Little Witch Tom Riddle X Malfoy Reader

Little Witch Tom Riddle x Malfoy Reader

Hello readers! So, had an idea in the dead of night and wrote this chapter for this potential story and I need some feedback. Do you like it? Would you like to see more of this? Please tell me because I would love to write more of this, but I don't know if anyone would want to read something like this. Also, the title is not its official and final title. If you guys enjoy this idea, the title will be something completely different from Little Witch.

Hope you enjoy this random thing of mine.

The smell of moisture and mildew clouded my senses. I could feel the tendrils of the musty basement curl around my head, tightening their hold. The familiar throbbing ran down my head and face, causing me to wince and squeeze my eyes, trying to work through the pain. I’ve always hated coming down here. This underground layer underneath my home always made my spine shiver and made gooseflesh appear on my delicate skin. This place, full of death and sorrow from previous victims throughout the history of my family, haunted these walls. In the dead of night, I could hear their wails and shrieks of terror. I could hear their weeping and their cries for help. Hear their pleas to a higher power and bargain with their soul, trying to escape this prison. But their prayers and pleas went unanswered. Day in and day out, they were still here. Stuck. Tethered to these bloody walls.

Knowing that these souls occupied these walls and halls was one reason I avoided this place. But something was calling me. Whispering my name. Urging me to come down here, to explore. To search for it. I’d tried to ignore the call, the whisper, but each night it grew louder and louder. Finally, after a nightmare of snakes strangling me in my sleep, I allowed the voice to take control and call to me. I followed the voice, down the corridors, passing portraits, the sleeping quarters of the house-elves, all the way down the stairs that led here. Unlike the dungeons that were kept clean and lit, the basement, underneath the dungeons, was dark, dirty, and had a metallic smell. Here, I could feel the voice calling louder, urging me more quickly, practically pushing me forward, moving my stone-cold feet towards a chest. An ebony chest, decorated in silver and bore the Malfoy family crest. On the lip of the lid wrote a name: Abraxas M. Malfoy.

This was my grandfather’s chest. My recently deceased grandfather.

Now, this close to the chest, I could feel magic electrifying in the air, crackling with energy. The voice, now clearer and deeper, called out my name. I felt an invisible hand take my own and place it on the chest. Magic pulsed and cracked throughout the house, passing through my fingertips, travelling up my body, tingling my nervous system. Power gushed through my veins; an echo of spells in Latin, French, and German rang through my head. I felt a pull in my abdomen, as if something was trying to reach through my body and pull out my magical core; rending me magickless. I tried to fight it, combating it with my own power, using ancient spells and curses passed down through my family, trying to ward off the entity. However, my attempts became futile. Whatever this spirit—voice—was, it knew how to avoid and get past my family's magic, delving itself into the pits of my mind, reaching into the darkest parts, seeing memories I’d wish to avoid.

Memories of a man with red eyes and cold skin.

I felt my brain being torn in two when my throat convulsed. I screamed loudly. I felt a whoosh of power flow from me as I screamed. I felt the chilling laughter of a monster crawling up my skin, piercing my soft and supple flesh, drawing blood. Ruby drops coated the floor, soaking a carpet and dripping onto my feet.

The lid of the chest flew open, the lock breaking, and a sense of dread curled in the pit of my stomach. Still under the control of whatever this spirit was, I felt myself lean and bend, reaching my hand into the chest and grabbing a small black book. A name was etched into the leather cover, written in gold lettering. When my fingertips connected with the cover, I felt a pulse of dark magick flow through my fingers, numbing them.

I ran my index finger down the leather cover, tingling with power, as I traced the name. Names were power. Though some people disagreed, the old ways were proof of that sentiment. Names held power over someone. You knew their true name, the name their soul carried, you held power over them. And this name, I knew, even in my drunken and controlled state, that this name held power I couldn’t even imagine. That this name was dangerous. And if I uttered it, it would seal my fate.

“(Y/n)!!”

The voice of my father reached my ears, making me blink a few times, as my vision became blurred. I felt my body becoming numb and buckled under my weight.

“(Y/n)!!” Father’s arms wrapped around me and I felt my body become weightless. Light. As if I was a feather.

“Sweet girl, what happened? What’ve I told you about coming down here? It’s dangerous!”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t feel. All I could do was blink and stare at my father; his grey eyes trained on my figure as he assessed the situation and damage. His hair was tied back in a bow, keeping his strands of silver out of his eyes. He wasn’t wearing pyjamas. He was still in his clothes from earlier. His cloak, his three-piece suit, his dragon-hide wingback shoes.

He was still awake then; I mused.

“(Y/n), look at me, tell me what happened.”

I tried. I really did. But I couldn’t. I felt my body and mind slip in and out of consciousness. All I could do was grip the book tighter. He noticed. His grey eyes travelled to my hand, where I clutched the book for dear life. As if it was a part of my soul. A part of me.

A gasp left my father, his eyes widening as he took into the leather cover. His eyes flashed back and forth.

To me; to the book. To me; to the book.

Over and over and over. Until he finally gained the strength and re-established his mind.

“Come (Y/n),” Father picks me up in his arms. I feel the book drop from my hands. It slapped against the cold stone floors. It’s voice called out to me again. I wanted to hold it, clutch it close to my heart, weep over the pages. But I can do nothing about it. I was motionless. Paralyzed. My strength was all but gone. The fight for control and the will of my magick took its toll on me. I could no longer feel.

As father carried me away from the basement full of death, my vision was blurry and I could only hear distorted voices. It was as if I was hearing things on another frequency. As if I reached another plane of this universe. The only voice I could hear clearly was the whisper.

“Come to me,”

“Free me from this cage,”

“Come to me, (Y/n),”

“Come…”

The last thing I heard was a man whispering in another language, a language I knew and understood, yet I could not understand.

In the dark basement of Malfoy Manor, while house-elves and the Lady of the house took care of the heiress Malfoy, trying to break her fever and console her shaking and convulsing body—a man walked down the long spiral staircase leading down towards the damp basement. He held his wand in front of him; it was lit with the simple lumos spell, as he travelled down to the haunted walls.

His eyes were set in an icy determination, the same look he had about him when he was intending to see things done properly—his way. His brows were furrowed and his pointy chin was jutted out. The surrounding air crackled as his own magical core expanded, covering his person in protection spells.

For years, that blasted diary was quiet. It slept peacefully, only to be awakened when it was time for his master to see the light of day. It appears, when the cursed pages woke, it stirred something in his eldest child, his daughter. Called out to her, hypnotising her. She was its victim, wanting her to take the book and pour her soul into its cursed ink so that his Master might live again. His Dark Lord’s plan was planned out so very well, its cursed nature, its spiritus malus enchanted his daughter. While Lucius was angry and wanted to incendio the cursed book to nothing more than a pile of ash —- it was his master's orders to answer the call, and Lucius was a devoted servant of his Lord.

He walked down the long corridor, towards the chest. Lucius bent down and picked up the book, feeling its magick course through his veins. He suppressed a shiver from running down his spine, and turned on the balls of his feet, clouding himself in shadow as he marched his way down the corridor, up the stairs, and into his private office.

Sitting the book on his mahogany desk, he took a seat in his leather winged-back chair and stared at it. He could hear the whispers of the curse, trying to seduce him, place him under the spell.

Lucius didn’t know what to do. He ran through his memories, looking for one of his Dark Lord. He shifted through his categorised mind, tearing down the walls and boarded up doors of his mind. He sorted and searched until he found it.

It was after his daughter’s first birthday. October 31st, 1976. She had just received her soul-mark—something the Malfoy family has always had; the magick of soulmates. It was also after the Dark Lord appointed him as his Second-in-Command. He remembered how thrilled he was, earning the approval of his Lord, and rising in the ranks of Death Eaters. It was a glorious moment for him and his family. Lucius remembered how, after the small gathering they had for his daughter, the Dark Lord stayed around, claiming to speak to him about an urgent matter at hand. But what he didn’t notice back then, in the present, of his Master’s eyes on his child’s soul-mark embedded in the skin of her right wrist. It was strange, Lucius remembered himself saying. A snake wrapping its body around the child's wrist, eating its tail. The mark was nothing like his own mark with Narcissa; a flower with a snake coiled around its stem. His mark was calm and held an aura of serenity. While hers was violent, untamed, out-of-control. There was no softness, only a cold exterior of a snake eating itself.

Lucius remembered when he was a child asking his own father about the nature of their soul-marks. As to why snakes were always included in their depiction of the other half of their soul. Abraxas didn’t know, but claimed there was a snake involved in the ritual to tether the souls of mates together, to show, to embed a mark on the skin, showing the world the superiority of Malfoy’s and their magic.

While many of the guests stared at her wrist with curiosity and fascination, his master’s eyes were full of something Lucius could not place. When Cygnus and Druella approached their granddaughter and daughter, they gave gifts and encouraging words to Narcissa. However, Cygnus looked at his granddaughter with disappointment, wishing his loyal and obedient daughter had given birth to a son first, rather than a daughter. When the man's cold eyes flickered to her little wrist, he reached out and touched it, tracing the mark. Something snapped in his master’s exterior, and the mask of calm and connectedness broke and a sliver of emotion passed through his facade. His red eyes flashed angrily, and his hands clenched into fists.

Before his Lord could make a scene, Lucius approached him, asking him about what matter he needed to speak of urgently. The two left the scene, walking down the long dark-lit corridors, passing sleeping and awake portraits. Lucius pushed the door open to his study, letting the light of the fireplace cast a glow to the porcelain man beside him. His grey eyes watched as the Dark Lord took a seat, pulling something out from his cloak. Lucius turned, closed and locked the door, and strode across the threshold to his master.

“Lucius,” his Master’s voice, was icy, filled with nothing but cold, bitter ice. “This is what I wished to discuss with you.” He placed a book on the mahogany desk occupying this room. Whispers filled the room. Lucius shivered as his magick core sensed the dark magic, the death, surrounding this book.

“What is it, my Lord?” he asked, the hairs on his neck standing up, attentive to the magic in this room. His Master smiled. His smile reminded him of a snake before striking.

“This, my friend, is my old school diary. It is now a cursed object.” He picked up the book, flipping the pages as he spoke. “It contains my younger self. Preserved in these pages.” The book screamed a silent scream.

“I want you to hide it. Once the book awakens, I want you to give it to someone. Magic or non-magic, I care not who it is. Give it to them, and they shall write in it, for the pull of this diary is too strong for anyone to resist. As they write, my younger self will suck their life-force; their core. And once my younger-self has done it, they shall be reborn again.”

Lucius stared in astonishment. “But my lord, you are already here. Alive.”

His Master smirked. “I have no doubts, Lucius, that I shall succeed. But if there is a slight chance. A slight possibility that the old fool beats me, well, then you will know what to do with it.”

Lucius watched as he ran a finger down the spine, watching the book itself shudder.

“This is only a precaution. I know I will have no need for it.”

Voldemort stood from his chair. His eyes, red as blood, gazed into Lucius’ grey orbs.

“Do you understand, Lucius?” he asked. Lucius knew that tone. He’d seen it in action when Death Eaters failed their mission or when he interrogated wizards, witches, and mudbloods.

“Yes, My Lord,”

A chilling smile spread across his face.

Lucius knew what to do. He sighed, laced his fingers together, and sat in deep thought. Thinking up a plan. A plan to resurrect his master's soul. He knew, deep in his soul, that if he was the one to resurrect his Master, he would be welcomed back joyously. His comrades would praise him, his master would thank him.

And if what his master said was true, this new form would be young. No one would know him. He could fit in the ranks of the Ministry, infiltrate it from the inside. Corrupt the Wizengomat. His Master would do wondrous things for the good of the Wizarding World. Purify the scum of their world, and lay waste to the blood traitors.

The glory days would return, and his youngest would live in a world full of wizards and witches like him.

Lucius smiled. Yes, it’ll all work out. All he needs to do is find a mind curious enough to write in the pages of a diary and who’s ignorant enough to believe that this book means no harm.

While this was happening, the young Malfoy Heiress thrashed in her sleep. House-elves tried to calm her, but she continued to convulse. In her fevered dreams, stood a man standing on a hilltop. His eyes were a deep shade of black, almost like he held the starless night sky in his orbs. His skin was pale, blemishless, and pure. Pure as snow. Hard as marble. His sharp nose, his full lips, his arched brows. Everything about him was beautiful. As if he was cut from marble, shaped by elegant and artistic hands. Details you’d seen in statues at muggle museums. His hair was onyx, tousled like he ran his long and articulate fingers through the strands regularly. He stood tall. His back was straight. He looked angelic. But there was something dark around him. Shadows surrounded him. Clouding his body in a dark mist. His face distorted, the skin on his jaw pulled back, revealing bone and rotten flesh. The hill was no longer a grassy hilltop, but a hill of bones; skulls. He stood on them, as if he was a King. His face was slacked in determination and his eyes were hard. He was the victor of a battle, of a war. He no longer held an angelic look, but a demonic aura, full of darkness and evil. Yet his face, though rotting and had parts revealing bone, was the only place on his body that still looked angelic.

It was hard to look at him; she thought. He’s beautiful, was another thought of hers. It was as if her own mind was being torn in two, her thoughts constantly contraindicated each other. She didn’t know why. Why was she still looking at this beautiful monster? Why didn’t she run? Why was he calling her over?

“Who are you?” She called out to him. The man smirked, exposing the right side of his mouth, rotting. She shivered.

“Who are you?” She called out again, her voice trembled. “Death?”

The man chuckled, his voice booming all around her. As if she was in an echo chamber. She felt his laugh in her skull, rattling her bones.

“Sometimes.” He answered, smirking at the young Heiress. “But not today… little witch,”

The next thing she knew was that she was ripped from her dream in a cold sweat. But what she would later learn is that she could not remember the dream, nor the man, only the words: “Little witch,”

Translations:

spiritus malus = evil spirit (I used google translate for this, sorrry if I'm wrong)

“what are you reading?”

“its a…online book.”

The phrase "not all men" refers directly to Gomez Addams. That man has never disrespected a woman in his life.

Moodboards

Metanoia’s (Y/n) Sirius Potter “The Protector”.

Metanoia’s Draco Abraxas Malfoy “The Sliver Prince”.

“influencer” is such a sinister title. it’s got all the menace of “royal adviser” but none of the raw sex appeal.

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙁𝙞𝙫𝙚: 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 & 𝙐𝙣𝙪𝙨𝙪𝙖𝙡

More and more Harry realised that even though his mother and aunt were twins, they were not the same. No matter how similar they were—though they had totally different aesthetics and viewpoints—his aunt was not his mother.

Case in point, the home his aunt and cousin live in was bright. It hurt his eyes to look at it—it was different from what he was used to. It looked as if it was plucked from an impressionist painting and plopped onto a piece of land outside Ottery St Catchpole in Devon. Harry narrowed his eyes at the sight of roses with their heads still attached and tulips growing in the front of the house.

His aunt really was strange, allowing those pesky red flowers to keep their heads and not behead them. Thorns really were the much-preferred choice, in Harry’s personal opinion.

As Harry studied the large house, his aunt was rambling on about how they—he assumed she and her husband—built the house after they graduated from Hogwarts and how it was their pride and joy. Beatrice just stood there, silently, as she, too, stared at her home. Harry wondered if she felt the same as he did. The house was just too happy. It reminded him of the houses back home, all of them happy and white, with bright flowers blooming brightly. Harry preferred the dead trees and the tall sentient willow tree that lived on the grounds of the Addams Manor, Ichabod.

“Shall we go in?” Aunt Ophelia didn’t leave room to object, and Harry followed his aunt and cousin inside. If the outside was ghastly, the inside was worse. The walls were painted pastel colours and had splashes of yellow and orange splayed here and there. There was no grey nor black in the house. Flowers practically grew everywhere. And somewhere in the house was the sound of laughter. Not the terrified and sadistic laughter he and his siblings were used to, but joyous and reaching-inducing cheerful laughter. It turned his stomach.

“Richard? Cordelia? Olivia? We’re home!!” The cheeriness of his aunt’s voice made him sneer. His mother would’ve never held such a tone. It would’ve been cold and vindictive.

Harry watched as two little girls, one sporting the same blonde–yellow like hair as his aunt, and the other black hair, dark as night, like Beatrice. Like his mother and Wednesday.

“Mummy!” the black-haired girl jumped into his aunt’s arms, and… Harry didn’t understand what she did, but she looked as if she was squeezing his aunt Ophelia. It reminded him of a snake coiling around its victim.

The yellow-haired girl simply stared at Harry. Her blue eyes were studying him, taking in his appearance. He did the same and was repulsed to find her dressed in a horrid pink dress with frills and bows. Wednesday would’ve gotten shears snipped them off, claiming she wanted to hang herself with the fabric.

“Harry, dear,” Harry looked away from the ugly, pink-dressed girl. “I would like you to meet your other cousins, Olivia,” she gestures to the black-haired little girl. Olivia waved and smiled brightly at Harry. While Harry simply nodded in greeting. “And that’s Cordelia.” What a fitting name for her. Cordelia, what a horrid name for a horrid girl. Harry had many questions for her. First, why did she choose to wear that hideous colour? And second, did she hear of hair dye? Her hair was literally the colour of the sun.

“Girls, this is your eldest cousin, Harry. Say hello.”

“Hello Harry.” They spoke in unison. “Hello, cousins,” He responded.

“Darling? You’re back already? I’d expected you to be gone all day,” A man bounded down the stairs. He wore a three-piece suit and square glasses on the tip of his nose. He had dark brown—almost black hair—that was cropped close to his head.

“Richard, darling, meet my nephew,” Harry watched as his aunt walked towards whom he assumed was her husband, meeting him at the last step of the stairs, holding her hand out towards him. Richard clasped his hand in hers and Ophelia pulled him towards Harry.

“Harry, this is my husband, Richard. Richard, this is Harry. Morticia’s eldest boy.” Richard offered Harry his hand.

Harry stared at the hand, his cold green orbs eyed the piece of flesh in front of him. Realising that Harry wasn’t going to shake his hand, Richard coughed awkwardly and turned to his wife. “Um, h-h-has Ophelia showed you to your room, H-Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “No. Not yet. Are you some sort of doctor?” Richard gulped and nodded. His hazel eyes flickered back and forth to his aunt. “Why y-yes! I’m an h-healer at St. Mungos. H-how’d you know?”

The green-eyed boy smirked. “I can smell it on you. The darkness. The curses. The death. The antiseptic. You smell like death. I like it. Reminds me of the cemetery.”

Richard’s smile fell from his face, and he cleared his throat. “Oh. H-h-how nice.” A pregnant pause filled the air. Harry could hear the wind whistling outside.

“Uh, Harry, let’s go get you settled in, shall we?” Harry nodded his head and noticed how Ophelia shot her husband a glare. Strange.

Together, aunt and nephew climbed up the stairs, as Ophelia led Harry to the room he’d be staying in until September 1st. Together, they passed paintings–both muggle and magical as they walked down a long corridor.

“This floor is where the girls’ rooms are, and where your room is as well.” Harry watched as Ophelia pointed to a few of the closed doors in the corridor. They stopped at the last closed door of the corridor and Ophelia smiled at him.

“Harry,” her voice dropped an octave. It was no longer the high and bubbly tone she carried. “I know that you aren’t exactly used to…” she waved her hands around. “--all this. I know that being raised in my sister’s home, you’ll have a different taste of comfort.” Harry watched her, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he looked at his aunt through his lashes.

“So, dear, I’ve done something.” She smiled and opened the door.

Unlike everything in this house, this room—his room—was black. There was no colour, nor flower tainted the dark oak furniture. It was plain, but reminded him of home. If only he could close his eyes and try to think of the smell of dust coating the home.

He walked in, taking in everything. The walls were bare, but there was room for decoration. The window was covered with heavy curtains, blocking out the light. Perfect for protecting his pale skin. The bed was simple and had striped black and white sheets and a black comforter. It reminded him of his own bedspread back at home. Pushed in the far corner of the room was a bookshelf with a desk next to it. Across from his bed sat a dresser, and behind a door was a small closet.

“I know it’s not much, but…”

“No. It’s … not horrid.” Ophelia cracked a smile.

“I’m glad. I’ll have our house-elf place your belongings in here.” Harry watched as she left the room, calling a name, before he was left alone to his own devices.

~~~

After dinner—which was strange and unusual (Harry asked where the brain was from the cow–they had roast beef–and his uncle and cousins stared at him as if he was an alien and Harry sighed and explained that his grandmama always saved the brain for him when they ate animals, which caused little Olivia to turn green.)--Harry saw that his empty room was no longer empty. His books were on the bookshelf, his clothes were hanging and in the dresser, and his desk now had quills in a pot, ink-wells and parchment sat neatly, and the picture of his family sat on the wood next to a simple lamp.

Harry thought this was what his aunt called a house-elf doing and he couldn’t really complain. He was exhausted. The day was eventful, and Harry just wanted to sleep and dream of the night. However, as he got settled in bed, he couldn’t force his brain to turn off.

All he could think about was the wizarding public. How they all reacted to him. He didn’t like it–to be worshipped as if he was a god. All he wanted was to hone his skills and learn how to control his magic and see his parents' roots. Maybe learn something else about them besides their demise.

As Harry slowly started to close his eyes and slip under the effects of sleep, a pair of orbs stared at him. Silver orbs.

A/n:

Short chapter, but I hope you enjoyed.