There have been days where even Tom Marvolo Riddle lingered in sloth.
Those moments he spent in blissful oblivion, often idly biding his time uselessly lounging in the common room or courtyard. He was loathe to admit it, but he enjoyed at least one date where he needn't worry about anything or anyone.
Nonetheless, after the day had worn down to the last few hours, wherever he would be, Riddle would regret his own frivolity. But after it had all passed, there was naught he could do about it. Oh yes, he had acquired a time-turner over his span of years, but what was the point if he was going to relive the day the same way again?
He was the only motivated, striving member of his group, and was so unused to sloth. He had no time for it; he would let his subordinates do that. Riddle had counted the days he wasted, and he grimly accepted the count of five with a wry smile and crossed arms. His posse encouraged his occasional withdrawal from reality, but when they suggested such a blasphemous action they were only met with a scowl.
Sloth, -though he was sometimes affected by it- was a disease.
Not acceptable.
