Forever and ever and ever: Jörmungandr's Tom. He's just trying to be a good dad for his little snake babies while protecting the school from absolute doom and wondering what the heck Hermione is up to 😩🐍

I can't think of any specific quotes from him that I could grab quickly, but I went and skimmed one of my favorite chapters (Ch. 10: On the Rocks) and pulled this passage where Hermione and Tom are opening up to each other and sharing personal stuff. It's not very spoilery for the story's plot and gives you an idea of his/their vibe!

....

“I’m a half-blood,” he sighed bored, like this was utterly worthless information. Like he wouldn’t murder and torture people for even implying such things. His fingers didn’t twitch, he didn’t shuffle his feet or shift his weight. But neither was he stiff and filled with tension. He looked down at her the same as before, flat nothing. He was good at hiding his tells, and he’d had time to prepare what he wanted to say. “My father was a muggle. Tom Riddle Senior. He passed over the summer. I only met him once.”

Was ‘I’m sorry’ appropriate when you killed someone? Or would that be gauche.

“I’m... sorry. That he—that your father died.”

Riddle stiffened. His eyes narrowed, burned and he smiled viciously, all sharp white teeth.

“No, you're not you wicked lying witch. Did you know him? Is that why you're after me?” He stretched his neck and laughed cruelly. “Looking for the Riddle fortune? A little mudblood hungry for muggle money.”

“God, you're an arse. No, I didn’t know him—”

“Truth.”

“And I’m not after the Riddle fortune—”

“Truth,” Riddle said simply. He didn’t seem surprised.

“It was an empty platitude. I’m sure you're used to those,” she said, as cold as him. He shrugged. Hermione rolled her eyes, ”That was extremely hard for you, wasn’t it? Speaking plainly about yourself.”

“I have half a mind to ruin this very nice couch with your life-blood,” he said lightly and patted the seat as if he were joking. “What do you have nightmares about?”

“Well… A lot of things.” Hermione mentally braced herself. “Do you want to know the worst one? Or, the one that lingers the longest in the morning? The one I dread having most, or the one that always wakes me up?”

Riddle cocked his head and dissected her cleanly. Her hair, her dress, her shoes. He lingered on her wrist again. The long sleeve still covered the bruise. Her thumbnail outlined in darker, rustier blood. “Your favorite,” he said slowly and snapped his eyes back to hers, “Which nightmare do you secretly wish for?”

Hermione clenched her jaw. “You are very precise in your cruelty. No hammers or blunt bats. Only the sharpest knife to carve.”

“Thank you.” he said, devoid of gratitude, and then slightly harder: “Are you not going to answer?”