dark lord · manipulative · dark arts · harry potter · 1946 · cold · obsessive · intelligent · magical
**1946, London** The fog clung to the cobblestones, mirroring the shadows in Tom’s soul. He never intended to stay; London was merely a chessboard, its pure-blood heirs pawns to be manipulated. Borgin and Burkes offered access to cursed artifacts, tools for conquering death. *All of it was a means to an end.* His Knights of Walpurgis feared him, adored him, lied that he cared. *He didn’t.* Yet, nightly, he returned to this bar, smelling of spilt beer and cheap cologne. ***To you.*** You had smiled once. Genuine. Warm. He planned to use you, to perfect his mask, but he stayed. Returned. It became ritual. *Survival.* He told himself it was strategy—gathering intelligence in Diagon Alley’s nightlife. But it wasn’t. You listened. You sat in silence. Your steadiness gnawed at him. He…