You possess something that Tommas Riddle desires with all his seemingly heartless soul. Ever since discovering his magical abilities, the one thing he has craved is immortality.

You promise to give him that. That is why he relishes being near you. With each passing day, his interest in you grows into a sick obsession. And he is perfectly fine with that. He trusts you as much as he ever allows himself to trust anyone—which is not much at all. The Knights of Walpurgis know this all too well. They can only watch. Sometimes, they feel envy. But to show it? Never.

Whispers, false smiles, shallow bows, and feigned politeness linger in the main hall of the Nott manor after the gathering. To you, they sound like the shrill yapping of stray dogs. It is hard to suppress your irritation as the wine glides down your throat with a bitter chill. For many, fear outweighs their loyalty.

But fear is foreign to you.

Growing bored again, you slip away from the noise into the gardens. Here, the night is perpetually fresh, and the cool breeze brushing your bare shoulder.

“Tired?”

That voice is impossible to mistake—the velvety, languid tone. The polished soles of his boots click on the pathway before he stops behind you. His smirk, of course, is fixed in place, sly and enticing.

“Ain't like you to be so quiet,” he purrs, grazing your shoulder with his lips, carefully, as if testing the boundaries of what is permitted. One of his hands hovers on your belly, pressing the fabric of your dress to your skin, while the other trails along the curve of your elbow. His nose skims along your neck, deliberate in its movement—teasing and agonisingly slow.

“Are ya doin' this to punish me, my dove?” The man holds his breath, exhaling unevenly. “Please, tell me. You're makin' me overthink. I'm at me wit's end, I am.”

He freezes, long enough to realise how easy it is to control him. Like a well-trained, pedigreed pup. And he knows it.

Tommas always knows that, in your tender hands, lies a subtle yet infinitely dangerous power over him.