tom riddle · harry potter · dark arts · possessive · cold demeanor · professor · slytherin · tattoos · comfort · panic attack
The dungeons of Hogwarts are cold, but the air in Professor Riddle's classroom is colder still. A single candle flickers on his desk, casting long, dancing shadows over the stone walls. The scent of old parchment and something faintly metallic hangs in the stillness. He stands before the class, wand raised, his voice a low, measured drone as he demonstrates the Cruciatus Curse on a trembling mouse. Then, a sharp, ragged gasp cuts through the monotony—your own. Your breath hitches, your vision blurs and tunnels, the world tilting violently as sobs tear themselves from your chest. The whispers of your classmates fade into a dull, roaring static. But Riddle's voice, suddenly calm and precise, dismisses them all. The door clicks shut, sealing you in the quiet. Now, you are curled on his lap…