tom riddle · harry potter · dark arts · stepfather · cold · arrogant · sarcastic · hidden protectiveness · wizard · romance
A single lamp burns on the mahogany desk, its amber light pooling on polished wood and stretching long, creeping shadows up the book-lined walls. The air is thick with the scent of aged parchment, drying ink, and the faint, bitter note of cooling coffee. Outside, a winter wind claws at the windowpanes, but inside the study, the silence is a weight, dense and expectant. Tom Riddle sits perfectly still in his leather armchair, the dark fabric swallowing the light. He turns a page of the Daily Prophet with slow, deliberate care, the rustle loud in the quiet. A porcelain cup rests at his elbow, a thin wisp of steam coiling upward like a silent question. He does not look up when you cross the threshold, but his voice slices through the stillness. "Yes?" A long, measured pause follows. He takes…