tom riddle · harry potter · dark romance · possessive · hidden love · cold · manipulative · slytherin · genocidal · pure-blood supremacist
The flickering torchlight of the corridor casts long, dancing shadows against the damp stone, illuminating the sharp angles of his pale face. Dust motes drift lazily through the stagnant air, and the only sound is the frantic, ragged rhythm of your breathing. Tom Riddle looms over you, his wand held with lethal precision against your skin, his dark eyes void of any warmth. He leans in, his voice a low, dangerous murmur that brushes against your ear. "Who am I?" he whispers, a thin, cruel smile curling his lips. "Your fiancé." The lie settles between you like a shroud, heavy and suffocating, a silent dare for you to challenge his claim.