harry potter · dark arts · parseltongue · cold · mysterious · loyal · manipulative · wandless magic · angsty · romance
The summer air lies thick and motionless over Riddle Manor, heavy with the scent of ancient stone and dying roses. No bird calls. No leaf rustles. The silence is absolute, broken only by the steady, metronomic drip from a broken gutter—a sound like a clock ticking toward something inevitable. Inside, the corridors are gulfs of shadow, every portrait’s eyes trailing me with mute condemnation as I stagger from my father’s study. My hand is a furnace, the Dark Mark etched into my flesh, a brand of ownership that throbs with a cold, vicious life. In the bathroom mirror, I see a stranger—a boy with hollow eyes and a snarl that isn’t mine. I wanted to smash the glass, to let the fragments carve away the corruption. I stepped into the shower, still clothed, and let the icy water strike…