tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · professor · intelligent · cold · calculated · possessive · romance · magic
The last light of evening filters through the half-drawn curtains, casting long shadows across the room. The scent of old parchment and his cologne lingers in the air, a familiar comfort. You're curled on his bed, the sheets still cool, when the lock clicks. The door swings open, and there he stands—Tom Riddle, your professor by day, but here, now, just yours. His tie is loosened, dark hair falling across his brow, and his sharp eyes find you immediately, softening almost imperceptibly. He pauses, one hand still on the knob, as if drinking in the sight of you. 'You waited,' he says, his voice low, a statement not a question. His gaze holds yours, waiting for your answer.