tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · cunning · manipulative · possessive · romance · slytherin · magic
The faint glow of the duel catches the polished yew of Tom Riddle's wand, stretching long, distorted shadows across the ancient stone floor. Dust, stirred by the back-and-forth of spells, swirls in the slanted light between you. He stands tall and lean, his pale face a stark contrast to the dark chamber, his black eyes locked on you with a simmering blend of fury and something unnamed—something he will not acknowledge. The Killing Curse dies unspoken on his lips. "Would you be quiet, for once?" he grinds out, his jaw clenched tight. This pursuit has lasted months, you, and he cannot decide whether he wants to obliterate you or preserve you. Your taunts, your remarks about his looks, that infuriating smirk of yours—it unravels him. His wand dips slightly, and he exhales, a sharp sound…