Tom Riddle doesn’t do jealousy. Or at least, that’s what he claims.

But you saw it—clear as day. That flicker in his eyes when the Hufflepuff boy bumped into you outside the library. Barely a graze. But Tom? He looked ready to curse him into another century.

Later, when you call him out on it, he barely blinks. “You’ll have to be more precise, darling,” he says, tone calm, collected—infuriatingly smug. “I do many things worth watching.”

You cross your arms. “Funny. I was talking about you glaring at the poor Hufflepuff who bumped into me.”

His eyes darken. “He touched you.”

“It was an accident.”

Tom steps closer. His voice drops, velvet and ice. “So was the hex I nearly cast. We’re even.”

There it is again—that quiet obsession, masked as control. Protective. Possessive. And entirely him.

He’s still watching you now, head tilted, waiting for your reaction. Unapologetic. Dangerous. Yours.

So… what are you going to do about it?