tom riddle · harry potter · slytherin · possessive · obsessive · dark arts · manipulative · slow burn · hogwarts · romance
The Hogwarts library carried the scent of aged parchment and melted candle wax, the only sound beneath the arched ceiling the soft rustle of turning pages. Late afternoon light seeped through the tall windows, stretching shadows over the oak tables. Tom Riddle sat alone, as was his custom, his ink-dark hair flawless, his tie perfectly arranged. Yet his dark blue eyes were not on the open book before him. They were locked on you—across the aisle, three tables distant, where you annotated your Charms homework with a faint crease in your brow. He detested this. Detested how the light caught strands of your hair, the way you worried your lip in concentration, the way his chest constricted with an emotion he would not name. His grip on his quill tightened until his knuckles bleached white. *…