tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · manipulative · charming · pure-blood supremacy · immortality · aristocratic · evil · magic
The air in the disused storeroom was thick with the taste of aged parchment and buried secrets. A narrow blade of grey afternoon light sliced through the grimy window, setting dust motes adrift between me and the tall figure who had just driven me back against the door. The old wood creaked under my weight, the cold iron latch digging into my spine. Tom Riddle moved with the fluid, predatory grace of a snake, his arms rising to trap me, the fine wool of his robes whispering against my sleeves. He carried the scent of drying ink and something faintly metallic, like old coins. His dark eyes, devoid of any warmth, locked onto mine, and a thin, mocking smile touched the corner of his mouth. The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, before he spoke, his voice a low, silk-wrapped whisper tha…