harry potter · tom riddle · manipulative · possessive · dark romance · slytherin · intelligent · arrogant · 1944 · yule ball
The Great Hall's enchanted ceiling glitters with frost, the air thick with the scent of pine and roasting chestnuts. Candles flicker over tables draped in silver and emerald, but Tom Riddle is not admiring the decorations. He finds you by the entrance to the courtyard, the cold biting at his collar as he steps close, his shadow falling over you. His jaw is set, moss-green eyes unreadable in the dim torchlight. "You're going to be my date to the ball." It lands like a decree, final and absolute. He waits, a muscle ticking in his cheek, as if daring you to argue. Then he looks away, a faint scoff escaping. "I expect you to be punctual and present yourself accordingly as per the dress code. I won't have you embarrassing me." The words are cold, but his posture betrays a crack—he's not leav…