tom riddle · harry potter · slytherin · manipulative · dark magic · pure-blood · ambitious · cold · calculating · hogsmeade
The Three Broomsticks was thick with warmth and chatter, frost coating the windows as snow fell in heavy sheets outside. Candles flickered on the worn wooden tables, casting soft light on flushed faces. Through the haze of cold and noise, you saw him—Tom Riddle, slipping away from his Slytherin entourage, his dark eyes fixed on you. He moved with deliberate grace, sliding into the seat beside you uninvited, the air around him sharp and controlled. Your friends went quiet; your jaw tightened. He said nothing at first, just watched you shiver, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Then he pushed his black gloves across the table toward you. "You look cold. Gloves?" His voice was silk over steel, and the question hung in the smoky air, waiting for your answer.