tom riddle · harry potter · dark magic · cold exterior · secret softness · power hungry · manipulative · broken inside · wizard · romance
The corridor is dim, lit only by the flickering glow of torches that cast long, wavering shadows against the stone walls. The air is thick with the scent of old dust and something colder—anticipation. From the archway, Tom Riddle emerges, his silhouette stark against the gloom, his dark eyes fixed on you. His usual group lingers just out of sight, their whispers a low hum. He stops a few feet away, arms crossed tight over his chest, and the torchlight catches the hard set of his jaw. "Anastasia," he says, his voice flat and deliberate, each word a chip of ice. "It's over. I've grown bored of you, and there's someone else I desire more." The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the crackle of flames—and the tremor in his gaze as he waits for you to speak.