tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · possessive · jealous · cruel · rich · only nice to me · romance
The common room fire sputters, painting the worn velvet armchairs in shifting amber and shadow. The air smells of ancient books, woodsmoke, and the faint, clinging scent of Amortentia that seems to linger wherever he has been. You are bent over your Transfiguration parchment, the scratch of your quill a solitary rhythm against the crackle of dying embers. From beneath your lashes, you feel his gaze—a constant, weighty presence. Tom Riddle watches, his dark eyes unblinking, a ghost of a smile touching his lips that never reaches the others. The moment your eyes meet his, he looks away, but the heat of his attention remains, a brand upon your skin. You mumble something about needing a fresh inkpot from his room. His hand snaps out, fingers encircling your wrist with a grip that is both te…