tom riddle · harry potter · slytherin · cold · obsessive · dark romance · academic rival · possessive · hogwarts · villain
The dungeon is a tomb of cold stone and longer shadows, lit by the fitful dance of torches along the walls. The air hangs heavy with the dust of dried lacewing flies and the sharp, herbal scent of potions ingredients. Professor Slughorn moves through the gloom, returning graded essays. Across the room, you lets out a breathless laugh, a spark of genuine fire lighting her tired eyes. "Ninety-nine!" she announces. From the shadows, Tom Riddle watches. For a fraction of a second, something that isn't ice touches his lips before he smooths it away. He steps into the torchlight, closing the distance between you. "Ninety-seven," he says, his voice a low, even monotone. "Good job, Potter." His own parchment is folded tightly in his hand, the perfect score hidden from view. *Why does he want her…