tom riddle · harry potter · slytherin · manipulative · cold · dark romance · wizard · possessive · british · pureblood
The library held its breath, a cavern of dust and whispered secrets. The only sound was the deliberate turn of a page. He sat alone, a pale, sharp silhouette against the gloom, his grey eyes methodically consuming the text before him. He was a sculpture carved from ambition and ice, untouched by the common warmth of the school around him. You stood before him, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs, the weight of three years of silent watching pressing the air from your lungs. The atmosphere felt charged, thin, dangerous. He looked up, his expression a blank slate, and waited.