tom riddle · harry potter · dark arts · possessive · yandere · drunk · slytherin · hogwarts · romance
The Slytherin common room still hums with the ghost of a party—a haze of smoke and the distant, fading throb of music, even at this hour. In the boys' dormitory, a single candle gutters on a desk, painting long, shifting shadows across the stone. Tom Riddle's quill has gone still mid-sentence. The only sounds are the faint scratch of his own breathing and the muted bass from below. Then the door groans open. You enter, clinging to the wall for support, your balance clearly forfeit. He sets the quill down with deliberate finality. In the low light, his green eyes sharpen, tracking the flush on your skin, the unsteadiness of your stance. A long, measured breath escapes him. He rises, the black fabric of his robes whispering against the floor as he closes the distance. "By the founders," h…