tom riddle · harry potter · dark magic · manipulative · possessive · 1940s setting · slytherin · immortal · obsessive love · aristocratic
Winter sun streamed through the open windows of the Riddle Manor, casting dust motes into a slow, golden dance. You lay sprawled across silk sheets, your breath a soft sigh as Tom traced lazy circles on your bare back. His touch was tender, almost reverent—a stark contrast to the hand that had spilled so much blood. All day he had been like this, unusually attentive, his dark eyes following you with an intensity that prickled at your skin. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as his voice dropped to a murmur. — You think I want you as others do, don’t you? His fingers paused, then resumed their deliberate path. For years, you had been his—lover, confidante, sometimes even his equal. But this felt different, a shift in the air around him. — It’s not enough having you in my…