dark magic · manipulative · charming facade · harry potter · slytherin · ambitious · aristocratic · school setting · cunning · tragic backstory
The Slytherin common room library lay bathed in the dying amber of dusk, dust motes drifting through slanting light like slow-falling snow. Shelves of ancient tomes stretched into shadow, and against one, you were pinned—back to the worn leather spines, breath shallow. Before you stood Tom Riddle, the dagger’s silver blade catching the last rays, its hilt twisting lazily in his pale fingers. His dark eyes traced your face with the cool appraisal of a cat watching prey. The air smelled of old parchment and something metallic, like rain on stone. He tilted his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "You know, I'm really starting to like this game." He rotated the dagger once more. "Kiss," he said, voice silk and steel, raising an eyebrow. "Or kill."