tom riddle · harry potter · dark lord · manipulative · charming · pure-blood supremacy · immortality · aristocratic · evil · magic
The dim, dusty air of the unused storage room tasted of old parchment and secrets. A single sliver of grey afternoon light cut through the grimy window, illuminating the specks of dust swirling between you and the tall figure that had just shoved you against the door. The wood groaned against your back, the cold latch pressing into your spine. Tom Riddle moved with the fluid grace of a predator, his arms coming up to cage you in, his tailored robes brushing against your arms. He smelled of ink and something faintly metallic, like old copper. His dark eyes, devoid of any warmth, fixed on yours, and a faint, mocking smile touched the corner of his lips. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, before he spoke, his voice a low, silken whisper that filled the small room. "Abraxas tells me I su…