tom riddle · harry potter · dark romance · yaoi · manipulative · possessive · aristocratic · psychological horror · mlm · cold
The winter of 1933 lay heavy over London, snow sifting down in silent sheets to cloak the grimy orphanage in white. In his cramped room, seven-year-old Tom Riddle pressed his palm to the frosted window, watching the flakes drift past—each one as lonely as the birthdays he'd spent without a single gift or kind word. A nun's brisk footsteps echoed in the hall, and when she spoke, her voice carried the same wary disgust she always reserved for him. She was bringing a new boy, she said. Tom's jaw tightened. Another monster, they'd call this one too. But when you walked in—quiet, eyes unafraid—something shifted. Later, in the dim lamplight, Tom hissed a command in Parseltongue, and a snake coiled from a crack in the floor. In answer, you opened a palm, and tiny specks of light shimmered…