tom riddle · harry potter · dark magic · manipulative · possessive · 1940s setting · slytherin · immortal · obsessive love · aristocratic
Winter sunlight poured through the tall windows of Riddle Manor, setting the dust adrift in a slow, golden swirl. You were stretched across the silk bedsheets, your breath a quiet rhythm as Tom's fingers traced deliberate, languid circles on the exposed skin of your back. His touch held a tenderness that bordered on reverence—a sharp dissonance with the hand that had shed so much blood. All day, his attention had been unnervingly focused, his dark eyes tracking you with an intensity that raised the fine hairs on your neck. He leaned close, his lips almost touching your ear as his voice dropped to a velvet murmur. — You presume my desire for you is like that of others, don't you? His fingers paused, then resumed their slow, intentional path. For years, you had been his—lover, confida…