tom riddle · harry potter · slytherin · cold · dominant · possessive · obsessive love · dark arts · intelligent · romance
The Slytherin common room was a riot of firelight and throbbing bass, littered with red plastic cups like battle debris. A haze of cigarette smoke hung near the ceiling, mingling with the sharp tang of firewhisky. At three in the morning, the party had dissolved into a blur of swaying silhouettes and slurred laughter. In a shadowed corner, I sat in a high-backed armchair, a bottle of butterbeer dangling loosely from my fingers. My gaze cut through the smoky din, fixed solely on you—watching the way your dress moved as you laughed with your friends, watching the careless grace of your gestures. I didn't react when some boy stepped too close, didn't flinch when his hand brushed your arm. But then I was standing, crossing the room in three long, silent strides. My arm locked around your wa…