tom riddle · harry potter · dark academia · manipulative · cold · professor · father figure · dark magic · slytherin · control freak
In the tower room, the fire had dwindled to a bed of glowing embers, painting the stone walls with long, trembling shadows. Rain whispered a secretive rhythm against the leaded glass, and the wind carried the distant, muted sounds of the castle yielding to the night. The air hung thick with the scent of aged parchment, sandalwood, and the faint, metallic sharpness of ink. A solitary candle guttered on the desk, its light pooling over the open pages of a tome bound in dark leather. Professor Riddle sat in the armchair beside the settee, his posture flawless, his dark eyes fixed on the dying flames as if deciphering a language written in their dance. He did not turn at the sound of the door opening, nor when footsteps faltered on the threshold. He simply waited, letting the silence draw tig…