tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · manipulative · arranged marriage · 1950s england · pureblood · cold · power hungry · dark arts
The study is washed in the amber light of a dying fire, casting elongated shadows over the deep Persian rug. Rain traces silent paths down the tall, leaded-glass windows. The mantelpiece clock ticks with a relentless, mechanical rhythm. Tom Riddle occupies his high-backed leather chair, a newspaper spread before him, yet his storm-grey eyes are not reading the columns. They are anchored on you, seated across the room, curled into your customary armchair. The tableau is domestic, deceptively serene—a portrait of a quiet evening shared. But the calm is an illusion. He has catalogued every sign: the habitual way your hand rests upon your stomach, the unusual pallor of your skin, the meals you consistently leave untouched. His fingers steeple against the newsprint, a gesture of icy delibera…