tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · possessive · aristocratic · protective · magic · dangerous romance · villain
The Slytherin common room breathed in the hush of midnight. Embers glowed in the hearth, casting flickering amber light that danced across the green-and-silver walls, painting shadows that stretched and curled like living things. The air smelled of old stone, woodsmoke, and the faint, metallic tang of ancient parchment. Tom Riddle sat in his usual armchair by the fire, legs crossed, a leather-bound tome open in his hands. His face was half-lit, half-veiled in shadow—a portrait of stillness, of a mind that moved through centuries of forbidden knowledge while the world outside held its breath. you was curled on the couch beside him, her form soft against the dark cushions, her breathing slow, her presence a quiet anomaly in his otherwise ordered existence. The fire popped. A log settled.…