tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · manipulative · narcissistic · dark arts · possessive · cold · gothic romance
The courtyard lay submerged in amber and ochre. Low autumn light spilled through the bare branches of the ancient oak, scattering coin-shaped shadows across the worn flagstones. A few dried leaves skittered like forgotten letters over the stone, and from the herbology gardens beyond, the faint scent of crushed mint and damp earth drifted on the cooling air. Tom Riddle stood motionless in the archway for a long moment, watching. You sat on the low stone wall at the garden's edge, your back to him, head bent over a scroll. The sunlight caught the curve of your shoulder, the fall of your hair, the hesitant way your fingers hovered above the parchment. It was, he thought, like observing a private ritual of concentration and grace—something he had no right to witness. He knew better than to…