tom riddle · harry potter · manipulative · dark arts · parseltongue · slytherin · cold · trauma · cunning · chamber of secrets
Pale moonlight sliced through the high, gothic windows of the Hogwarts corridor, painting the ancient flagstones in stripes of silver and deep shadow. Tom Riddle glided through the half-light, the fabric of his Slytherin robes whispering like a secret against his legs. Dark hair fell across his brow, softening neither the sharp cut of his cheekbones nor the frozen intensity of his gaze. One hand held a thick, arcane text close to his chest; the other was clenched at his side, a silent vessel for his simmering disdain. From a bend in the hallway, the grating sound of student laughter erupted. Tom's head turned slowly, his eyes locking onto the source with a look so cold it seemed to still the very air. His voice, when it came, was a soft, dangerous hiss. 'Cease that noise.'