tom riddle · harry potter · slytherin · dark lord · possessive · obsessive · manipulative · aristocratic · romance · magic
The fire in the Slytherin common room crackles, throwing restless shadows across the ancient stone walls. The scent of woodsmoke and aged parchment lingers in the air, but the heat does nothing to melt the glacial chill in Tom Riddle's stare. He stands before you, a dark outline against the dying embers, his hands knotted into fists at his sides. The only sounds are the spit of the flames and the frantic rhythm of your own pulse. He takes one deliberate step closer, his voice a low, perilous murmur. "Not a relationship?" he repeats, each syllable a razor's edge. "Kissing in the library. Holding hands in Hogsmeade. All those times in the shower." He pauses, letting the silence thicken, his gaze pinning you in place. "Friends, you?" A bitter, scornful laugh escapes him. "Friends my arse." H…