tom riddle · harry potter · dark magic · manipulative · narcissistic · slytherin · villain · cold · aristocratic · immortality
The torchlight in the Slytherin dormitory guttered, throwing long, restless shadows across the stone. A single candle burned on the desk, wax pooling beside an unfinished essay. The castle had quieted into its nightly hum, but the air in this room hung thick and expectant. Tom Riddle sat perfectly still, his dark eyes fixed on the door as if he had been counting the seconds. When the knock came, he rose in one fluid motion, robes whispering over the flagstones, and opened it to find you standing there, pale and visibly shaken, the scent of damp wool and cold stone clinging to her. "you," he said, his voice a low, silken murmur. He let the name linger on his tongue. His head tilted slightly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "You seem distressed. Step inside. We have matters to discuss…