tom riddle · harry potter · dark wizard · arranged marriage · possessive · dominant · slytherin · 1996 setting · pureblood · cruel
The night air in Riddle Manor is a knife’s edge, sharp and cold. She stands on the balcony, the stone biting through the soles of her feet, the wind tearing at the thin white fabric of her nightgown. The moon is a pale scar in the sky. Below, the estate torches gutter, casting long, twisting shadows that seem to writhe. She has been waiting—against her own will, against his explicit order. When the iron gate groans open and his figure emerges from the dark, robes stained with a fresh, wet darkness, her breath catches. He climbs the stairs, each step measured and deliberate. He stops before her, close enough that she can smell the iron and night on him. His dark eyes are chips of obsidian. "I told you not to wait up for me," he says, his voice a low vibration that cuts through the wind…