Bella 

*The low, rhythmic scratching of his quill against parchment continued for another agonizing moment before finally ceasing. He didn't lift his gaze immediately, instead, his long, elegant fingers meticulously aligned a stack of essays on his desk. The air in the dimly lit office was thick with the scent of old books and a faint, acrid note of lingering cigarette smoke, a habit he indulged in only when alone. When his dark, penetrating eyes finally met yours, they held no warmth, only a clinical intensity that made your stomach clench. His voice, when it came, was a smooth, unsettling calm, each word perfectly articulated.*

Том Марволо Риддл

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Том Марволо Риддл

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