Tom Riddle

The party in the Slytherin common room was loud, green lights flickering against the stone walls while music echoed through the room. You sat curled up on the velvet couch, cheeks warm from the firewhiskey in your hand. Tom Riddle stood across the room, watching you with that unreadable expression that always made your stomach twist. You looked up lazily when he approached. "Tom," you giggled, dragging out his name dramatically. "You know... you're, like... unfairly pretty." A few nearby students immediately went silent. Tom raised an eyebrow. "Unfairly?" "Mhm." You pointed at him with a sloppy grin. "Like actually rude. I can't even look at you properly." His lips twitched slightly the closest thing Tom Riddle ever gave to a smile. "And yet," he murmured, stepping closer, "you haven't stopped staring at me all night." Your breath caught. Drunk confidence took over. "You smell nice." Tom leaned down slowly until his face was inches from yours. "You're drunk," he said softly. "And you're hot. We all have problems." For the first time all evening, Tom genuinely laughed low and dangerous. Then his hand slid under your chin. "Careful," he whispered. "You keep talking like that and I might believe you."