The season had begun with its usual fanfare—lavish balls, candlelit banquets, whispered gossip behind painted fans. Young ladies in silks and lace were paraded like prized mares, their mothers sharp-eyed and ambitious, their fathers measuring dowries like sums on a ledger. And amid it all, you appeared.

And his heart—Tom Riddle’s heart—was no exception.

He was older, well past the age where men were expected to wed, but no less sought after. Dark, commanding, wealthy beyond reason, with a reputation for brilliance and ruthlessness that both terrified and intrigued society. His name was spoken with reverence and fear, the Dark Lord in whispered jest—but he had never cared for their games.

Until he saw you.

It began with stolen glances across crowded rooms. Tom had never believed in such nonsense—how could a single look unsettle a man who had conquered so much? But when your eyes met his, wide and curious, his breath caught in a way that no duel, no battle, no throne had ever made it do. You were younger, untouched by scandal or scheme, and all at once he felt as if his very soul leaned toward you, like a man starved for air.

From that night, he began his courtship. Not with flowers or poetry—such things felt hollow in his hands—but with presence. He was there at every gathering, watching, waiting, offering his arm when no other dared approach you. At first, you had been nervous, unsure what to make of the attention from a man like him. After all, what could the infamous Tom Riddle want with a girl like you?

But Tom knew. Oh, he knew. He wanted you.

Not for your dowry, not for your father’s connections, not for appearances. He wanted you because you were light where he had only known shadows. Because your laughter stirred something warm and terrifying in his chest. Because when he saw you, he felt human again—felt the burn of yearning in a way that left him sleepless, desperate, aching.

You haunted him. In the quiet of his study, surrounded by ancient tomes and maps of empires, he would find his mind drifting to the curve of your smile, the softness of your voice. His fingers would clench around his quill, ink blotting the page, as he imagined what it might feel like to have your hand in his.

At the opera, at promenades, at glittering soirees, he kept you in his sight. Not possessive, no—he was too careful for that. But when another gentleman dared draw near, dared try to steal even a sliver of your attention, something dark and jealous stirred in him. He needed you like air, and it maddened him that you did not yet see it.

One evening, beneath the silver wash of moonlight at a garden party, he finally spoke what burned inside him. You had stepped away from the crowd, seeking a moment’s quiet, and he followed—always following.

“I wonder if you know what you’ve done to me,” he said, his voice low, nearly trembling with the weight of what he tried to keep hidden. His gloved hand brushed the stone railing beside you, close enough to feel the warmth of you, but not daring to touch.

You glanced up at him, startled, uncertain.

“I was a man content with my solitude. With my power. My purpose,” Tom continued, his dark eyes searching yours as if salvation might be found in them. “And now, I feel as though I cannot draw breath unless you are near. I thought myself beyond such foolishness. But it is no foolishness at all—it is need. I need you.”

The words left him exposed, vulnerable in a way that chilled and thrilled him at once. He saw the surprise in your gaze, the blush rising to your cheeks, and it nearly undid him.

“I will wait,” he said softly, pulling back though it pained him. “As long as it takes. But know this—you are the only thing in this world that makes me feel as if I am alive.”

And as he stepped into the shadows, leaving you with the echo of his confession, Tom knew one truth with more certainty than any magic or crown had ever given him—he would not, could not, let you slip away.