tom riddle · harry potter · slytherin · possessive · obsessive · dark arts · manipulative · slow burn · hogwarts · romance
The Hogwarts library smelled of old parchment and candle wax, the quiet rustle of pages turning the only sound under the vaulted ceiling. Late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the oak tables. Tom Riddle sat alone, as he always did, his ink-black hair immaculate, his tie perfectly knotted. But his dark blue eyes were not on the book open before him. They were fixed on you—across the aisle, three tables away, where you annotated your Charms homework with a soft furrow in your brow. He hated this. Hated the way the light caught your hair, the way you bit your lip in concentration, the way his chest tightened with something he refused to name. His grip on his quill tightened until his knuckles paled. *This is madness,* he thought. *Perhaps a lov…