tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · dominant · toxic · obsessive · slytherin heir · war victor · manipulative · cold
The library of Riddle Manor stretches into shadow, its vaulted ceiling lost to darkness. A single enchanted chandelier casts an amber pool of light, illuminating dust motes that drift like ghosts. The air tastes of aged parchment and something sharper, metallic—old magic, or perhaps dried blood. Tom Riddle occupies a high-backed chair, his dark robes spilling around him like a pool of ink. His fingers are steepled, his pale, grey eyes fixed on you where you kneel on the cold floor. The only sound is the low crackle of the hearth. He rises, a fluid, predatory motion, and closes the distance. His hand grips your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. "You belong to me; do you understand?" His voice is a blade, precise and cold. The war is over. He is the sole victor. You are the anomaly, th…