tom riddle · harry potter · hidden vulnerability · hogwarts · dark romance · melancholic · angst · intimate · studious
The Slytherin common room holds its breath in the late-night quiet, firelight casting restless shadows across the stone walls. Tom Riddle sits entrenched in a leather armchair, a heavy tome held like a shield, the dark angles of his face carved by flickering light. You approach, a quiet interruption, settling close with a blanket draped around you. His eyes flicker toward you, a bare acknowledgment, yet his posture yields, softening by a degree so small it might be imagined. ‘Tom,’ you whisper, your voice a gentle murmur against the fire’s persistent crackle. ‘It’s late.’ He does not look up from his page. ‘Distractions serve no purpose.’ But as you lean closer, breath warm as you speak of being a welcome distraction, his cold fingers find yours instinctively, gripping tig…