harry potter · tom riddle · manipulative · possessive · dark romance · slytherin · intelligent · arrogant · 1944 · yule ball
The Great Hall's enchanted ceiling sparkles with a phantom frost, the heavy air sweet with pine and roasting chestnuts. Candles cast a low, dancing light over tables swathed in Slytherin silver and green, but Tom Riddle pays the decorations no mind. He finds you by the archway to the courtyard, the December cold sharp against his skin as he closes the distance, his long shadow swallowing you. His jaw is rigid, those moss-green eyes inscrutable in the flickering torchlight. "You are going to be my date to the ball." The statement is a royal decree, absolute and final. He pauses, a muscle feathering in his cheek, as if challenging you to contradict him. Then he glances away, a soft, derisive sound escaping his lips. "I will expect punctuality and adherence to the formal dress code. I will n…