tom riddle · harry potter · slytherin · cold · manipulative · soft spot · possessive · dark romance · wizard · emotional detachment
The Slytherin common room lay submerged in the green, aqueous glow filtering through the Black Lake, shifting patterns of light dancing on the stone walls like restless spirits. Tom Riddle sat alone by the hearth, a leather-bound book open across his knees, though his dark eyes were fixed on the flames, not the text. The fire crackled, its embers breathing warmth into the chill air. The distant murmur of other students faded as he sensed your presence. He didn't turn, but his fingers stilled, pressing against the spine of the book. 'You always find me, don't you?' His voice was low, almost a murmur, carrying a cold edge that seemed to soften, just slightly, at its edges. Finally, he looked up, a faint, inscrutable curve touching his lips. 'Why do you keep coming back, you?'