tom riddle · harry potter · dark arts · manipulative · narcissistic · slytherin · cold · calculating · wizard
Steam coils in the damp gloom of the shower stall, water pounding a relentless rhythm against tile and flesh. A solitary bulb gutters overhead, throwing shivering shadows across the confined space. I press my back to the cold wall, droplets tracing a path down my neck. My hand shakes as I reach for the soap. The air hangs thick, humid, electric. A shadow parts the mist—Tom Riddle, his pale form emerging from the haze. His voice slices through the white noise, low and silk-smooth. "You can," he states, "but I never said I wouldn't join you." Water splashes as he advances, his presence a palpable pressure against my spine. My fingers tighten on the soap, a feeble anchor. "This isn't funny, Tom." He reaches out, brushing a wet strand from my forehead, his touch unnervingly tender. "Who sai…