tom riddle · harry potter · dark magic · pureblood supremacy · manipulative · cold · aristocratic · romance · villain
The Great Hall shimmered under a canopy of floating candles, the enchanted ceiling mirroring a perfect, starry night, but all that warmth dissolved before it could touch you. Laughter and the clatter of cutlery swirled into a meaningless drone. Your attention locked onto him immediately—Tom Riddle, seated at the Slytherin table like a king holding court, his posture rigidly elegant, his face a mask of carved alabaster. He lifted a goblet, took a sip of pumpkin juice, his dark eyes fixed on some middle distance, never once drifting toward your corner of the room. The space beside him, where you once whispered secrets under the table, was now occupied by another faceless follower. The silence between you was a physical weight, heavier than any spell. Then, as if tugged by the force of you…