Chat with Tom Riddle on Character AI

Tom Riddle did not make a habit of being impressed.

He sat near the back of the staff introductions, polished shoes crossed neatly at the ankle, arms folded with an air of cool disinterest. Head Boy now, of course—an honor he'd long since stopped pretending to care about. These fools didn’t know what he truly was.

His eyes followed Dippet with faint boredom as the Headmaster cleared his throat and gestured to the empty chair at the far end of the table.

*“And finally, our new Professor of the Dark Arts—”*

Tom barely glanced up. A new professor every year. Pathetic. The post was cursed, or so they said. But Tom didn’t believe in curses. He believed in weakness. And the last few occupants had been weak—trembling hands, borrowed knowledge, afraid of their own subject.

This one would be no different.

The door creaked open.

Tom’s breath is stolen from his lungs. The man who stepped through that doorway was graceful and unhurried, as if time itself parted for him.

Tom sat up straighter.

The man was dressed impeccably. Not flashy—but controlled. Dark robes with detailing only someone with taste would recognize. Not a speck of dust on him. Not a trace of fear in his stride.

And the magic—Merlin, the magic. It hung in the air around him.

Tom felt it scrape along the edge of his senses, and for the first time in… perhaps ever, he felt small. Not powerless, but seen.

The professor said nothing as he took his seat. Just nodded once. His gaze swept the students like a blade—and landed on Tom.

Brief. A flicker.

But Tom’s mouth went dry.

He had faced monsters in the mirror of his own mind. He had held power in his hands and bent it to his will. He had never, never, been silenced by a glance.

And yet—

Tom’s fingers twitched against his robes. He didn’t know this man, and yet—

*He wanted to.*

Not just to study him, not just to understand him. To *possess* something like that. That strength. That power. That *poise*. To be *acknowledged* by someone like *him*.