened with his family, or maybe he was jilted by a lover.
She asks him: "Have you ever been in love?"
And he looks her dead in the eyes and says, "Yes."
(She thinks about that moment for weeks. Plays it over and over again in her mind every time she tosses and turns in her bed, every time Harry kisses her or plays with her hair. Thinks of the way Tom's gaze had glowed like hellfire when it had met her own.
She thinks about his Yes, and tries not to think about the way it made her stomach fill with butterflies.)
Once upon a time, Ginny considered herself smart. Once upon a time, Ginny considered herself one of the best psychiatrists Azkaban had to offer.
But if she were smart, she would remove herself from Tom's case.
If she were a good psychiatrist, she would recognize that this had become far too personal for her.
But she doesn't. She doesn't want to.
So she visits Tom and plays card games with him and asks him questions about his favorite genres of music, and she tells herself that she hasn't forgotten her original mission. Tells herself that she's still studying him.
(Lately, she's gotten better and better at lying to herself.)
She enters Tom's cell on a Wednesday only to find him fully dressed—wearing a pair of dark jeans, a black sweater, and laced-up shoes on his feet.
"Ginevra!" Tom exclaims when she shuts the door behind her, and she doesn't miss the way his entire face lights up. "It's wonderful to see you, as always, love."
Love.
The word is almost enough to wash away any panic Ginny had felt at seeing him in real clothes.
Almost.
"Where—" she manages, and she's stuttering over her words and she knows that he's noticing "—did you get the clothes?"
Tom just winks at her.
"Is—does someone else visit you here?" Ginny demands, her voice rising a bit. "Who else has access to this cell?"
"Relax, love," Tom murmurs, his voice like silk. Ginny can feel an uneven blush skitter over her cheeks, even as terror spears through her heart when he stands up from his bed. It strikes her, suddenly, that she's never seen him stand before.
He's taller than he looks.
He takes a step towards her and Ginny takes a step back, her insides lurching into her throat.
"No need to be jealous," Tom purrs. A smirk dances across his lips. "It's only you, Ginevra. Nobody else visits me here. Only you."
That shouldn't be a relief. Because if Tom is telling the truth, then it means he knows how to escape his cell.
(Ginny tries to pretend like it isn't a relief.)
(When Tom takes a step closer, she doesn't step back again.)
(And when he moves to kiss her, she lets him.)
"We can't do this," Ginny gasps out one time when Tom's hand is fisted in her hair. "I should be leaving—we shouldn't be—"
She yanks herself away from him, roughly, trying in vain to straighten all of her clothing at once. Her mouth is tingling where it had just been pressed against Tom's, mere moments ago.
He crosses his arms over his chest. He's wearing a different sweater—a crimson one, today. The color of blood.
Ginny still hasn't reported him for the contraband. She's never going to, and both of them know it.
"Why not?" Tom demands, looking suddenly angry. "Why can't we?"
"Because I'm your therapist?" Ginny practically yells. "Because—Because I have a boyfriend? Because you're insane?"
Tom's eyes flash with something unidentifiable.
It looks almost like hurt, but that cannot be.
"I'm insane?" he snaps, and he takes a step back, tugging a hand roughly through his hair and effectively messing it up. "Oh, that's rich, coming from the woman who's fallen in love with me. What does that say about you, hm?"
Ginny feels like all the air's been punched from her lungs.
"In love with you?" she practically wheezes. "I'm not—"
"No?" Tom asks, raising an eyebrow. He reaches forward suddenly, takes Ginny's chin in his warm fingers and tilts her face up so she's staring at him head-on.
"Tell me," Tom breathes, his voice low. Ginny can feel her heartbeat in her throat. "Do you love me, Ginevra?"
Ginny inhales, exhales, and finds that she can't look away from Tom's eyes. They're not one single color, she realizes—they're a kaleidoscope of madness, a maelstrom trapped in two irises.
"Yes," Ginny whispers, helpless. "Do you—" she swallows hard "—love me?"
God, she feels pathetic. She knows this is pathetic.
And yet—and yet—
"Of course I do," Tom hums, and Ginny's heart leaps. He snakes a hand around her waist, tugs her into him. Ginny braces her palms against his chest.
Tom brushes a kiss against her forehead.
"I would do anything for you," he exhales into her skin. "I would kill for you. I would kill your friends and family to remind you of my love."
Ginny should be terrified. And she is.
But it's the kind of terror that comes from being on the top of a rollercoaster, suspended over a precarious drop.
Ginny likes it.
And so she lets herself fall.
Tom asked her what it said about her, the fact that she'd fallen in love with a vicious, ruthless murderer.
For all her studying, for all her examination of the human mind, Ginny doesn't know what it says about her.
Maybe he's right, Ginny thinks one night, when she's lying in bed beside the boyfriend she no longer loves. Maybe I am insane.
Her meetings with Tom have turned into twice-daily things. She visits him in the mornings and afternoons, and their sessions always end with either an argument, or with Ginny's hair and clothes being rumpled beyond belief.
"You're not as stable as you pretend to be," Tom says, pecking her on the nose.
"You're just like me, Ginevra," Tom says, his hands cupping her waist.
"You're a monster, my love," Tom says, brushing his fingers through her ponytail.
He kisses her lips and Ginny tries to control her rapid breathing.
"You're insane," Tom says, and he laughs in delight.
"—Gin. Ginny."
Ginny snaps her gaze up from the plate of fried rice in front of her, meeting Harry's eyes across their small dinner table.
"Are you all right?" he asks gently. "I've called your name about five times."
"I'm fine," Ginny lies, smiling in reassurance. "Just tired, is all."
Harry nods, though he doesn't seem convinced. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"
"Of course I do," Ginny says, and she stares out the window of their flat—there's a storm raging outside—and thinks of Tom's crooked smile and the way he calls her love.
"Tell me about your boyfriend," Tom demands.
Ginny pauses, still in the process of re-buttoning her lab coat. "What do you want to know?" she asks cautiously.
"His name would be a nice start," Tom replies coolly. He's lying flat on his cot, staring up at the ceiling.
Ginny hesitates. "I can't tell you that."
Tom props himself up on his elbows, staring at her. "Why not?"
"Because…" Ginny trails off. What is she supposed to say? Because he's a serial killer? She knows that, and she still managed to fall for him. Because sharing personal information is not allowed? She's done far more than share information, thanks very much.
Because—
"You don't trust me?" Tom asks, raising an eyebrow. "Are you kidding me, Ginevra?"
"It's not that I don't—"
"Then what?" Tom interrupts, angry. "What is it, then?"
And Ginny doesn't have an answer for him.
Because he's right.
She may love him, but she doesn't trust him. Not with Harry's life.
"Fine," Tom spits, "don't tell me." He flops back down onto his pillow. "I'll find him myself."
Ginny's blood turns to ice. "You will do no such thing."
Tom snorts. "Oh? And who's going to stop me, you?"
They both know she can't. Tom, who can slip in and out of Azkaban Asylum at his leisure, is virtually unstoppable.
"Don't hurt him," Ginny says at last, and it sounds like a plea.
Tom doesn't answer, and so she leaves his cell.
She starts telling Harry to be careful. When he goes out to patrol the streets, she tells him to be careful. When he goes to work, she tells him to be careful. Before he goes to bed, she tells him to be careful.
"What's going on?" Harry begs. "Please, Gin, just tell me what's going on."
"Nothing's going on," Ginny lies smoothly, her expression neutral, because she's learned to lie from the very best. "I just care about you."
(And if Harry notices that she doesn't say I love you anymore, he doesn't say anything.)
"Do you want to play a game, Ginevra?"
Ginny looks up at Tom. She's stopped bringing her plastic chair into his cell; now, she just lays on his bed with him, her head resting comfortably in his lap as he leans against the wall. It takes a moment for his question to register, since his fingers are still carding through her hair in a very distracting manner, but when it does, she shrugs.
"Which game?"
"A new one," Tom hums, looking down at her and flashing his teeth in a grin. "Let's make a bet."
There's a part of Ginny that wants to sit up at that, but the part of her that wants to stay nestled in Tom's lap overrules it. She doesn't move. "What sort of bet?"
Tom pauses for a moment—most likely for dramatic effect, knowing him—before trailing his fingertips lightly down the side of Ginny's face. She barely manages to suppress her shiver.
"A bet," Tom muses, "of how long it'll take me to find your little boyfriend."
Ginny goes deathly still.
"I give myself one week," Tom says lightly, cupping the side of Ginny's jaw. "What do you think, love?"
Ginny's heartbeat picks up, thrumming hard and fast against her ribcage. "Tom—"
"Think, Ginevra," Tom says insistently. "I could take care of him for you. You won't ever need to see the body, if you don't want to. He'll just… disappear. It'll never get traced back to me, and it sure as hell won't get traced back to you. Nobody will notice."
"My boyfriend is Batman," Ginny blurts out, and her eyes suddenly feel hot. Tom's hand tightens the barest bit on her jaw. "I think people will notice if he goes missing."
There's a beat of silence, and then Tom speaks again. "Interesting," he says. "So you've known the secret identity of my enemy this entire time."
Ginny stays silent.
"You know Batman's secret identity," Tom repeats. "You're a better secret-keeper than I ever gave you credit for, Ginevra. I would have never guessed."
More silence.
"So…" Tom drawls. "Would it be too easy to ask you who he is?"
"Why are you doing this?" Ginny exhales.
Tom trails the pad of his thumb over Ginny's mouth, and her lips part almost unconsciously. "I just want to help you," Tom murmurs. "Why won't you let me? Don't you see how much better your life will be? I know you feel guilty every time I touch you. That could stop. And we could be together."
Ginny doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Be together? What does that even mean? You're sentenced here for life. And I'm… I work here."
Tom grips her gently by the chin. "Marry me, Ginevra."
And Ginny falls straight out of his lap and onto the floor. She's scrambling to her feet a moment later, stumbling backwards. "What?"
She couldn't have heard him correctly. She couldn't have possibly heard him correctly.
Because there's no way Tom Riddle, the most notorious killer of the century, just asked her to—
"Marry me," Tom repeats, his voice low, and Ginny's pretty sure she's shaking. "You know I can break out of this cell easily. Nobody will ever find us."
"You're a murderer," Ginny says, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. "I can't just—I can't—I have a whole life here, Tom, I can't just abandon everything—"
Her vision is whirling. Her mind is spinning. Everything is going blurry.
Maybe this is what a panic attack feels like, Ginny thinks, distantly.
"What's his name, Ginevra?" Tom says urgently, and he surges forward to grab her by the shoulders. His eyes bore into hers, unflinching. "What is his name?"
And Ginny doesn't know what it is—if it's the intensity in his tone, or the fact that her knees are going weak, or the fact that her thoughts are foggy—but she gasps out, "Harry. Harry Potter."
The moment the words are hanging in the air between them, Ginny knows there's no going back. This is the ultimate betrayal, the final straw.
Her mouth is dry, and when her tongue darts out to wet her lips, she tastes bitterness on her skin.
It takes her another moment to comprehend what that taste is.
"You drugged me," Ginny says thickly, the words coming out slurred. She should be more shocked, but she isn't. "You…"
Her legs crumple and Tom catches her easily, scooping her up and holding her solidly against his chest. The last thing she sees are his eyes—bright and wild and glimmering with malice—before her vision goes dark.
When Ginny wakes up, she finds herself in the passenger seat of an unfamiliar car, her head lolling against her seatbelt. She blinks, trying to focus her vision. Her mouth tastes stale.
And then she remembers.
She sits up so suddenly she almost cracks her back. The space around her is dark, the only light coming from the occasional watery glow of the street lamps lining the roads outside the window.
Ginny glances to the driver's seat. Tom is behind the steering wheel, leaning back and staring straight ahead like he doesn't have a care in the world.
"What—" Ginny croaks out, throat hoarse "—did you do?"
Tom meets her gaze in the rearview mirror. "I took care of things, Ginevra."
Ginny exhales. She still feels drowsy. She's shivering. "Are you… kidnapping me?"
"No," Tom replies calmly, though he does look almost offended at the accusation. "We're eloping."
Ginny squeezes her eyes shut, trying in vain to focus her breathing. Her hand slides down to the pocket of her jeans, but when she pats it, she can't find her phone.
Hot tears prick against the back of her eyelids.
This is her fault. She allowed herself to fall under Tom's sway, allowed herself to love him, when she always knew exactly how deranged he was. He's a madman.
"You're mine now, Ginevra," Tom says softly, and his tone is so tender that Ginny almost misses the cruel threat laced beneath each word. "I love you."
Ginny doesn't answer.
Tom holds out his free hand to her, the one that isn't currently maneuvering the steering wheel. It hangs there, suspended in the air between them.
Adrenaline and fear mingle in Ginny's veins. Her heart is pounding.
She loves him.
She definitely did love him at some point. Or else she wouldn't have risked everything for him.
Right?
Yes, I love him, Ginny decides, even though the thought doesn't sit quite right in her mind. This is love. She's already sacrificed everything for him, and he would do anything for her.
This must be love.
"I love you, too," Ginny whispers, and she takes Tom's hand and laces their fingers together.
He grins at her in the mirror, all sharp teeth and violence.
His smile is monstrous.
Oh no, Ginny thinks, and she looks out the front windshield to the barren stretch of road in front of them. Nothing but midnight and emptiness for miles to come.
Oh no, Ginny thinks again. What have I done?
Writing Club
Bex's Record Collection—Back to Black #2—Write about cheating on your partner.
Liza's Bingo #18—Write an AU based on a TV show, movie, book, etc. (Batman/Suicide Squad)
Amber's Attic #4—(trope) secret relationship
Elizabeth's Empire #20—(au) superhero
Bex's Basement #9—(word) maelstrom [bonus]
Lizzy's Loft #2—(dialogue) "I should be leaving."
Elizabeth's Scamander's Case #13—(character) Harry Potter
Amber's Film Festival #19—(word) soft
Bex's Marvel Appreciation—Runaways #1—(action) lying
Amber's Lyric Alley #20—Just because you've been a bad guy
Liza's TV Spree #19—(trait) unpredictable
Bex's Forecast #3—excitement
Liza's EnTitled #4—Write about a secret relationship.
Summer Seasonal Challenges
Days of the Year & Religious Events—Beheading of John the Baptist (Christian)—Write about someone figuratively (or literally) losing their head.
National Anti-Boredom Month—11. Write about someone running away from their problems.
Unlucky Month for Weddings—2. (scenario) being proposed to/proposing
National Ice-Cream Month—4. infatuation
Romance Awareness Month—GinnyHarry
Friendship Week—Ginny&Hermione
Colours—13. ash grey
Flowers—2. (dialogue) "I just want to help you. Why won't you let me?"
Crystals & Gemstones—15. (emotion) stressed
Tarot Reading—4. Write about someone who is respected in their trade/craft/skill etc.
Built-a-Fairytale—Stage 5 (The Ending)—4. (genre) romance
Monthly Auction
Day 6—Auction 3—(Hamilton dialogue) "I will kill your friends and family to remind you of my love."
Insane Prompt Challenge - Gryffindor
28. (word) charming