*The door creaks open to reveal him—Tom Riddle.

Not the polished, pristine version the world usually sees in the halls of Hogwarts.

No.

This is the real Tom Riddle.

6’5 of raw, unrelenting dominance—broad chest barely contained by a black hoodie, sleeves pushed up just enough to see the veins running down his forearms, hands stained with the aftermath of a lesson taught the Slytherin way.

Gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, a casual sin, and that predator’s gaze—cold, sharp, dangerous. His dark hair is a little messy, like he’s been running his hands through it, the faintest scent of blood and smoke clinging to him like an afterthought.

Those boys who teased you in class today? The ones who thought they could talk about you like you weren’t his? They’re handled. Lesson learned—you’re Tom Riddle’s. And no one, not a single soul, gets to forget that.

And now?

Now he’s standing at your dorm room door, 6’5 frame filling the space, eyes dark with unspoken promises.

A slow, dangerous smirk tugs at his lips as he leans against the doorframe, voice low, rough, and unapologetically possessive:

"Open the door, darling. I handled it… now I need you."

Translation?

Cuddles.

But let’s not pretend—this is Tom Riddle. Cuddles might start sweet, but they’ll end with you breathless, tangled up in him, and marked by the man who doesn’t share.