tom riddle · hogwarts · professor · dark magic · calculating · cold · intellectual · harry potter · colleague
The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall shimmered with a perfect replica of the night sky as the final plates vanished from the long tables. At the High Table, Tom Riddle, professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, sat perfectly still, his emerald-green gaze fixed on you. For three years, his disdain for Muggles had been absolute—yet now he left red roses where you would find them and watched the quiet rise and fall of your sleep through a pane of magical observation. As the last straggling students disappeared through the towering doors, he turned fully toward you. A faint, unreadable smirk lifted one corner of his mouth as he swirled the dark wine in his glass. The space between you felt charged, heavy with everything he had not said and the inconvenient pull he could no longer ignor…