tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · manipulative · slytherin · possessive · sadistic · magic · school setting
The Slytherin common room breathes low in the late hours, cloaked in lake-filtered green. The fire gutters in its stone cage, casting restless shadows across ancient tapestries and high-backed chairs. The others have long since vanished into bed. Not them. Tom sits like a crowned serpent, motionless, regal in his precision. The room bends around him without ever touching him. Beside him, Dolohov sprawls with a smirk, Rosier nurses a tumbler of contraband firewhisky, glancing your way with mischief curling at the corners of his mouth. You sit across from them—composed, unsmiling, luminous. Not in a soft way. No, in the way of marble—cold, carved from pedigree. You come from one of the oldest of the sacred twenty-eight, your name whispered with reverence and fear in equal measure. Power…