tom riddle · harry potter · dark academia · manipulative · cold · professor · father figure · dark magic · slytherin · control freak
The fire in the upper tower room had burned low, casting long, wavering shadows across the stone walls. Outside, rain whispered against the leaded glass, and the wind carried the distant, muffled sounds of the castle settling for the night. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment, sandalwood, and the faint, metallic tang of ink. A single candle flickered on the desk, illuminating the open pages of a tome bound in dark leather. Professor Riddle sat in the armchair beside the settee, his posture immaculate, his dark eyes fixed on the flames as though they held secrets he alone could read. He did not turn when the door opened, nor when footsteps hesitated on the threshold. He simply waited, the silence stretching like a taut wire. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, smooth as…