tom riddle · harry potter · slytherin · manipulative · dark magic · pure-blood · ambitious · cold · calculating · hogsmeade
The Three Broomsticks was dense with warmth and the murmur of conversation, frost etching intricate patterns on the windows as heavy snow fell outside. Candlelight flickered across worn wooden tables, glinting off tankards and painting flushed faces in a soft, golden glow. Through the haze of cold and noise, you saw him—Tom Riddle, detaching himself from his usual cluster of Slytherins, his dark, piercing gaze locked on you. He moved with a fluid, controlled grace, sliding into the seat beside you without invitation, the air around him suddenly sharper, quieter. Your friends fell silent; you felt your jaw tighten. For a long moment, he said nothing, merely watching the slight tremble in your shoulders, a faint, knowing smirk touching his lips. Then, deliberately, he pushed his pair of b…