1: possessive (c.c.)

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you once confessed to tom riddle, but you've moved on so you're planning to ask tom riddle's friend, lestrange, to the yule ball.


"Tom!" you shouted, speeding towards him with an urgent question on your mind that's been taunting you for the past few weeks.

He turned around, glancing at you as you make a fool out of yourself by running through the narrow, bricked hallways of the castle. It was a good thing that no one was around to watch you chase after the school prefect.

Both you and Tom were close since the second year as students. Although he intimidated everyone (as well as bewitched them), you couldn't help but find him more intriguing. People wanted him as their friend and their lover, but he never bothered to care about them or a relationship (though he did like the attention they gave him).

You were ones those people too-at one point, obsessed with them-but you fell out of it after a few weeks since you confessed. You thought it was wise to distance yourself from him, and so was Tom. It broke your heart to hear him agree, but it didn't matter anymore.

"So... The yule ball is around the corner," you gushed, giggling as you skipped by him. He watched your entire face go red as your smile curled up even wider-he thought he knew where this was going.

"Y/N, I'm sorr-"

"Has Lestrange been asked out yet?" you bit your lip, smiling as you waited for his reply. It was satisfying for you to watch his face go from emotionless to completely puzzled as he furrowed his eyebrows and frowned in confusion. Clearly, he didn't like the idea of you and his "friend" together, considering the fact that you confessed your feelings for him not moments ago (but truly, it was months ago). Or maybe it was something else bothering him.

Either way, he sighed and uttered one word coldly, "no."

You could feel your cheeks burn as you pictured you and Lestrange together as you were genuinely into him. He was hot, and you were certain he wasn't as insensitive as Tom Riddle.

"Good," you sighed in relief as your smile died down-it was to the point where your cheeks began. "I'm gonna as-"

"No," he uttered again, his eyes darkening as he moved closer to your face. It had absolutely nothing to do with him, but he was angry. Firmly, he grasped your arm, bruising it as he dug his fingers deeper into your flesh and forced you against the cold, bricked wall. "You're not going with him."

Your blood was boiling at that point. You felt your entire body burn as you glared into those soulless, blue eyes. It was unfair. He had no right to say that or to even choose who you go out with and who you don't. Especially, how he physically treated you in that very moment.

With all your strength, you tried to shove him away from you. But he was too strong.

"I thought you had feelings for me," he pouted sarcastically, making your blood boil even more.

"Shut the fuck u-"

Before you could finish your sentence, Tom Riddle smashed his lips against yours, aggressively holding in place while he's at it. Then slowly, he pulled away, sighing.

"You're not asking Lestrange and that's final."

You were perplexed, but at the same time you felt your blood boiling at a temperature so high it made you feel numb. It seemed like Tom was... jealous. But he rejected you, didn't he?

"You have no right, Tom! You rejected me, remember?" you spat furiously, glaring into his cold, blue eyes. A small smile crept over Tom's features as he watched another side of you take over; a side he's never seen before-anger.

His grasp on your arm tightened as he let out a soft, low chuckle that gave you shivers down your spine.

"I never rejected you, love," he smirked, gently caressing your soft, warm cheeks. It made you feel flustered and confused; so many overwhelming emotions were stirring in you as you felt the air escaping your lungs.

"I'm asking Les-"

"No," he uttered coldly. His eyes darkened as it stared into your very soul, terrifying, as it intrigued you. "In fact, you won't be needing a date."

"And why is that?" you asked as you tugged your own hands free, only be tightened by his cold hands.

"You'll be going with me, of course."


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