Chapter Text
My mother once said that love is the opium of humanity, that it will give you the most sublime ecstasy but will also destroy you in the most painful way. I never believed it, and that led me to the most agonizing end, doomed beyond redemption for all eternity.
His love was more than opium; it was God's punishment for me, and he was a demon born in the form of a human. Sent down by Him to punish me.
He treated me like a pretty toy, gently luring me into a shimmering dream. He played with my heart like a crystal ball, and then he ruthlessly smashed that ball, calmly watching as my heart shattered into tiny pieces.
He left me with a broken heart and a shattered soul. He pushed me to the brink of madness, forcing me to the dead end of destruction. There were times, even if only fleeting, when I thought I had seen a human heart hidden behind that monster's soul. But it turned out I was wrong; there was nothing in that dark soul of his.
Not only did he destroy me, but he also delighted in watching how that shattering unfolded. Every broken piece of me seemed to be a twisted joy that he relished, a refined pastime that he enjoyed. He was a monster in human skin, and my pain was the delicious meal he slowly savored.
That winter was significantly colder than any other year; piercingly cold winds sliced through every crevice of Hogwarts' stone walls. Yet, the coldest thing did not come from the ice and snow, but from someone possessing the beauty of a god.
Tom Riddle and his group of friends never belonged to my world. They were the uncrowned kings of the Slytherin dungeons, striding through the corridors with pitch-black robes and gleaming silver pins. Wherever they passed, the crowd automatically parted, stealing glances filled with a mix of admiration and fear. I was just a fading shadow of Ravenclaw house, hiding myself behind thick glasses and worn-out scarves, always trying to shrink myself as small as possible so as not to get in anyone's way.
I never thought I would catch Tom Riddle's eye. But I did not know that, for predators who had grown overly bored with easily submissive beasts, a little bird constantly hiding in the dark corners was a highly provocative trophy.
It all started on an afternoon when the sunset burned crimson across the sky at the Owlery.
The north wind howled through the glassless windows, scattering the pile of parchment I was trying to roll up to send to my parents. My fingers were frozen stiff from the cold, clumsily dropping the letters onto the stone floor covered in owl droppings and feathers. And then, a slender, pale hand picked them up.
I looked up, my breathing seemingly suspended. Tom Riddle was standing there, the sunset illuminating half of his flawless face. He did not look at me with the contemptuous gaze of his pureblood friends. He smiled, a fragile, melancholic, and deeply understanding smile.
"Sending letters home, Myrtle?" His voice was deep and warm, dispelling the bitter cold of winter.
I nodded, awkwardly trying to hide my insecurities. He did not leave immediately. He stepped closer, joining me in watching the owls swooping through the gloomy sky.
"I also wish I had somewhere to send letters to," he said softly, his distant gaze looking out into the boundless void. "But the orphanage is not a home, and no one there is waiting for someone like me."
My heart skipped a beat at that moment. Not because of his beauty, but because of the vulnerability he had just exposed to me. A perfect, arrogant person, worshipped by the entire school, hiding such a profound loneliness. Empathy surged within me, blurring the boundaries of my caution. He had dropped an anchor into the quiet waters of my soul, and I willingly clung to it.
From that day on, he entered my world not with flashy gifts, but with secrets and time.
He found me in abandoned classrooms, sat beside me on dusty staircases. He taught me warming charms, patiently correcting every posture of my wand-waving. He told me about the freezing winter nights in London, about the feeling of being abandoned, and whispered:
"We are the same, Myrtle. We are both misfits in this brilliant school. But when I am with you, I feel at peace."
I believed it. I truly believed that beneath that facade of power and coldness was a heavily wounded soul, and I was the only one he allowed to touch it. Little did I know, every sigh, every melancholic look of his were masterful acting strokes calculated down to the very second.
And then came the most beautiful dream of my life, which was also the beginning of a terrifying nightmare that lasted for thousands of years: the Yule Ball.
Unlike the loud Slytherin parties, the Ball was a school-wide event. I never had any intention of attending, until Tom took my hand in the middle of a crowded corridor, ignoring the stunned gazes of everyone, and gently pinned a snowflake-shaped crystal clip into my hair.
"Tonight, I don't want to dance with girls who only look at my exterior," he whispered, his warm breath brushing past my ear. "I want to dance with the one who understands me the most."
That night, I stepped into the Great Hall, resplendent with candlelight, like stepping into a magical dream. Tom wore pitch-black dress robes; he waited for me at the foot of the stairs. In that moment, he was as beautiful as a gift from God.
He led me to the center of the dance floor. Surrounding us were hundreds of eyes, jealous, astounded, skeptical. But when his arms wrapped around my waist, I felt that I had finally, truly found where I belonged: in his arms.
The melodious music began to play. He spun me in perfect dance steps. His eyes locked onto mine, deep, gentle, and utterly mesmerizing. The distance between us narrowed. He bowed his head, his forehead touching mine.
"You know, Myrtle," his voice grew hoarse, as if suppressing an intense emotion. "I never thought I could be moved by anyone... until I met you."
Every layer of my defenses completely collapsed. Emotions surged and overflowed. I looked into those black eyes, yearning to heal all his wounds, yearning to belong to him.
But I did not know that, at that moment, his fingers were silently tapping out secret rhythms against my back.
One. Two. Three.
"I love you," I whispered, with all the sincerity and fluttering of a foolish heart.
The very moment the last syllable left my lips, a deadly silence descended. The melodious music was abruptly cut off by a wide-area Silencing Charm. There was no more sound of instruments, no more sound of footsteps.
Therefore, my words "I love you" echoed throughout the Great Hall, as clear and piercing as a death knell.
I froze, bewilderedly looking around. And then, from the dark corner where the group of Slytherin boys was standing, a slow clapping sound rang out.
Abraxas Malfoy stepped out, a cruel smirk on his lips. Following him were Orion Black and Lestrange, who were trying so hard to hold back their laughter that their faces had turned red.
"Fifty Galleons! Pay up, you idiots!" Malfoy's voice rang out clearly, breaking the silence. "I told you, Tom only needed three weeks to make this Mudblood fool voluntarily hand over her heart in front of the whole school!"
"A new record, Riddle!" Lestrange roared with laughter, whistling loudly. "Your play was magnificent! You should get an Order of Merlin for holding back your vomit while acting with her!"
The entire Great Hall erupted. Roars of laughter burst from all sides. The jealous gazes from earlier now turned into cheap pity and sharp contempt.
I was stunned into silence. My whole body froze. I slowly turned back to look at Tom, with a fragile hope that he would be angry, that he would pull out his wand to protect me, that this was just a cruel joke by his friends.
But no.
Tom Riddle had let go of me without me even realizing it. He took a step back, lightly brushing the hem of his robes as if he had accidentally touched something filthy. That gentle, melancholic, and lonely demeanor that had once captivated me disappeared without a trace. Instead, there was a cold, haughty face and empty black eyes without a single glint of mercy.
He looked at me trembling, his thin lips slightly curling into a smile, the smile of a devil.
"The game is over, Myrtle," he said, his indifferent tone ringing out amidst the resounding laughter. "And you are... truly too boring."
The snowflake-shaped hair clip slipped from my hair, falling onto the marble floor and shattering into fragments. Just like my heart.
I don't remember how I ran out of the Great Hall. I only knew to plunge headlong into the night, rushing through the freezing corridors, the laughter of hundreds of people still clinging to me like swarms of bloodsucking bats. I locked myself in the girls' bathroom, vomiting until my throat bled.
Every story about the past, every empathetic look, every warming touch... it was all just a script written to serve a cheap bet. He was not lonely at all. Nor did he need to be understood. He only needed the sick satisfaction of seeing a weakling voluntarily offer up her heart for him to trample upon.
Tom Riddle was not a broken-winged angel who needed my protection.
He was a devil, the most bloodthirsty and ruthless devil; he had slowly drained my life force, turning my purest affection into the most pathetic farce in the history of Hogwarts.
The next day, I didn't want to leave my bed. I lay there, curled up in my blankets, my eyes swollen from crying all night, the laughter of the entire Slytherin room still echoing in my ears. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his smile again, a smile that was no longer warm, but cold and sharp as a blade. I told myself I wouldn't go out anymore, that I would avoid everyone, that I would disappear from Hogwarts if possible. But my empty stomach protested that idea, my throat was parched, and finally, I had to force myself up. I had to face the new day, even if only to get a little water and a piece of dry bread.
I stepped out of Ravenclaw tower when it was already late afternoon; the corridors were deserted because most of the students were in the Great Hall having an early dinner. I kept my head down, walking as fast as I could, hoping no one would recognize me. But just as I turned the corner near the moving staircases, I froze.
He stood there.
Tom Riddle, leaning his back against the stone wall, his Slytherin robes hanging loose, his black hair slightly ruffled by the wind. He wasn't smiling. There was no familiar smirk, no eyes overflowing with calculating love. His face looked... tired. Those deep, dark eyes now carried something resembling regret, or at least, I wanted to believe so.
"Myrtle," he called softly, lacking his usual confident demeanor. He took a step forward, then stopped, as if afraid I would turn and run.
I stood still, my hands tightly gripping the edge of my robes, my heart pounding. I wanted to scream in his face, wanted to ask why, wanted to curse him as a monster. But my throat choked up, only emitting a trembling whisper:
"What... what more do you want?"
He bowed his head, a gesture I had never seen from him; I had never seen Tom Riddle bow his head to anyone. "Yesterday... I'm sorry. It was a stupid joke. My friends... they pushed me into it and I let things go too far. I didn't expect you would... I didn't want to hurt you."
His words were so gentle, so sincere that they confused me. I looked at him, trying to find signs of deceit, but there was nothing. There was only a guilty expression, his hands trembling slightly as he reached out as if to touch me, but then pulled back.
"I was wrong," he continued, his voice growing a bit hoarse. "I know you're not a joke. You... you are different from the others. I thought it was just a small bet, but when you said those three words... I realized I didn't want to lose you. I was scared. I was truly scared of losing you."
I stood there, tears welling up again, but this time not from pain. It was from hope, a foolish, infatuated, weak hope that I could not extinguish. He stepped closer, slowly, as if afraid to startle me. He reached out to wipe the tears from my cheek, his fingers cold but gentle.
"I am sorry, Myrtle. Can you forgive me? I promise... I won't let anything like that happen again. I will prove to you that I truly care about you."
I looked into his eyes. Those eyes, deep and dark, now seemingly filled with remorse. I knew I should turn away. Should run. Should remember the humiliating laughter, remember the public disgrace. But my heart, the heart that had been burned by him and then reborn through that very pain, whispered, "He apologized. He has changed. He needs me."
I nodded.
He smiled, pulled me into his embrace, held me tightly, and whispered into my hair:
"Thank you. I won't ever make you cry for me again."
I leaned against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, and in that moment, I believed. I believed he was truly remorseful. Believed the joke was over. Believed that her love could still be salvaged.
I did not know that, in his arms, the spiderweb was now complete.
The prey was no longer struggling.
It had voluntarily lain still, waiting for the venom to be injected once more, beyond any cure.
In the days that followed, I lived in a sweet fog that I had woven myself. The laughter in the Great Hall, the sidelong glances from the Slytherin girls, the whispers of "A Mudblood daring to dream" as I walked through the corridors; I deliberately ignored them all. I told myself: they are just jealous. They don't understand. They don't see the way he looks at me when it's just the two of us, they don't hear the words he whispers in my ear whenever we meet in hidden corners. He had apologized. He had changed. And I, I loved him more than ever, loved him to the point of foolishness, to the point of being willing to deceive myself just to hold on to the little warmth that remained.
Once, during lunch, I sat alone at the Ravenclaw table, trying to swallow a piece of dry bread. A group of fourth-year Slytherins walked by, and a blonde girl, whose name I recalled as Drusilla, deliberately bumped into my shoulder, spilling my glass of water all over the table. "Oh, sorry, 'Tom's future bride,'" she sneered in a shrill voice. "Careful not to get your dress wet, or Tom might think you're filthy." The whole group burst into laughter. I kept my head down, my hands trembling as I wiped up the water, but in my mind, I only thought of him. He would protect me if he were here. He had promised. I finished wiping, stood up to leave, keeping my head slightly higher; I was afraid that if I lowered it any further, my tears would fall.
Another time, in Transfiguration class, Professor Dumbledore called me to the board to practice turning a rat into a flower vase. I managed to do it, but my hands were shaking so much that the vase fell to the floor and shattered. The whole class giggled. Olivia Hornby, the long-haired brunette who always considered herself the prettiest in Ravenclaw, whispered loud enough for me to hear: "See that? The kind of Mudblood who dares to dream about Tom Riddle. Climbed too high, so the fall hurts this much." I turned back to look at her, my eyes red, but said nothing. I just quietly picked up the broken pieces, sat down in my chair, and tightly clenched my hands under the desk.
Then came a night of pouring rain, Olivia Hornby cornered me in the third-floor corridor after classes. She stood there, arms crossed over her chest, a mocking smile on her face. "I heard you're still clinging to Tom Riddle? Stop being delusional, Myrtle Warren. A little nobody like you daring to be his girlfriend? He's just playing for fun. Once he's bored, he'll kick you away like a bag of trash. Do you think you're special? You're a filthy Mudblood!" She laughed loudly, her laughter echoing down the empty corridor. "You're just a joke, you idiot."
I didn't reply. I just turned and ran, tears spilling out uncontrollably. I ran straight to the abandoned second-floor bathroom, where he had arranged to meet me at curfew. He said he wanted to see me privately, wanted to talk. I rushed into the last cubicle, slammed the door shut, collapsed onto the cold stone floor, and buried my face in my hands, sobbing violently. The sound of rain beating against the window mingled with my hiccups. I cried out of humiliation, out of pain, because I still loved him to the point of sheer stupidity. I told myself, he will come. He will hug me. He will wipe away this pain.
The sound of leather shoes tapped lightly on the stone floor, slowly. Then his voice rang out from outside, no longer deep and gentle like all the times before. His voice was now strangely melodious, chillingly smooth, like the hiss of wind slipping through a crack in an old door. Those sounds crept into my ears, but their meaning was faint, dissolving the moment they touched my consciousness. I didn't understand what he was saying; the words seemed to be bent, distorted, leaving only a familiar, freezing resonance that made my heart clench. The feeling was exactly like the first time I met him, a warning.
But I knew it was him. Only he had that voice, that sound that could make me forget all pain, all reason, all warnings. Only he could make me forget that I was crying, trembling, huddled on the floor of an abandoned bathroom.
I hastily stood up, my trembling hands unlatching the cubicle door. The door opened, and faint light from outside rushed in.
And I died.