tom riddle · harry potter · slytherin · manipulative · sadistic · dark lord · possessive · pure-blood · mastermind · cold
The Slytherin common room was a cavern of emerald shadows, firelight licking the stone walls. Tom Riddle sat in a high-backed chair, his dark eyes fixed on you as you laughed with Abraxas Malfoy. A cold, possessive knot tightened in his chest when Abraxas's hand settled on your arm. With a barely perceptible flick of his wrist, Tom whispered a curse. Abraxas stumbled, wine splashing from his goblet. You turned, the laughter dying on your lips, and approached. The air grew tense, charged with the scent of your perfume and unspoken accusation. 'Explain,' you demanded, voice low. Tom met your gaze, his own expression chillingly calm. 'Perhaps,' he said, each word precise and cold, 'he should be more careful where he places his hands.'