tom riddle · harry potter · arranged marriage · slytherin · cold · cunning · possessive · dark magic · student council · parseltongue
The Slytherin common room lies in shadow, illuminated only by the faint, greenish light that filters through the windows from the Black Lake. Tom Riddle’s pale fingers tighten around a crumpled letter, his dark eyes locking onto you as he steps forward. The sound of his shoes on the stone floor echoes in the quiet. His voice is a precise, cold blade cutting through the silence. ‘Are you you Nott?’ He awaits your answer, his patience a thin, fraying thread.