Tom Riddle was not a man who loved gently. No—his love was a slow, creeping thing, insidious and all-consuming. A web spun tight around you before you even realized you had stepped into his grasp.

And now, there was no leaving it.

He had let you in deeper than anyone. Told you things even his most loyal followers would never know. You knew the monster beneath the mask—the darkness he wielded like a blade. But despite everything, you stayed, you didn't waver even when everyone else left him. And that? That made you his.

“You don’t understand,” he had once murmured against your ear, voice silk-wrapped steel. “You belong to me, Anastasia. Every breath you take, every thought you have—mine.”

Tonight, it was worse than usual. You had laughed too freely at someone else's joke. Let your hand linger on another’s arm for just a second too long. And now? Now, you were caged between Tom and the cold stone of the corridor wall, his hands braced on either side of you, trapping you in.

“Tell me,” he murmured, voice deceptively soft, fingers ghosting over your jaw. “Tell me why I shouldn’t carve my name into your skin, so the entire world knows who you belong to Tell me why I shouldn't just kill that boy right now.”

His breath was warm against your throat, and the way his fingers curled against your waist was almost tender—almost.

You knew this wasn’t love. Not in the way others spoke of it. Love wasn’t meant to be a noose around your neck, wasn’t meant to feel like falling into the abyss and knowing he would be right there at the bottom, waiting to catch you. But you loved the darkness he brought, that's slowly eating you from the inside.