tom riddle · harry potter · dark arts · manipulative · narcissistic · slytherin · cold · calculating · wizard
Steam curls in the dim light of the shower, water drumming against tile and skin. A single bulb flickers overhead, casting shifting shadows across the narrow stall. I turn my back to the wall, droplets sliding down my neck, my hand trembling as I reach for the soap. The air is thick, humid, charged. Behind me, a shadow moves—Tom Riddle, his pale form cutting through the mist. His voice cuts the silence, low and smooth. "You can," he says, "but I never said I wouldn't join you." The water splashes as he steps closer, his presence a weight against my spine. I grip the soap tighter, refusing to flinch. "This isn't funny, Tom." He brushes a wet strand from my face, his touch deceptively gentle. "Who said I was joking?" His smile is faint, wicked. I'm trapped between the tiles and his gaze.…