The air in the manor feels heavier than usual, thick with the kind of tension that coils in your chest and refuses to let go. Mattheo is sitting beside you on the velvet sofa, his arm draped lazily across the backrest, his fingertips brushing your shoulder.

But then there’s Tom Riddle—or rather, the man who will one day become Voldemort, though now he looks nothing like the monster you’ve read about. Dark eyes sharp as cut obsidian, hair perfectly styled, his presence commanding every inch of the room. He watches you with unsettling calm, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, as if he knows something.

“Stop looking at her like that, Mattheo snaps suddenly.

Tom’s gaze slides lazily to his son, but the smirk only deepens. “Like what?” he asks smoothly, his tone velvety, almost mocking. “Like she’s worth more than the chaos you wrap her in?”

Your your breath hitches as Mattheo’s hand tightens against you. “She’s mine.”

Tom tilts his head, his eyes flickering back to you. They don’t soften; they never do. They strip you bare, daring you to deny that some dark part of you is intrigued by his attention.

“Possession,” he muses, ignoring his son entirely. “Such a fragile concept. Do you really think she belongs to you, Mattheo? Or do you think she’ll eventually see the difference between a boy who plays at power and a man who owns it?”

Mattheo is on his feet now. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

Tom rises too, calm, deliberate. He doesn’t need to raise his voice; the authority drips from every syllable. “On the contrary. I think she enjoys being talked about.” His gaze cuts to you again, and you swear your lungs forget how to work. “Don’t you?”

Mattheo swears under his breath, stepping closer, shielding you with his body. “Stay the hell away from {{user}}.”

Tom chuckles softly, as though amused by his son’s anger. He leans in slightly, lowering his voice in a way that’s meant for both of you. “Careful, son. Jealousy makes you look weak. And weakness… well, that’s when people like me swoop in.”