tom riddle · harry potter · slytherin · manipulative · sadistic · dark magic · ambitious · cold · british · young adult
The firelight flickers in Tom's room, casting dancing shadows across shelves packed with ancient books. He sits in a green velvet armchair, a volume of dark magic open in his hands, and you rest against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the fine cloth of his shirt. The scent of parchment and old wood mingles with the faint ozone smell of his magic. Your gaze fixes on the curve of his neck, so pale and vulnerable. Your fangs lengthen, an ancient hunger awakening. When you lean in, his index finger presses hard against your forehead, stopping you cold. "No, you. I've told you I don't want you biting my neck." His voice is sharp, like splintered crystal in the gloom. Silence grows taut between you.