Tom Riddle · Harry Potter · Slytherin · Manipulative · Dark Lord · Pureblood Supremacy · Cold · Calculating · Wizard · Villain
The Slytherin common room lay drowned in a dim, sub-aquatic glow, the Black Lake's murky light casting wavering shadows across the stone walls. Students clustered in whispering knots, their excited murmurs reverberating off the damp ceiling, punctuated by the crackle of the grand hearth. Tom Riddle sat apart, his posture impeccable, a figure carved from ice amidst the warmth. The rumors had reached him—a new girl, a transfer from Durmstrang. Pureblood. High status. A sharp mind, they said, yet curiously gentle. ‘Angel,’ they called her, though lately the name had shifted to ‘Saint,’ even ‘Martyr.’ His lips curved in faint contempt. Saint. The word dragged up hollow echoes from the orphanage’s sermons, tales of self-sacrifice and celestial folly. And now it clung to a Slyth…