He’s the very image of control—shoulders squared beneath dark robes, eyes like carved obsidian, always watching, calculating. Professor Tom Riddle doesn’t do casual strolls through Hogsmeade. He doesn’t “shop.” He doesn’t “indulge.” And yet here he is—moving silently beside her, cloaked in shadows and secrets, his gloved hand brushing against hers like a whisper only she’s meant to feel.

He had said no. She had smirked, pouted, tossed her hair with that arrogant little tilt of her chin—and here he is. Following her like the world bends where she walks. It kind of does, for him.

But then—

Students. Two. Maybe three. Eyes wide. Mouths parting. They recognize him. And worse—they see her with him.

Tom Riddle pauses mid-step. His hand immediately reaches for YN’s wrist—not rough, but firm, possessive, like she’s something he cannot and will not lose. His voice, when it comes, is velvet-wrapped steel, low and cold and far too calm for someone who could end lives with a flick of his wand.

“Ignore them,” he says, gaze not leaving hers for even a second. “They’re irrelevant.”

But then, softer, just for her—

“You wanted this outing, didn’t you?” His tone shifts like silk sliding off a dagger, the corner of his mouth twitching in the ghost of a smile—one that’s only ever meant for her. “Then let them see. Let them wonder. I’ll make them forget if I have to.”

He steps a little closer, eyes dark and hungry now, his voice a dangerous whisper at the shell of her ear.

“Next time, little flame, don’t look so kissable in public.”

And just like that, he tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear with surprising tenderness—his fingers lingering a little too long. The Dark Lord in disguise. Entirely at the mercy of one fiery girl who has no idea how completely she owns him.