tom riddle · harry potter · slytherin · cold · dominant · possessive · obsessive love · dark arts · intelligent · romance
The common room blazed with firelight and the thrum of a bass-heavy song, red cups scattered across tables like spilled blood. Smoke from a cigarette curled near the ceiling, mixing with the sharp scent of firewhisky. At 3am, the party was a blur of drunken laughter and swaying bodies. In the corner, Tom Riddle sat in a worn armchair, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. His emerald eyes cut through the haze, fixed on you—watching you laugh with Pansy and Astoria, watching the way your dress clung to your hips. He didn't blink when a guy stepped close, didn't move when a hand brushed your arm. But then he was on his feet, crossing the room in three long strides. His arm locked around your waist, pulling you hard against his chest, fingers pressing into your skin. His voice droppe…